An early defining moment of the season, as the Tigers tough out a 1-0 win at Plymouth thanks to a Stuart Elliott super-strike, despite playing an hour with 10 men after Marc Joseph's dismissal.

Just before the hour in this largely humdrum but ultimately thrilling match Craig Fagan took possession in the centre circle and wheeled round, looking for a devastating through ball. He shouldn’t have been able to find one. We only had ten men on the pitch to Plymouth’s eleven and a dourly excavated no-score draw looked the summit of our ambitions. But the home defence has lost its concentration and Stuart Elliott is sprinting into space. Fagan delivers a perfectly judged pass. But Elliott is still all of 30 yards from goal and Plymouth’s numerically superior defence is rushing back into position to crowd out Elliott before he gets close to the penalty box. At which point the Ulster master calmly strokes the most delightful chip, soaring high over ‘keeper Larrieu and dipping gently under the bar to nestle in the back of the net. Larrieu did nothing wrong: Elliott did everything right – a quite wonderful piece of flawless skill. If it was not quite as extravagantly outrageous in its feat of imagination as the breathtaking goal scored by Dean Windass at Wycombe, it nonetheless deserves to be mentioned in the same breath as one of the finest of Hull City goals. It quite simply could not have been executed better, not by Ronaldinho, not by Marco Van Basten, not by Dave Kynman.

And it earned us three points away from home on a day when the first-half dismissal of Marc Joseph seemed likely to limit us to a grim parity at best.

On duty on an intermittently sunny day in Devon:

Myhill
Joseph Coles Delaney Dawson
Price Ashbee Curtis Elliott
Fagan Barmby

I suppose Wiseman was injured? If not, it’s hard to see how he was left out in favour of the dubious pairing of Price and Joseph, neither of whom advanced their subdued reputation in this match. But off we went, with Plymouth playing in dark green, City in black, both teams in the same socks – very hard to distinguish. It seemed absurd and the only explanation for this colour clash may be that footling referee Andy D’Urso had brought only a yellow top with him, preventing us playing in our home kit.

But, ooo, it was scrappy. Formless, even. Both sides’ chief priority seemed to be to haul midfielders deep to protect the back four and the result was an absence of space to play in the final third, and consequently not even a hint of penalty box action. On 25 – and yes, it is as late as that before anything happened to which I feel the need to draw your attention – Fagan is blatantly blocked and the culprit wins a yellow card. It’s Taribo West! Nigerian international! Playing for Plymouth! Crikey. Playing fairly badly too, and looking as fit as a butcher’s vegetarian dog. But no sooner had we identified the likely source of weakness and, most of all, lack of pace over the turf in the Argyle defence than the direction of the game took a decisive shift. From the free-kick a long ball to the back-post resulted in Delaney hammering the ball in, but the linesman’s flag had been confidently raised. And a minute later the official got involved again.

Joseph cleared the ball out wide by the right touchline while, behind him, a Plym crumpled to the turf in claimed agony, clutching his face. I didn’t see it. Nor did the linesman who was on the other side of the pitch. And I don’t think Mr D’Urso was watching either. But the combined effect of the writhing Plym and the indignant home crowd (they’re not quite Feyenoord or Schalke, but they were getting impressively cross, as if they'd heard the EU cider subsidy was to be slashed) prompted him to assume an elbow had been used to administer pain, and Joseph was red-carded. Shocking stupidity from Joseph if he was guilty, shoddy crowd-pleasing from D’Urso if he was not. Either way, with the Tigs down to ten men and the score at 0-0 with fully an hour of the match left, we now had the opportunity to conduct a rigorous scientific experiment into the veracity of the proposition “We’d be better off with ten men than having Marc Joseph in the side”.

Argyle rapidly gave a clear impression that they had no greater attacking wit when faced with ten men than they had when confronted by all eleven. Bulky but crude striker Evans picked up a yellow card for the crime of “going up to try and head a cross”, another piece of fiction from the ludicrous D’Urso, and we reached half-time astonished at how tame the home side’s reaction to their numerical advantage had been. An effort blatted over the crossbar two minutes into added time was Boaz’s only scare, and that a minor one.

They’ve had their shrewd Scottish managers, have Plymouth. Dave Smith was canny and bald (a tautology, experienced observers of football managers might think), Paul Sturrock canny and portly. Current incumbent Bobby Williamson is all these things except canny. Prior to half-time there was no hint that the home side knew how to exploit an extra man, and after the break the cupboard of imagination was similarly bare. But there was a tactically smart manager pitch-side and, happily, it was ours. At half-time Mr Taylor removed Barmby, for we could not now afford the luxury of twin attackers (and Barmby had anyway been pulled back into defence since the sending-off), and also brought off the unimpressive Price. On came France, to take over at right-back, and Welsh arrived to take on the job of right-sided midfield. We played a sort of 4-4-1, midfield comprising Welsh-Ash-Curtis-Elliott, with Fagan working prodigiously hard as the lone front man, though Elliott was asked to get forward from left-side midfield to help Fagan out where possible. And we kept it simple. Hold position. Don’t get stretched. Invite the opposition to show their skill in slick movement of the football and to prove how 11 really should beat 10.

Poor old Plymouth. Such slick movement of the football as occurred during the second half was the result of Tiger thieving. Most of all, on the hour, as Fagan and Elliott combined for the creamingly, screamingly brilliant goal described above. We waited for the home side to get relentless. It didn’t happen. They were guileless, leaderless and overall they were a rank poor side, considerably the inferior of the Brighton side we saw last week and which we had been led to believe were strong relegation candidates. Plymouth, facing the famed “long hard season”, bundled an attempt into our side-netting on 61 and flicked an inviting header wide of the far post on 92. And that’s about the sum of it. They could not penetrate our defences and Myhill had a largely untroubled afternoon.

Let us, however, accentuate the positives. Plymouth looked woeful, but huge credit is due to our organisation and team-spirit. Sturdy leadership from Ashbee. Unfussy good common sense in deep midfield from Woodhouse Curtis. A splendidly sensible second-half shift from both France and the terrier-like Welsh. Virtuously rugged central defending from Coles and Delaney, who is back to his best. Selfless running from Fagan, whose snapping approach will have left Taribo West yearning for the easier climes of international football, where tackling is more or less extinct. On 80 McPhee replaced Fagan, who will be weary but, I hope, fit for Monday. The Brummie is a wonderfully energetic presence in our team.

The minutes ticked down and it was a wonderful feeling. I suppose it had, in truth, been a dire game. Little imagination, minimal goalscoring opportunities. But, 1-0 up a long way from home and playing with only ten men, you simply don’t care about the trivia of quality. The travelling support – 600 strong or so – rejoiced gleefully as the final whistle approached, firming up our feeling that we really belong in this Division. And even though the game was largely free of skill and invention there had been one moment that will live long in the memory – a superb goal from Stuart Elliott that won us this match.

Afterwards, on the train back up to London, I overheard some Plymouth fans moaning. “I don’t mind losing to Derby [their previous home game], they outclassed us, but getting beaten by Hull when they’ve only got ten men, that’s a bit crap.’ I suppose it is. But I wonder if the teams in this Division are underestimating us? After all, it’s a generation since English football encountered a Hull City side that deserved to be taken seriously, and then only briefly. It’s fully 35 years since we had a decent side over an extended period of time. I suspect most supporters of other clubs just don’t appreciate how powerful our current surge up the hierarchy is. At the beginning of this season I reckoned that there are probably only four teams in this Division with serious expectations of playing for an automatic promotion place, and a similar, perhaps slightly larger, number seriously anxious about relegation. I put us in the middling majority – but how high? After yesterday’s display of resilience, confidence and one-off shimmering skill I am all the more hopeful that we are going to finish higher at the end of this season than we have for a very long time.

HULL CITY (4-4-2): Myhill; Joseph, Coles, Delaney, Dawson; Price, Ashbee, Woodhouse, Elliott; Fagan, Barmby.  Subs: Welsh (for Price, 45), France (for Barmby, 45), McPhee (for Fagan, 80), Green, Leite.

Goals: Elliott 58

Booked: Fagan, Myhill

Sent Off: Joseph

PLYMOUTH ARGYLE: Larrieu, Barness, Doumbe, West, Brevett, Norris, Wotton, Gudjonsson, Djordjic, Evans, Taylor.  Subs: Zebroski (for Gudjonsson, 63), Buzsaky (for Evans, 63), Connolly (for Brevett, 81), McCormick, Mendes.

Goals: None

Booked: Evans, Taylor, West

Sent Off: None

REFEREE: A D'Urso

ATTENDANCE: 12,329