The Climb #4 – Season One: Kat’s Diary
Everyone told me the same thing when I joined Barry: “Brave move.” People only say that when they’re not sure if you’re brave… or making questionable life choices. I arrived with a suitcase, a tactic I wasn’t fully convinced by, and the hope that no one would notice my hands shaking.
Veruca settled in instantly, of course. She’d worked out the coffee situation before I’d even opened the office door. The players were polite, curious, and clearly assessing me like a new pair of boots: “Does she fit? Will she last?”
These notes didn’t start as a diary. They were scraps written to stop myself spiralling. But somewhere between late goals, windy touchlines, and Veruca’s raised eyebrows, they became the story of a team learning to become… well, a team.
September
September was all nerves. That shaky, hopeful kind of football where you can feel potential but also the panic in every touch.
Wrexham away was the first game where everything felt sharp and blurry at the same time.
We defended like the concept had been sprung on us that morning, but going forward we were alive. Turner looked hungry, Preece covered every blade of grass, and Despot struck the winner like she’d been rehearsing it in her head all week.
Then Cardiff arrived and gave us a reality check.
Every loose touch punished. Every second ball lost. On the touchline, I pretended to be calm while mentally drafting a resignation letter Veruca absolutely would’ve deleted.
Aberystwyth away ended with a late equaliser that stung. The players walked off annoyed, and that told me they cared more than they let on.
September was messy, hopeful, and honest. Not polished, but trying. And trying was enough for month one.
October
October arrived with weight. Every match felt like it was testing how much pressure we could take before someone snapped. Usually me.
Pontypridd away started it.
Two down before we’d even settled, then a comeback, then undone again. Veruca said it was “a confidence issue,” which was her polite way of saying: fix the mentality, Kat.
Briton Ferry at home was ninety minutes of football that felt like walking through fog. Calm, controlled, but blunt. The players came off frustrated – our new trademark emotion.
The Welsh Cup shook something loose. Taffs Well away: cold, scrappy, and very Barry. But Harris grabbed a late equaliser, and Jones won the shootout with the confidence of someone ordering lunch.
On the bus home, Veruca leaned over and said, “We might be a cup team.” I still don’t know if she meant that as hope or a warning.
October didn’t magically fix us, but it proved one thing: no one was hiding anymore. November felt like it might tell us who we were becoming.
November
November arrived quietly – suspiciously quietly. Calm never lasts in football, but training felt clean, voices were steady, and even Veruca didn’t look like she was bracing for disaster.
First up: Cardiff City. The same Cardiff who embarrassed us earlier. I reminded the squad gently: “Let’s not repeat that, please.”
Murray buried her penalty and we defended with intelligence for once. It ended a five-match winless run, and Veruca whispered, “Finally,” under her breath.
Then Cardiff Met. Four goals. One-way traffic. It felt like we’d stumbled into an alternate timeline where everything worked.
Aberystwyth at home – routine. A word that didn’t even exist for us in September.
Six unbeaten. A club record. I let myself smile for a full three seconds before Veruca told me not to “jinx it.”
Briton Ferry away tested our patience again, but Turner’s 94th-minute winner felt like the month’s exclamation point.
The analyst report said we were “close to average.” I took that as a compliment.
November was the first month where we looked like a real team – not perfect, but purposeful.
December
December brought rain, wind, and reminders that football enjoys humbling you. TNS away delivered all three.
We created enough to win, defended like we were improvising, and walked away annoyed. Veruca said, “Good. Anger means standards.”
The analyst report was encouraging until it wasn’t. “Good attacking structure… inconsistent focus.” I didn’t need a graph to tell me that.
Flint Town in the Welsh Trophy was one of those scrappy matches we used to lose. Murray’s penalty made the difference, and the group handled the chaos with a new sense of control.
The board review was “pleased.” Supporters were “happy enough.” Veruca nudged me and muttered, “You’re growing on them.”
December wasn’t smooth, but the progress was undeniable. We were becoming harder to knock over.
January
January pretends to be a reset, but really it’s just cold weather and tactical doubt sitting heavier than all the leftover turkey. Veruca arrived with a spreadsheet titled “Mid-Season Reality Check,” which set the tone nicely.
Pontypridd at home was steady. Cochrane and Shanahan scored. We conceded in the 93rd minute because January enjoys being dramatic.
Then the analysts decided to tell me Shanahan was “below average.” I closed the report before Veruca could comment.
TNS in the Welsh Trophy was calmer – Stone’s deflected strike, controlled football, maturity we didn’t have in autumn.
Wrexham frustrated us again. Nothing awful, nothing inspiring. Just flat – the kind of match that feels like a reminder to stay grounded.
Swansea away was different. Jenkins rose like she had something to prove and powered us to a tough win. We defended like our lives depended on it.
Then came the breaking news – confirmation of our highest-ever finish. Veruca actually clapped.
February
February felt heavy. Big fixtures, tired legs, pressure humming in the background. Spence spoke in the team meeting and said, “Everything from here is a bonus.” It grounded us more than anything I could’ve said.
The Welsh Trophy final was cruel. Seventy minutes of discipline undone by two late goals. Veruca squeezed my shoulder after the whistle. “Proud is allowed,” she said.
GOAL named us the competition’s biggest overachievers. That one stayed with me.
The league didn’t care about emotional hangovers. TNS beat us again – frustrating, but close enough to sting.
Financials steady. Performance “below average in places.” Supporters very pleased. Veruca smirked at that last bit.
March
March began with rain and trouble. Cardiff beat us again and Freeman sprained her ankle. I stared at the physio report longer than necessary. Veruca simply said, “We adapt.”
Then came something rare: momentum. A 4 – 1 demolition of TNS. A grown-up 2 – 1 win at Wrexham. Shanahan electric. Mathias fearless. Murray steady.
The Welsh Cup semi-final was chaos wrapped in adrenaline. Preece ran the match like she owned it. We won 3 – 2 after extra time, and Veruca whispered, “This is real now.”
Another league win followed. Then a message: record points total. I let myself be quietly proud.
April
April felt like the calm before a storm. Murray considering her options hit harder than I expected. “She’ll decide what’s right,” Veruca said. I nodded, pretending to be as calm as she sounded.
In our final league game, Shanahan scored first, but Cardiff flipped it late. It hurt, but it didn’t change the headline: 3rd place confirmed. Highest finish in club history.
The dressing room was silent before kick-off in the Welsh Cup Final. Rain hammering the roof. Boots tapping. Breath held. Veruca gave me a tiny nod – “Go on then.”
Stone opened the scoring. Flint equalised. Then Shanahan buried a penalty and the last twenty minutes became a blur of tackles, shouts, and held breath.
When the whistle blew? Noise. Relief. Joy. Veruca smiling – properly smiling – which is rarer than a sunny day in Barry.
Board delighted. Media generous. Preece crowned assist queen. And then the unexpected email: Manager of the Season.
April was chaos, joy, pride, and a quiet truth I didn’t expect to feel:
Barry belongs here. And maybe… so do I.
Season Thoughts
Back in August, we were tipped to finish sixth. The polite kind of prediction – not insulting, not flattering, just safe. No one expected anything wild from us. I wasn’t sure I did either.
But somewhere between September’s chaotic defending and December’s growing confidence, something shifted. Not all at once. Not dramatically. Just small steps. Tiny corrections. The first time the press didn’t fall apart. The moment the fullbacks realised they were allowed to overlap. The week the training ground arguments stopped being about bib colours.
Little victories that built into something real.
We finished 3rd in the league, and we became a side people didn’t want to face. Cardiff looked over their shoulders. Swansea frowned at our results more than once. January was the turning point – the month the squad stopped hoping to compete and started expecting to.
And then came the Welsh Cup run.
The 4 – 0. The extra-time drama. The semi-final where Preece played like she’d downed an espresso and a lightning bolt. The final in the rain, holding on with every limb and every heartbeat.
Shanahan deserves her own little paragraph. She broke the club’s scoring record. Broke the Player of the Match record. Broke defences for fun. Every time she drove inside from the left, the bench leaned forward in the same involuntary “go on then” way.
And then there was Amelia Cobley – 15 years old, record-breaking Welsh Cup appearance, utterly calm while I paced in the technical area. “She’s going to outgrow us,” Veruca whispered during the warm-up. I pretended I didn’t hear her.
The end-of-season stats painted the story perfectly: bold in possession, dangerous out wide, inconsistent at the back, but unignorable as a collective.
Once the celebrations settled, the inbox delivered its usual avalanche – graphs, ratings, milestones, a suspicious number of green arrows. One analyst report even said we “overachieved expectations.” Yes. Thank you. I was there.
The league’s season metrics were surprisingly flattering:
- One of the division’s highest dribble totals.
- Outstanding crossing numbers – mostly Sienna Stone putting the ball on a string.
- A defence that… tried its best, let’s say.
- Rated as the league’s biggest overachievers.
The board gave me a B overall, which in board language is basically a warm handshake and a biscuit. They were thrilled with the cup win, happy with the style, and only slightly panicked about the takeover rumours circling the club like hungry seagulls. Supporters were “very pleased,” which feels like the Welsh version of a parade.
Shanahan took Signing of the Season. Arnesen set a clean sheet record. Preece topped the assist charts. Half the squad earned new milestones… and for the first time, I believed the project wasn’t imaginary.
Expectations change the second you lift something shiny. The squad feels it. I feel it. Veruca has already redesigned the office wall like she’s pitching a new tech start-up.
But if this season taught me anything, it’s that this team has more in them than anyone predicted. They’re young, stubborn, fearless, sometimes chaotic, but never passive.
Year One was messy, emotional, surprising, and historic. Year One was the start of something. Year Two…?
That might be even bigger.
End-of-Season Review
I was winding down for the day, shutting tabs and pretending not to think about next season already, when Veruca appeared in the doorway. There was something different about her – quieter, more measured. She only stands like that when she’s carrying something from The Association.
She placed a sealed envelope on my desk. No explanation. Just a look that said: “Brace yourself.”
“Your review’s been moved forward,” she said. Calm. Too calm. The kind of calm that makes you suddenly aware of your own heartbeat.
“Forward as in tomorrow?” I asked, hopefully.
“Tonight.”
Of course it was. Reviews never get moved earlier. They get delayed, shuffled around, even forgotten about. But brought forward? That’s new.
Veruca nodded toward the envelope — “Better read it first.” Her voice had fully slipped into Association mode. No softness. No commentary. Just business.
I opened it. One sheet. Plain. Clinical. The season boiled down to two lines:
Welsh Cup: Progress noted. Final stage recorded.
Youth Requirement: U19 appearances logged. Pending confirmation.
No ticks. No crosses. Just two lines that could mean “excellent job” or “prepare to justify every decision you’ve ever made.”
Behind me, Veruca straightened her jacket. A silent signal that she wasn’t here as my mentor anymore. She was here as a representative.
“They’re ready when you are,” she said.
And suddenly the office felt smaller, the envelope felt heavier, and I had absolutely no idea what I was about to walk into.
