Desmond stands in his kitchen, poking his bolognese with a wooden spoon. ‘Nearly done’ he thinks, looking at a crack in the plaster above the door; a job for the weekend. Upstairs playful noises come from his children; soon it’ll be bedtime and he can finally rest and watch House of Games.

His idle thoughts are interrupted by the doorbell, ‘Amazon’ he thinks ‘They seem to arrive daily… What’s she bought now?’

Switching on the hall light, he opens the door, out of the gloom is someone who looks vaguely familiar. Desmond’s eyes narrow and his face contorts into a curious frown; that’s not an Amazon driver, but who is it?

‘Hi’ says the person, ‘I’m Oxy and you…’ He gulps ‘Are my dad.’

Desmond tries to form a response, but before he’s able, Oxy speaks again.

‘You dated my mum and she had a baby…’ He points to himself and smiles weakly ‘Me.’

‘You split up before I was born and you never knew. She’s gone now. Will you be my dad? Will you love me with all your heart, protect me and nurture me and turn me into the person I know I can be?’

A distant voice calls from upstairs ‘Who is it?’ it’s Desmond’s wife, his current life, his focus. Now this strange person is demanding to cast it all aside.

‘Oh, erm, just, um, somebody.’ Desmond stutters. What can he do? Oxy wants him to drop everything and fulfil all his dreams unequivocally. Desmond can’t break Oxy’s heart and tell him can’t do that, not in the way he wants; he seems so fragile. 

Oxy’s eyes betray a slow dawning, he’d imagined this differently. Reuniting with his dad after all these years was supposed to create a unique bond, to fill a gaping hole, to find instant mutual fulfilment so they could move forward together. In reality, it was never going to be that easy, the path ahead is harder than he’d imagined and success is far from guaranteed, far from springing forward, they would have to start again… 

There have been times in recent weeks when Des Buckingham has had the look of a man in shock, lost between what thought he’d walked into and a different reality everyone else had created for him. To us, he was Des Buckingham, was the global adventurer, the local hero; his return was predestined. Did anyone think of Des as a regular guy hoping to make the best of his career by grabbing an opportunity?  

The empty Grenoble Road betrayed the mood around last night’s visit of Portsmouth. In its original guise back in November, an explosive promotion showdown and a sure-fire sell out. Now, it was a daunting challenge and an attack on our increasingly fragile ego. 

It took on a more metaphysical feel; standing on the edge of Pompey’s technical area was John Mousinho just over a year since he left, a week before we lost at Burton and the term ‘toxicity’ infiltrated our vocabulary. 

Had the board spotted Karl Robinson’s terminal death spiral earlier, Mousinho would surely have been at the controls at The Kassam. With him and Buckingham – a similar age, build and height – standing in almost identical spots in their adjacent technical areas, it almost felt like a multiverse of endless possibilities was running briefly in parallel: what was and what could have been together.

After two dispiriting losses and an apparent stalling in our transfer dealings, defeat seemed inevitable. We would just have to hope that Mousinho would pick at our carcass with humanity. 

But, in the fog of doubt, we under-estimate ourselves and the opening period felt like we shaded it. We were bright and mischievous, pressing onto their backline offering plenty to occupy their thoughts. By contrast, Mousinho, ever a steward of good governance, was happy to build attacks as if he was carefully drafting committee papers, following them through first and second readings, ascending them to the upper house for scrutiny before returning them for ratification. It was really that slow.

Not that we hadn’t been here before, of course, and as half-time approached Finn Stevens sat on the floor ominously staring at his legs which had stopped working. Another injury. What misfortune. What damnation? What next? Josh McReachran struck down by a gluten intolerance? Gatlin O’Donkor scorched by a misfiring gender reveal glitter cannon? Why does this keep happening?  

Mousinho stood motionless knowing we’d burn our matches before his flamethrower ran out of gas, if anyone knew our black swans it was him. Buckingham tried to look unfazed and introduced the Swiss Army Knife, Oisin Smythe, to patch the hole left by Stevens. 

Half-time approached, goalless, at least we had our dignity to defend, Cameron Brannagan threw himself into a huge block tackle in the centre circle causing him to crumple on the floor in pain. The loose ball rolled back towards him and he threw his last grenade, part anger, part instinct, his challenge caused the ball to cannon into the path of Marcus McGuane, who withheld the swarming Portsmouth midfield to free Tyler Goodrham to drive forward and fire in the opening goal.

As the players returned after half-time, Simon Eastwood, who will provide the voiceover for the character ‘uncertain’ in a Pixar film about emotional states later this year, appeared fully kitted out to replace Jamie Cumming. Ah yes, the injured goalkeeper, who had that on their bingo card?

With half-an-hour to go we started to wilt, the margins between the good and the great are on the benches, we were getting progressively weaker as they introduced another burly clone from the factory.

But, in a rare escape, Goodrham was brought down, it looked just outside the box, but the crowd called for a penalty. Buckingham was booked for protesting, unleashing the shackles of who everyone thinks he should be. He made a note to pretend to be remorseful in his post-match interview, but it must have felt good.

Finally, the breakthrough – Eastwood seems a friendly type, and he collects a cross before appearing to put it into a more central position for Colby Bishop to prod home. The inevitable comes eleven minutes from time when Callum Lang makes it 2-1 and people start heading for the exits.

In response, we introduce James Henry. Once the GOAT – the greatest of all time – his goatness now more resembles the regimental mascot of the Royal Welsh Fusiliers; an anachronistic representation of a long past era. 

But Henry is in a different mood, he scuttles around the pitch with a sense of urgency, like he’s scooping up the bargains in the meat aisle before the supermarket closes for a Bank Holiday. He takes a corner which is narrowly cleared and scuttles across to take it on the other side, he’s everywhere.

There’s something comically sweet about it, like a grandpa entering a boxing ring, stripped to the waist, ready to take on all-comers. But, it’s working, he’s pushing them back. Portsmouth fans sing that we’ve ‘fucked it up’ from leading 1-0. At that very moment with the game in injury time, Mark Harris advances, benefitting from the breather afforded by Gatlin O’Donkor playing through the middle. Portsmouth back off, Harris looks up, out of the corner of his eye runs Henry, whose made up about thirty metres and is now heading beyond the forward line. Where’s he going? Nobody knows. 

Harris’ shoots, it cannons off the keeper and into the air, as it drops Henry arrives at the back post; someone told him that’s where he can catch his bus home from. The ball drops and he instinctively nods it in for 2-2. 

The release is palpable. The behaviours that had become so stilted melt away, Buckingham has finally had a dose of luck, it helps shed the shackles of expectation a little more. It’s just a small foothold for now, but it might allow him to do things his way now.