Sheffield Wednesday 1-3 Southampton

Well, that was rather lovely, wasn’t it? A trip to Hillsborough on a Wednesday afternoon — the sort of fixture that can go sideways in about fourteen different ways — and we came home with all three points and a swagger we’re legally entitled to enjoy for at least 48 hours.

Let’s talk about James Bree, because the man clearly woke up and chose violence. Seventeen minutes in, he pops up to open the scoring, and suddenly we’re purring. Hillsborough goes a bit quiet, the kind of quiet where you can practically hear 30,000 people wondering if they should’ve stayed at work. Bree’s been quietly dependable all season, but moments like that remind you he’s got a finish in him when the mood strikes. And on this particular afternoon, the mood very much struck.

From there, we did what good sides should do in the Championship — we sat on the ball, moved it around with purpose, and made Sheffield Wednesday chase shadows. Sixty-three percent possession doesn’t always tell the full story, but when you combine it with 15 shots and the kind of territorial dominance that has the opposition unable to win a single corner — yes, you read that right, zero corners for Wednesday — it paints a fairly comprehensive picture. We were the adults in the room.

Then came the chef’s kiss moment. Stoppage time at the end of the first half, Ryan Manning steps up and doubles the lead. There is genuinely nothing more demoralizing than conceding right before the break, and every Saints fan in that away end knew it. You could feel Hillsborough deflate like a paddling pool in October. Walking into half-time two up and utterly dominant? Inject it directly into my veins.

Now, because we’re Southampton and we’re contractually obligated to keep things interesting, Wednesday pulled one back through Jerry Yates on 57 minutes. Cue the nervous shuffling. Cue the flashbacks to every improbable collapse we’ve ever witnessed. For about fourteen minutes, there was a very real danger of this turning into a “typical Saints” situation.

But then Taylor Harwood-Bellis — no longer a loanee, a fully paid-up Saint — rose up to head home and restore the two-goal cushion. The relief. The jubilation. The away end losing its collective mind. Three-one, and this time it was staying three-one. Even Cameron Bragg’s late yellow card felt like a victory lap foul — the kind of booking that says “we’re here, we’re comfortable, and we’re winding down the clock with a grin.”

Tactically, Tonda Eckert’s side looked every inch a team that knows what it’s doing. We dominated possession, created chances, defended with purpose when we needed to, and showed the kind of composure that gets you promoted rather than just talked about.

Next up, we do it all again. And if we keep playing like this, the Championship might just be running out of ways to stop us.