The first half against Barnsley in the 2016 JPT Final was a dream. Despite being underdogs and without Jake Wright, Joe Skarz or John Lundstram, we were in control, Callum O’Dowda gave us the lead, Chey Dunkley did a Cruyff turn, everything felt effortless; we’d achieved what runners call ‘flow’ or more poetically, what cyclists call ‘souplesse’.

At the break, the intensity subsided, the adrenaline faded; intrusive thoughts crept into our consciousness. We became distracted by the glory, enchanted by the silverware, as meaningless as that felt in a season of many other glories, here at Wembley, it was hypnotising. 

When we returned for the second half we were lethargic and leaden legged, the fans were heavily sated by overpriced burgers and weak lager. In our stupor, Chey Dunkley conceded an own goal, momentum shifted and we never recovered.

I sensed a similar lethargy during the first-half against West Brom. The intensity of the season had been interrupted by the international break, Ciaron Brown went to Belarus, Gregg Leigh to Jamaica and Nicaragua, Peter Kioso to DR Congo and Tanzania, Mark Harris to Iceland. Dane Scarlett played in two games; other players went on holiday. Our focus had been pulled, flow was disrupted, re-establishing it in real-time was beyond us. 

It wasn’t just the players; it was the fans too. Perhaps it was all exacerbated by the earlier kick-off. Maybe it was obscured by the minute’s silence for George Baldock. This was not the abstract grief of a player long retired and partially forgotten, but something immediate and real. You sense that Peter Rhoades-Brown, overcome by the creeping melancholy of age, feels these moments more keenly now. It’s even more stark when you’ve seen these ages; Jack Badger 24, George Baldock 31, he works in an environment where the vibrancy of youth is a permanent presence and the age of those around him stays constant as he gets older. His brief eulogy was heartfelt and pitched perfectly.  

These were all pebbles in the stream, another obstacle to overcome. We’ve had postponements for internationals before, but perhaps West Brom are a little more used to managing these planned interruptions or have a little more margin to allow their flow to be disrupted. 

From kick-off, they looked fast and aggressive, a pleasing combination of the modern game’s focus on possession and a will to do what xG obsessives have tried to ban – shooting from distance. In short, they were the better team. 

Their Serbian holding midfielder, Uroš Račić, an Aryan giant, patrolled the midfield like he was settling a grudge. Without Cameron Brannagan or Josh McEachran, our response looked spongey. Račić would pick up loose balls like he was taking dinner money off a Year Seven. Each simple lay-off stretched us.

This was, I tried to remind myself, normal and expected. We were not supposed to get to the end of November undefeated at home and in mid-table in the Championship. We’d been so focussed on draws against Luton and Burnley, teams brimming with Premiership riches, we’d almost overlooked the fact West Brom remain one of the biggest clubs in the division. I hadn’t realised that a win would briefly put them top of the table. Before the game they’d tardily prepared for kick-off, as the referee stood waiting to start the game, bottles were on the pitch, they continued their warming up. They were keen to show who was in charge.

After half-an-hour Karlan Grant gave them the lead, a long drive so unusual in the modern vector I found myself consciously processing it as it skimmed beyond Jamie Cumming and into the net.

The build-up had enraged the home fans, Račić had bundled Dembele over before laying it off to Grant. It was awkward, but Dembele’s cartwheeling style will often make strong challenges look clumsy. Such was the intensity of West Brom’s pressing, the margins between fouls and tackles was so small, the referee was in an unenviable position of either giving a free-kick every time a player went to ground, or allowing the play to flow knowing that he couldn’t guarantee he’d made the right decision.

The result, though, was that we had our off ramp. If we were going to lose and it was going to be the referee’s fault. That particular equation squared; we could accept defeat with quiet indignity and focus on Derby on Tuesday.  

The first half skimmed by like a gust of wind in a narrow passageway, we’d hardly stirred beyond testing their high defensive line a couple of times. There was a hearty boo as the referee made for the tunnel.

The second half moved at a more normal speed, we immediately seemed more invigorated, or they seemed more content to defend their lead. Whoever had moved, and it was probably both, the game began to even out. 

We became more measured, Ben Nelson, who in the first half engaged his left foot like he was trying to hit a tent peg with a mallet, began sweeping the ball around. Elliott Moore gently upped the intensity; he’s the rising tide which lifts all ships.

But, as we established a foothold, the intensity of the week’s travel seemed to take its toil. It was like climbing a crumbling cliff face, West Brom’s calculation was that it would fall into the sea before we reached the summit.

We were re-discovering our flow, our souplesse. In cycling, as well as fitness and application, souplesse is achieved by focussing attention on the margins – cyclists obsess over the length of their socks, the position of their feet on the peddles, the weight of their gear mechanism, the contents of their pockets. They constantly make tiny adjustments until everything aligns and effortless flow is achieved. These tiny adjustments, in a broader framework, narrow the margin of error. 

From the bench, Buckingham introduced Dane Scarlett, Malcolm Ebiowei, Louis Sibley and Owen Dale, an overhaul of our attacking threat. Without a word being spoken, Tyler Goodrham moved inside to allow Dale to make mischief.

The plan didn’t change, but the injection of energy bowed West Brom enough to establish an offensive threat.

As encouraging as the changes had been, it looked all for nothing, flow was returning, but it was all too late . Through the gaps around the ground, you could see people trudging back to their cars. Two minutes into injury-time Will Vaulks picked up the ball for a throw-in, the time for measured precision had ended. He stepped back, arched his back and slung it high into the box.

Dane Scarlett has been criticised for a supposed lack of effort. It’s a lazy observation, as a striker he’ll fail many more times than he’ll succeed. His quality comes from the will to stick to the plan, make the runs and get into the spaces where maybe he’ll have an impact.

The presence of Nelson, Brown and Moore at the front post had drawn West Brom’s defence out of position, a space appeared. Moore, the enigmatic metronome, flicked the ball on. Scarlett anticipated his opportunity, wrestled himself free, leapt to meet the ball, strained his neck muscles and guided it into net. He looked vindicated.

There are few qualities more welcome than having a lucky general. On other occasions, Vaulks doesn’t get the distance, Moore doesn’t reach the flick on and Scarlett’s run is impeded. But, without that commitment to the plan, flow is much less likely to happen. Buckingham creates the framework, the players, whether starting or coming off the bench, commit to it. The rewards are evident, with each one, the muscle memory develops further and success becomes more constant.