Just like many young boys growing up in the mid-1980s, the sight of Howard Kendall’s all conquering Everton side was enough to make me realise how special the game of football was.
The thrill of staying up late to watch Sportsnight with Dad and the giddy excitement at the spectacle thereafter convinced me that the Beautiful Game was the one for me.
Thank God I wasn’t born a few years ago instead.
Because the team Dad diverted me towards in 1987 created its customary brand of wretched anti-football that does more to drive neutrals away from the game and take up tiddlywinks instead.
No shots on target (bar the penalty), no possession, no pace, no aspiration, no progression and no player within 40 yards of Kevin Doyle at any time.
And all this at the home of the club that first got me hooked.
We are the complete antithesis of those Canon League conquerors of yesteryear, let alone Graham Turner’s heroes of division three.
It was no wonder my two mates were spending more time checking their fantasy football teams than grimace at our pre-planned attempt to pervert the course of football.
Partly because they were bored out of their skulls and partly because all of their chosen players would never ever be playing at Goodison Park on November 19.
Not in a Wolves shirt at least.
It’s no wonder our (wonderfully voiced) fans can lay claim to the most self deprecating song in the whole of football, heard only two or three times a season when we actually take the lead away from home.
“We’re winning away, we’re winning away. How s**t must you be, we’re winning away.”
Doubtless they will be called numpties and mindless idiots by Mick McCarthy in the greatest irony of all.
If this is football Mick, you can have it.
If I wasn’t so desperately sad right now, I’d summon up some bile to throw at you.
It wasn’t the wasted £35 that has saddened me. It wasn’t even the defeat itself or the subsequent baiting by my Everton supporting mate thereafter.
It was the unashamed creation of a spectacle that bears no relation to the game I first fell in love with that really hurt, featuring none of its bewitching, spellbinding characteristics.
Where the good teams have skill, we have sweat. Where Norwich and Swansea have aspiration, we have pragmatism.
And where every other side have a chain of passes, we have a kick-off to Hennessey and a lump downfield to a striker who can’t win headers.
The game itself featured 11 Wolves players giving their absolute all to the cause, looking committed and hungry from the off.
For that, they will not receive any criticism from me. Certainly not Ward for his phenomenal block on the line, or Berra for an amazing last gasp tackle on Drenthe in the first half.
We took the lead through a needless Fellaini trip on Edwards and proceeded to squander possession with the reckless abandon of a pub team.
So what happened next? We work even harder to try to get the ball back and our tiring bodies give way to weary minds.
The agonising inevitability is bad enough. The reputation we have now garnered with yet another set of disbelieving fans just rubs the salt in.
“Thank God we only play these lot once at home this season,” said one pained Everton fan.
The pleasure was all ours.