Old gold Wolves reach FA Cup semi final at Wembley.

Old gold Wolves reach FA Cup semi final at Wembley.

This is turning into quite a season for Wolverhampton Wanderers. The bad old days are now long behind them and the near apocalypse of League 2(Division Four) football that almost swallowed up Wolves in the late 1980s and 1990s must now seem like some old horror film from yesteryear. But the basement of the Football League can safely be consigned to the dustbin of history.

Last night Wolves sent Manchester United toppling from the FA Cup and Molineux did its utmost to remind the whole of the footballing community that the old gold shirts are firmly back on the map, now fully established in the Premier League, enjoying perhaps one of their most satisfying seasons for many a decade and proving once again that where there's life there's hope.

 This is not to say that Wolves will once again be lifting that famous trophy but after an almost yawning 60 year gap since their last FA Cup victory maybe some of their hardiest supporters are beginning to  believe that this is long overdue. For those who love to wander down football's reminiscence lane, this could be the year that Wolves completely forget their outstanding 1960 Wembley victory against Blackburn Rovers and just concentrate on the brass tacks of winning the Cup again.

The fondly reflective and nostalgic must still ache for the blonde and always commanding Billy Wright, Johnny Hancocks and Jimmy Mullen shuffling, drifting, roaming, roving and plotting deceptively on both the flanks, Dennis Wilshaw and Bill Slater shifting their opponents from side to side of a pitch, while a curtain of golden old pulled the opposition first one way and then another.

Today the Wolves of the 21st century can proudly boast players from Spain, Mexico and Belgium, all countries from entirely different points of the global compass. During the Wolves heyday of the 1950s when Stan Cullis was fashioning one of the most impressive teams in the old First Division, it was widely assumed that Moulineux would never see its like again. But how wrong they were proved to be.

When the likes of John Richards and Derek Dougan were leading the line and Kenny Hibbitt was forever scurrying, running and plotting in midfield during the 1970s there were times when it looked like Wolves had got their act together. Wolves were hard to beat, well organised and frequently easy on the eye but once the ruthless Bill McGarry had left the club so too had the heartbeat and spirit of  Wolverhampton Wanderers.

The lowest point in the club's fortunes came in more recent years when Wolves almost fell headfirst out of the Football League, resigned to their fate in the old Fourth Division. Then Sir Jack Hayward came along, rescued Wolves from the scrap heap of obscurity, smartened up Molineux quite radically and dragged the club up to the glamorous heights of the Premier League.

After Wolves had recently knocked Liverpool out of the FA Cup there was a strong sixth sense about the club that a revival was about to brush off the cobwebs of the 1950s and 1970s. Some of the more worldly of old gold loyalists who thought they'd seen it all before, were now rolling their tobacco with much more conviction, wishing that rattles were still fashionable and contemplating something they could hardly have believed possible when their team was stuck in quicksand.

Before the game Wolves had once again excelled with their theatrical showpieces, a blaze of flashing lights followed by thunderous music and what looked like a flutter of gold embossed envelopes. What followed was the rich and seductive smell of FA Cup magic. With Conor Coady and Matt Doherty providing British beef at the heart of the Wolves team, Wolves discovered that the meaning of life was much more about defeating the odds when the critics have cause to doubt you.

Although Manchester United started the game like a team who were determined to keep the ball  for as long as they could, it was Wolves who, sensing United were about to hit a brick wall, felt their way quietly and modestly back into the game. For the first half an hour or so United were passing the ball among themselves as if it was theirs by divine right. They were jealously guarding the ball protectively and sensitively as if somebody had told them that had they lost it a severe fine would be slapped on them after the match.

But once Joao Moutinho, Willy Boly and the superbly imaginative Leander Dendocker, once wanted by West Ham, had found common ground in the middle of the park Manchester United were beginning to lose their early dominance and soon the leadership skills shown by the brilliant Paul Pogba were no longer the defining theme of the evening.

With the game now in the second half Wolves were beginning to break and counter attack with startling effectiveness. Now it was that the livewire and effervescent Reuben Neves who began to spring forward into attack, darting here and there, spurting into space, picking up loose ends and driving forward at United's defence like a sports car with the most sophisticated engine. And then there was the player of the night Diogo Jota.

Jota was here, there and everywhere, perpetual motion, stretching the United like the most flexible elastic band. Jota also had the immaculate Raul Jimenez, the most powerful spice of Mexican genius. When Jimenez twisted and turned in the most confined of spaces to give Wolves the lead, United looked as if they were about to unravel like the loosest of threads. Wolves were now blasting out their own hot flames.

The red of Manchester United including the otherwise steady and tidy Chris Smalling, the energetic Victor Lindoff, the spring heeled Jessie Lingard and the excellent Marcus Rashford, were now beginning to tire and their once very sentimental relationship with the FA Cup now seemed no more than a mere romantic dalliance. Of course United are prolific winners of the FA Cup but this would not be their year.

After Luke Shaw had fumbled the ball and clumsily lost possession for United on the half way line, Wolves went for United like lions on the savanna. Diogo Jota, now causing havoc with a threadbare United back four, sprinted away on his own, racing irrepressibly towards the United goal as if intent on rubber stamping Wolves authority. Jota took one look at the United goal and slammed the ball low under  Romero, the United keeper. It was a second goal that Wolves that would leave United now completely down, out and desolate.

And so it was that United, now led by the permanently upbeat and smiling Ole Gunnar Solskjaer, who would make their way out of the FA Cup's tradesman's entrance. United still have the Champions League within their sights but realistically United may have to content themselves with another season that could be considered as a work in progress. A top four place in the Premier League is the overriding objective but a Europa League spot looks far more achievable.

Wolves, for their part, can still look back at an astonishing season back in the Premier League. Wolves are currently seventh and sitting pretty. Their football has been exquisite and cut from the loveliest of cloth, short, sharp and staccato passes that unlocked the United defence with almost effortless ease. Their football is a world away from those dark alleyways where sinister howls and whistles would follow them everywhere. The days of bleak bankruptcy are now ancient history for Wolves.

As the final whistle went, Wolves heavily bearded and charming manager Nuno Espirito Santo punched the air with delight, hugged his players and presumably took his family out for a slap up meal in town. Santo has been one of the managers of the season - if not the manager of the season- and the footballing philosophies he has quite clearly left his imprint on look as if they may be bear fruition. If Wolves do reach the FA Cup Final they may care to think for a moment or two about a man called Sir Jack Hayward for it was he who changed everything. The old gold of Wolves are still prowling.