The football gods will usually punish you if your expectations are greater than they are entitled to be. Following a 6-0 humbling of Bristol City at the weekend, and fielding a nearly unchanged eleven, with the promise of another instalment of attacking verve in a 4-3-3 formation, it was easy to forget just how poor we had been in nearly every game so far this season. Especially so away from home with our startling inability to score, all the more bewildering given our imperious home form. Add to this a wounded Preston team who we had beaten 4-1 earlier in the season, at a home ground we hadn’t won at since the year dot, in a league it is so difficult to do the double in. Mix in the less than lucky funereal-black third kit, and our historically well documented ability to spear an optimistic fan through the heart with a hapless back pass or early red card, and there was no right to feel expectant.

Nevertheless, expectant I am, cursing at the black Sky box as it decides for the first time since our game against Southampton after lockdown – a bad omen – to pack up. By the time I had resuscitated said box, the game was 10 minutes old. Being late to the party is a bit crap, given this is my first match report for TLH, with no traffic jams involved. If it was a job interview, I’d be shown the revolving door, if the Pozzos hadn’t already trade-marked that one.

The red button on Sky gives a vastly inferior watch to Hive Live, with a static camera, no replays, and the kind of grainy visual you expect watching through some heavy duty PPE. My nine year-old daughter deemed to pass comment as she floated by disconcertingly on her hoverboard: “it looks so grainy and dark”. Well, it is Deepdale on a Tuesday evening in February, so not entirely unexpected. In fact, this is the archetypal are-they-up-for-it kind of game, where high earners in gloves and snoods (remember those?) shrug their way moodily from one half-hearted episode to the next. This is the crucible which exposes the wavering soul, and snuffs out the also-rans. You’ve got to really want it to get anything from here.

The commentary was like cheap stuffing for an otherwise decent Christmas dinner. I sniffed out bias early on with plenty of “scruffy” touches for Watford, whilst organised and “elegant” play came from Preston. Perhaps they really had been all silk and steel in that first 10 with several presentable chances allegedly squandered by Ched Evans. I wasn’t even vaguely surprised when late on Zinckernagel was mistaken for Masina giving away a late free-kick, only, presumably, because he was in the space Masina usually occupies, even if the two players are about as physically different as an eagle and a starling. And the useless stat, like some boring horoscope, given some meaning merely by being given expression, that this would be the first time in Watford’s history that they had three 0-0 results on the road. So what? And as we closed out the game with some committed tackling and robust defending, the back-handed compliment of “street-smart” was ushered more than once, as if it was only our nous – something we famously lack – that was seeing us across the line in this one.

At half-time, the score goalless, my summary note states: “Pedro the key?” I’ve also scribbled “Pedro a bit lightweight” without wanting to be too critical. Pedro is like a flickering flame being guarded from the four winds, and in danger of being snuffed out entirely – but not for the lack of willing. No, because he is in the number 9 role, getting buffeted by the close attention of a very shirty, grabby Preston back line. Even Houdini on steroids would struggle with this lot.

My thinking, or feeling, was thus… We had been full of purpose, and desire, always on the front foot and looking to attack – at least from the 10th minute when I arrived. However, 7 corners and numerous crosses into the box, where we were alive with bodies, didn’t look like yielding results. The white Preston wall seemed unbreachable by this method of attack, as attritional as it was. The fact that we had three different corner takers suggested as much – how on earth could we engineer some space for a chance? The only way I could see for us to unlock the defence would be to guard the flame of Pedro, hope to keep it alive, and hope to light the touch paper with it in a split-second of karma.

In the second half, we continued to impose ourselves, a bit like a classy heavyweight dancing around a lumbering opponent winning points but not splitting lips. And this dangerous opponent, typified for me by the louche and arrogant threat of Ched Evans, trying to harangue, oppress and force a mistake, always capable of landing a knockout blow. But in the 51st minute, a flash of quick feet from Pedro in the box, with the ball barely under control, heading away from goal surrounded by white sentinels, brought a tackle that connected crisply and definitively to those mercurial feet from Barkhuizen.

Was this the moment we would miss Deeney? Had Pedro missed, yes, of course. But actually there was no feeling of apprehension as the young Brazilian took responsibility, stroking the ball firmly into the bottom left corner with uncanny confidence. I was encouraged to see a fatherly Masina ushering away a dissenting, jinxing Preston defender trying to upset the boy genius as he prepared the spot kick with a meticulous ball placement. Let him do his thing.

This match felt very much like a sliding doors moment in our season, one that might have ramifications for future seasons, and the club’s entire trajectory. I make no apologies for the hyperbole. Was this showing going to back up the “one-beer” six-goals Bristol rout, or reveal once more another false and perplexing dawn. Thank god it was the former this time around. For players like Pedro to shine, they need the space and spotlight of a premier league stage. How depressing to be lost, perhaps for generations of fans, in a deep-pressed championship where grappling and gamesmanship seem to be the stock in trade of mid-table teams who know how to ruffle feathers and upset supposed superior opposition. Where the dark arts of “winning” fouls, contesting every adverse decision and time-wasting even though you’re losing are commonplace (yes, that was in evidence tonight). What a fate to avoid.

The start of the second half put me in mind of rugby. A high kick towards the touchline to be contested aerially, a signal flare if ever there was one that Preston intended to out-muscle us in the second half. Shortly afterwards we hike the ball out of our half and it is disheartening to see two strong arms wrapped around Pedro as he is straight-jacketed out of contention. How pleasing that our Ali, hardly able to float like a butterfly, was still able to dish out the fatal sting.

Hughes central. Tenacious, visionary, a fulcrum and a terrier. The perfect player in his rightful position. When Xisco made changes late in the game, it was only really Hughes I was desperate to stay on the pitch. He’s not just the heart beat of this potential new attacking Watford, he is the spleen, the brain and the legs. Somebody commission a statue already.

My four year-old son, always pleased to see Watford on the telly, laughs joyfully when he sees the blond flash of Hughes jogging to take a first half-corner. His delight is pure for his favourite player, who he stubbornly, if somewhat irresistibly calls “Will Fughes”. He loves “Wilf” because he is blond with a beard. I love Will because somehow no Premier league team thought they needed him and he is our best player. (Love you Will).

Cleverly is craft. Just such a craftsman, and a wise head, albeit sometimes a little late to the party with a tackle. A fine captain, never one to shirk or grumble, and close to scoring directly from a free-kick, which would have been a collector’s item right now.

“Chalobah the Destroyer” has been put on ice, and like the butterfly breaking from the pupae, “Chalobah the Expansive” has taken flight. Still a tough customer, go-go-gadget legs and leveraging opponents off the ball for fun, but now head-up, raking through-balls and deft touches to control a ball in flight. I have felt more frustrated, perhaps, about Chalobah than any other current Watford player, Gray included, because he has frequently looked so sulky and disengaged, whilst at other times playing such a key role he is simply undroppable. Now that he has craft and tenacity as midfield bedfellows in this new system, I hope he can find ways to express his considerable talents, as he did tonight, and against Bristol City, more consistently.

I like this new Watford. Thank you Xisco, and thank you Gino. So ready to criticise, perhaps now we have the blueprint to get the best out of our exciting squad. But let’s not anger the footballing gods by getting carried away. One injury to Hughes would make things look a lot different. And yet, so much to admire today that had been missing for so long, especially away from home. Another 90 minutes of full intensity and concentration. Fluidity of movement, with players swapping sides. Kiko popping up on the left wing, Sema over on the right. Winning second balls in midfield where we are no longer chasing shadows, under-staffed. Playing with relish, looking for opportunities to be creative, options on again and again. Being first team out for the second half… aah

There is a confidence here based on the defensive solidity we have spent the season mastering, masterful for sure when the personnel are right. Kiko is fundamental, with such an assured first touch and quality in abundance. It is no wonder we struggle to defend and are less potent an attacking force when he is out. Let’s forget about his effort in the 62nd minute as he popped up at the end of a sweeping attacking move to drill his shot perplexingly wide. Without the help of a replay I couldn’t tell if it was metres or miles off target, but the hoardings got a thumping. But he was there, dynamic and threatening, much much too good for this league.

Bachmann has been so solid we have not missed Fozzy. We are already, I think, taking him for granted. Tonight he caught a whiff of the general air of team confidence and was a little more experimental with his distribution, sometimes without success, sometimes close to inspired. He was precise and assured with the first ball short to either centre-back, or to the half-backs, and when necessary, with a goalkeepery flourish, urged team mates away to smack the ball into the opposition half. Great decision making from a guy who has had to bide his time more than most, but is clearly ready, willing and able.

Sierralta is strong and does not seem to have a concentration problem that has beset others like Kabasele. He was switched on in the 83rd minute when a dangerous free-kick into the box needed clearing when Bachmann hesitated. My favourite comment from passing four-year old son, as Sierralta bundled the ball away in a scrappy coming together with Evans: “He was being a bit unmissed”. A bit perhaps, but he did clear the danger.

Troost-Ekong was rested today for the totemic Cathcart. Both of these men are assured, but for me Cathcart has the experience, and therefore the edge between them. And Adam Masina, like a half-god, half-PE Teacher, is a shepherding figure in a superhero’s body, fast whilst appearing sluggish, switched on when most languid. In the 86th minute it was Masina who turned away from danger when it looked like he would be drawn into a Preston mugging at the edge of his own box. Never try to mug Adam, is my advice.

The close of the game was certainly uncomfortable as Preston went even more direct, lobbing balls forward and winning free-kicks. We played a disciplined defensive high-line, and Cathcart was imperious with a number of important headed clearances. But Preston did not in the end have that little special something that could crack our defence in return. Like the wolf huffing and puffing, our brick house maybe lost a few slates. The wolf was nearly roasted early when substitute Zinckernagel led a 4 against 3 breakaway near the death, which he squandered with a weak pass. This led moments later to a Preston free-kick deep into injury time that had me wondering if the Zinkster and not Pedro would be the defining contributor to the evening’s story, one involving the unforgiveable surrender of two dropped points.

It was Sarr with an aggressive surge and lung-busting run that quelled the late danger, summing up his night entirely. A threat, for sure, but a committed combatant tonight whose ability to always get to the ball first he made into a weapon all of itself. His grit says a lot about what is happening in the dressing room, and probably about the words he is receiving from Xisco and his team, and probably from talisman Deeney, not involved tonight but always involved. All that’s missing with Sarr is the work ethic and the ability to brush off the physical attention he receives. 30 games into the season, it looks like he is putting those minor flaws to bed. But he did need to change his boots at half time to keep going.

Substitutions in games this tight make every fan nervous. Zinckernagel looked off the pace, and gave away possession consistently, not a patch on the endlessly industrial and mosquito-like Sema he replaced. Gosling was sufficient, if not entirely proficient, but suddenly looks like a crucial squad member as Chalobah racks up the yellow cards (withdrawn early partly to guard against a 10th booking and an ensuing suspension). Stipe Perica flung himself about to little effect after Pedro jogged (slowly) off, his work done.

We didn’t overwork the keeper tonight. The ball was cleared off the Preston goal line in the final minute of the 90, but apart from that not a lot of goal threat for all our possession. We scored from a penalty and not from open play. We probably would have taken a poor performance and a Deeney penalty for the three massive points which keep Swansea, Brentford and Norwich on their toes. But this wasn’t another barely deserved smash and grab. This was a hard fought, well thought out, progressive and honest performance, with players running their hearts out for each other, and the wider cause. It was a display to be proud of, and to be optimistic about. A brothers-in-arms performance to warm us all.

Let’s see what Rooney, and the gods, have to say about that on Friday, shall we?

View match highlights here.