Three weeks tonight Wolves will take on Manchester City in the fourth round of the Carling Cup at Molineux. It is of course a repeat of the 1974 League Cup Final in which Molineux winger Dave Wagstaffe helped Wolves defeat his former employers City.  Here top journalist David Harrison recalls his own memories of one of the most endearing characters to have donned the gold and black.

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Over the Molineux tannoy the team changes were announced as the two sides ran out for that local derby game against Aston Villa on Boxing Day, 1964: "No 11 for Wolves in place of Buckley - Wagstaffe."

"Who?", we all asked, unaware that a new signing had been made over the Christmas period. It was in the days long before 24 hour rolling TV sports news, up-to-date radio broadcasts or the wonders of club websites.

News slowly filtered around the 30,000 crowd on that freezing cold day that Dave Wagstaffe had been signed from Manchester City by Andy Beattle who had become caretaker manager following the shock sacking earlier that season of Stan Cullis.

Now Mr Beattie might not have made much of an impact during his spell in charge and he really was onto a bit of a hiding to nothing in having to fill the role vacated by such a legend. However, the capture of Wagstaffe was a magical moment in Wolves modern history.

Magical fits easily into any description of Waggy. He was a magician with a wand masquerading as his left foot. He was slight of build and pale of complexion but he weaved his patterns of intricate beauty down the left wing and delivered crosses with lazer-beam precision.

Waggy was up there with Peter Broadbent among my early boyhood heroes. Coincidently Peter's last game for Wolves was that Boxing Day fixture when our new signing made his debut.

It was easy to idolise Waggy. His skills were enchanting. His outlook on life and football brought a smile to your face. Some said he wasn't the bravest player ever to don a Wolves shirt but believe me it took some courage to keep wanting the ball and taking on defenders whose sole aim was to put him over the sidelines into the laps of the nearest spectator.

The brutal treatment he got from the hatchet men prompted the then chairman of Wolves John Ireland to make a public plea to football authorities to stamp out the crude attempts to kick our hero out of the game. Not that it did any good.

I was in awe of very few of all the sporting personalities I met during my time as a sports reporter. One was George Best alongside whom I once stood speechless at a football writers' dinner. Another was Sir Garfield Sobers, my all-time favourite cricketer, whom I met while on holiday in Barbados.

Waggy was a third. I introduced my son Daniel to him a reunion dinner for the 1974 League Cup winning dinner. To my eternal embarrassment I said to my lad: "This is Waggy. He was a genius. Just take a look at his left foot and bow down to it."

The difference between those three sporting greats was immense. Best was shy and introverted and no doubt tired of listening to fans paying homage to him. Sobers was grand and arrogant and fully aware of his own importance.

Waggy was, well, just Waggy. Unassuming, down to earth, always ready to spare the time of day with any passing fans. There is none of the self-glorification one witnesses from many of the modern so-called superstars.

Fast forward a few years from his Molineux debut and Wolves found themselves in Los Angeles taking part in a summer tournament. They were feted like Hollywood stars, even more so when they won the trophy by beating Aberdeen in the final. The Scottish club featured a young player named Frank Munro, who scored a hat-trick in the last game and went on to sign for us and earn his own rightful place among Wolves greats.

Back home in Wolverhampton, the rumour mill was buzzing with gossip about Waggy. Again it is worth stressing that there were no up-to-date live reports in the local or national newspapers.

But the word was spreading that our star left winger was on the brink of giving up football and becoming road manager for the American pop group The Monkees. The reason for this was plausible. Waggy was a former school pal of the group's lead singer and fellow Mancunian Davey Jones.

They did have a reunion during the tournament and that's when the rumours started.

Surely it couldn't be true? Well, no it wasn't but the gossip was only nailed as false when the squad returned from the States with Waggy still very much a part of the team.

As he went on to explain in his excellent (and non-ghost written autobiography) "Waggy's Tales", he did get an offer to stay on in America but it was from sports impressario Jack Kent Cooke.

He wanted our man to return across the Atlantic and become the face behind a new brand of soccer merchandise he was set to launch. He would have been to football what Fred Perry was to tennis, according to Mr Cooke's masterplan.

Eat your heart out David Beckham. Fortunately for us, Waggy rejected the offer and went on the thrill us for many more years with his wing wizardry.

Many thousands of words have been spoken and written about him over the years but my favourite came from Derek Dougan. Before he died, the Doog likened Waggy to England rugby star Jonny Wilkinson with his style of dead-ball kicking.   

I know what he meant. They shared that same crouched style of approaching the ball, the same graceful swing of the boot and the same unerring accuracy.

If you never saw Waggy play, you missed a treat. You might see him around town now, or in his local in Tettenhall or digging his allotment. Take a look at his left foot if you do. I bet it still has magical, mystical powers.