Look, I’ll be straight with you: we had them. Or we thought we did. Beeston scored in the 8th minute through André Coquelin, a goal from open play that felt less like a tactical masterstroke and more like a Beeston player simply remembering he was allowed to shoot. It was an early blow that sucked the oxygen out of the stadium, leaving the Wigston faithful to spend the next eighty-two minutes wondering if we’d actually woken up today.

The first half was a slog. A genuine, grinding sort of slog. We spent most of it chasing shadows and hoping for a miracle, which is usually where things go wrong for us. Honestly, I reckon the vibes were slightly hopeful going into the break, but that’s usually a sign that a disaster is looming.

Then came the 65th minute. Aureliano Caparaó saw red. A straight red, no ambiguity, just a sudden decision to spend the final twenty-five minutes of the match in the dressing room. So here's the thing: suddenly we had a man advantage. The momentum shifted. We could actually see the goal for once. You could almost feel the inevitable comeback brewing, the kind of turnaround that makes you believe the league is actually winnable.

“It was an early blow that sucked the oxygen out of the stadium, leaving the Wigston faithful to spend the next eighty-two minutes wondering if we’d actually woken up today.”

Naturally, we didn't score.

We spent the final act passing the ball sideways with a level of confidence that was entirely unearned, while Beeston sat back and defended for their lives. It was a valiant effort from them, and a typical display from us. We managed to turn a numerical advantage into a very long, very quiet walk back to the car park. I might be completely wrong about this, but I think we've forgotten how to finish things.

Still, it's only Matchday 3. Plenty of time to find a way to make it worse.