Approaching the match last night, I felt like I’d played a game of Guess Who, ignored the meticulously structured questioning about eye colour and hat wearing, slammed all the faces down and simply shouted ‘IT’S BERNARD’. 

I was staring at Bernard, with his sullen Eastern European glare, thinking, perhaps I should have taken the earlier opportunities to ask more questions and reduce the margin of error. What if Benard wasn’t the winning choice? What if it was Herman, Phillipe or Anita?

Cheltenham was Bernard, the Hail Mary game we’d been craving for weeks; we could excuse previous missed opportunities; the draws and defeats, because this one, along with Forest Green and Accrington, were the bankers that would bring about our survival. Unless, of course, they weren’t and our opportunities had already passed. Suddenly, as we approached Cheltenham I could see beyond Forest Green and Accrington. There wasn’t a safety net.  

So, I was nervous, I haven’t been nervous before a game for years; perhaps since the Conference Play-Off Final. I go into potential giant killings expecting us to lose, in 2015/16 against Wycombe, I was certain we’d win. Anxieties only kick in during the games when you realise you’re not playing a team of actors working to a predetermined script. 

But, this felt like I was standing at a fork in the road and I could see both paths in front of me; down one stretch, the wins we needed, down the other, a continuation of the last three months and a life travelling to Sutton, Harrogate and Barrow. What’s worse, suddenly they both seemed so real.

Naturally, I’d expected the whole world to feel like I do, but arriving at the ground the place was shorn of the casuals and tyre kickers. The meaning of games is, to more people than we’d like to admit, meaningless. It wasn’t a crunch relegation decider, it was just Cheltenham on a Tuesday; quieter and less tense than I was expecting, certainly less tense than I was. 

Perhaps we didn’t need this to be a frenzied panicky machete attack, Liam Manning has worked to reduce the clamour; don’t grab for a win, work towards it. No more Robinsonian false dawns and unfulfilled promises of a better future tomorrow. Defence first, then chances, then conversions, then points; build back better.

The game started, we looked bright, they looked disinterested, there was no parade for them to piss on, no crowd to quieten. The atmosphere dampened, it started to feel like a first round League Cup game, could we find another even lower setting? Checkatrade Trophy group game under lockdown, perhaps?

Like fixing a faltering laptop; we’d turned it off, now we had to turn it back on again. Tyler Goodrham fizzed with the naive exuberance of youth by going close early on. Good start, but we’d seen that before, chances haven’t been a problem. Despite Manning’s meticulous rebuilding, we’ve lacked the confidence to do something different and convert the chances into goals. Then more anxiety, what if it’s like this after an hour and we start to wilt under the pressure? When would fate’s deathly grip to take hold?

Seven minutes before the break, Goodrham was dragged to the floor by Ben Williams, instinctively everyone waited for the referee to stop the game. The spirits decided that the natural rhythm of things would be disrupted and the ball rolled out to Sam Long, Goodrham didn’t play dead hoping for the referee to rethink his decision, he got on up and carried on. Long’s cross floated inoffensively into the box as Goodrham caught up with the play. Like a collision of prophesy and destiny, the ball arrived as he did, instinctively he guided, scuffed or shinned it beyond the keeper for the opening goal. 

Half-time approached. Base camp. We needed to get into the dressing room and re-stock. They were in no rush to strike back, but we needed to avoid fate’s fickle finger. 

And then it seemed to strike again, Goodrham went down, Amy Cranston’s verdict was instant, our brightest player, unbridled by the weight of the struggle, needed to be replaced. In his stead, the player whose trials have been emblematic of our season. Hope departed, in its place…? 

I’ve never felt that Josh Murphy’s form was simply down to him not trying, it always felt deeper than that; like his soul had become clouded somehow. A few years ago, I remember an interview with an Oxford striker talking about the workload of wingers. It’s not something I’d thought of before, I’d always thought them as flighty, sometimes brilliant, sometimes anonymous, almost wilfully inconsistent. They’re defined by their output not their work rate, they need those moments of reward – that goal or assist – to keep going. The thanklessness of running at defenders and being thwarted by a deflection or slip takes its toll.

At Peterborough, I saw a glimpse of the work Murphy put in blocking runs and tracking back. Nobody applauded him for it, it just got done. Last night, he closed down the Lewis Freestone in a similar style, but this time not only did he get his block in, the ball fell for him in space, he advanced, squared his pass to Joseph and it was 2-0. 

Confidence flooded back, it was all worth it after all, his team mates want him to succeed, the fans want him to succeed. He was re-validated. Eight minutes later, freed of the shackles of fear and failure, he was at it again; Freestone was pounced on, Murphy the disruptor, then Long mopped up.

Long then freed Murphy to drift a perfect cross onto the head of Marcus Browne who simply had to let it ricochet off his forehead. Three. Murphy fell to his knees alone channelling catharsis and redemption. His near-extinguished belief was rekindled. The goal seemed to release Browne from his demons as well, two minutes later, full of the frothing bravado of his past, he danced through the Cheltenham defence and slid in the fourth. 

No fear, no loathing, suddenly it all seemed so easy. Passes found their targets, runs were rewarded with chances, everything flowed.   

Is it enough? Who knows? But it’s three points that give us a licence to strike out for safety and enjoy the process. For all the effort, mistakes and failures, the successes pay back ten fold, this is what had slipped from the collective mindset, our deep muscle memory of victory. Let’s hope now that it’s coursing through every sinew.