Wolves roll back the years in shock Cup win against high flying Liverpool.

Wolves roll back the years in shock Cup win against high flying Liverpool.

There was a moment before last night's third round FA Cup tie against Premier League leaders Liverpool when Molineux, the historic ground of Wolves, must have felt like the Molineux of the 1950s. The white flames were shooting up into the night sky, the Wolves light show reminded you of a modern heavyweight boxing match and the dramatic, high voltage electricity of the occasion sent goose bumps down your spine, as darkness and light met head on and Wolves powered their way into the fourth round of the FA Cup.

For those whose memories go back to those pioneering nights at Wolves when the club became one of the first English clubs to play under floodlights, this was a moment when the whole subject of time travel had a certain tang and flavour about it. There were no doctors or tardises around but for much of the match you were taken back to those halcyon days when Wolves used to win things.

 Sadly, the 1960 FA Cup victory against Blackburn Rovers is no more than a distant blur on Wolves footballing horizon. But on a night when Wolves legendary giant and gentlemen Bill Slater was remembered after Slater's passing recently, Wolves came out of the traps all guns blazing and Premier League leaders Liverpool were knocked out of the FA Cup, dumped on the ground unceremoniously and left to rue what might have been had they actually bothered to turn up on the night.

For make no mistake about it this was not the night when anybody expected to Liverpool to tread carefully and hope against hope that something would turn up eventually. This was a pale shadow of the Liverpool who have swept all before them in the Premier League season so far. When Manchester City finally brought Liverpool's unblemished unbeaten record to an end at the Etihad Stadium, some of us suspected that nerves and the jitters had caught up with them.

But this was a Liverpool side in drag, in caricature, the lonely actor in his dressing room who once they take off their make up, just become very maudlin and melancholy. For much of the first half of this tale of two halves, Wolves showed both tooth and claw to show streetwise savvy, a complete air of assurance on the ball and promised significantly more to offer in the final third of the pitch. Around the stadium the old gold wolves imagery dotted graphically around the ground reminded you of Guy Fawkes night.

Liverpool, for their part, were awkward, slovenly, slow, too cautious and, above all, clumsy in possession. They dawdled and dithered on the ball as if it were a hot potato and generally looked dreadfully out of sorts. The likes of James Milner, Dejan Lovren, Curtis Jones, even the very clever Fabinho seemed distracted by something indefinable, perhaps wrongly assuming that all they had to do on the night was just turn up on the evening and thrash the living daylights out of Wolves.

You felt sure that up in heaven Bill Slater, Denis Willshaw, Billy Wright, with Jimmy Mullen and Johnny Hancocks on their respective wings were all looking down approvingly on the proceedings. Wolves this season have been the loveliest surprise, a revelation, a refreshing discovery, the proverbial breath of fresh air and for the club who once found themselves trapped at the bottom of football's lowest tier this was a night for extraordinary derring do, get up and go and utter devil may care dynamism.

Finally, the side that chairman Jack Hayward so lovingly built when disaster loomed, have found stable bearings back in the Premier League. Under the wonderfully salt and pepper bearded Nuno Espirito Santo, the Premier League can hardly believe that they have in their possession one of the most agreeable and charming managers, a man who always practises what he preaches, a purist rather than spoiler. a man of art rather than pretension which may or may not be a good thing.

For long periods last night those of a 1950s mindset found themselves back on those early floodlit nights when Honved of Hungary and Dynamo Moscow graced the English game. The current day Wolves seemed to have re-captured the same attitudes and cultural habits of  both Honved and Dynamo Moscow, full of neat, one and two touch spontaneity and gloriously spreading the ball around the pitch like the first seeds of spring.

In Reuben Neves Wolves had the player of the night constantly jinking, darting and threading passes long and short with the kind of knowhow and maturity of a man years ahead of himself, slipping in and out of the wide open pockets of space that Liverpool had given him. The wonderful thundercrack of a shot from way outside  Liverpool's penalty area flew past a helpless Signolet, a Liverpool keeper who must have wondered what had happened to the rest of his team mates. The Neves winner and goal was a thing of beauty.

Regrettably, the first half itself belonged in some forgettable video out take that should never ever be shown again at any time. It was rather like watching two sets of crabs inching their way painstakingly towards the shore and then sinking into the sand. Both Liverpool and Wolves spent much of the first half jabbing at each other and shuffling around as if wary of the final outcome. Wolves were marginally more skilful, quicker on the ball but still found themselves in a rut when the ball became a bar of soap, a throwback to Peter Sellers fizzing bomb in the Pink Panther. Still, it was pleasant to watch even if it didn't really amount to much.

So it was that both teams lunged forward achingly towards the break with little to choose between the two. But just before half time a Liverpool attack broke down almost meekly, the red shirts carelessly losing the ball in the last place they would have wanted it to do. Wolves, sensing a wide open gap, surged over the half way line and Divock Origi burst forward on his own and, homing in on the Liverpool goal, the alert Mexican striker Raul Jimenez set himself coolly and brilliantly before stroking the ball softly and nonchalantly past Liverpool keeper Mignolet.

This was the blue touch paper for a brief Liverpool recovery. Jurgen Klopp, their warmly dressed manager with the German pop star glasses and fashionably thick beard for comfort, stared daggers at his team. You could almost see the fury rising up to his anguished face, as Liverpool huffed and puffed in that strangely lumpen and pedestrian style so totally out of character with everything that had gone before. It almost felt as if somebody had given them an ill fitting set of trousers and suits and then expected them to wear them on the night.

Still the visitors did enjoy a temporary purple period of good, clear thinking possession, carving out the kind of goal that has become so typical of who Liverpool are at the moment and Bill Shankly would have swooned over when he was boss. A sharp interchange of play on the edge of the Wolves penalty area led to Shaqiri tucking the ball into Milner who looked as though he'd lost it for the moment. Then Divock Origi shifted the ball smartly from one foot to the next in the blink of an eye lid before drilling the ball low and hard past the former Norwich keeper John Ruddy.

Wolves though were not to be disheartened and after another period of leaden footed Liverpool uncertainty, the home side climbed back onto the bandwagon and pushed Liverpool deeper and deeper back into the darkest of holes. From this point onward Liverpool cowered back into their defensive retreat as if not quiet realising just how outplayed they'd been on the night. Eventually, the old gold of Wolves strung together their sparkling set of passes and Liverpool finally crumbled sadly. It was rather like watching an impressive collection of old gold footballing pearls, resulting in a  goal of utter purity.

A long diagonal pass over the heads of now terrified Liverpool defenders dropped perfectly at the feet at Reuben Neves who checked back inside his defender, cut inside beautifully and sent a magnificent dipping, swerving shot that seemed to nestle in the net before Signolet had had the chance to even move. Wolves were in complete command of the game and smothered everything Liverpool could offer.

When the final whistle went it was hard to believe that Liverpool had been so poor and submissive. Wolves were into the fourth round of the FA Cup and Liverpool were literally clutching at straws. For the time being the season seems to have taken its toll on Liverpool's well equipped resources. At no point had Liverpool looked as though the football they had embroidered the Premier League season with would ever be suitably replicated on an FA Cup stage.

 Jurgen Klopp, Liverpool's always jolly boss looked like a man who'd lost a treasure chest of money if perhaps consoled by the knowledge that the Premier League title would now become an overriding priority. It is now 29 years since the Anfield club last won the old First Division so maybe some of the Kop might be entitled to think that a sea change in fortune may be moving in their direction.

Some of us thought back to the mid 1970s when Liverpool met Wolves at Molineux on the last day of the League season. With the lethal strike force of Kevin Keegan and John Toshack leading the Wolves defence a merry dance, Liverpool beat Wolves with the three decisive goals that won the old First Division.

Now though the boot was firmly on the foot and the old gold of Wolves were howling with some authority and menace. It's been a long time since Wolves were even remotely close to the most famous old trophy and the long suffering supporters may be harbouring private ambitions about planting another FA Cup trophy in their cabinet. Sometimes it pays to be hopeful because you never know what you're going to get. The pre match flames may still be flickering.