Blog: The awful truth of realising Wolves are going down

The shrill blast of Saturday's final whistle brought with it a crushing realisation which has been horrifyingly close many times this season – it is actually happening writes Wolves fan Mark Mudie.

moreThe unimaginable, the unthinkable, the unbelievable – we're going down. Again. Football fans are prone to hyperbole as emotions fly wildly from ecstasy to despair.

But in the cold light of day the statisticians will tell you this – Wolves will be the first team in history to be relegated from the top to the third tier in successive seasons, twice. They are making history. Exactly the wrong sort.

Molineux at times of crisis is a pretty desperate place. Perhaps it is the history, but there is a depth of feeling about the club which makes it such a defining part of a proud city.

Hundreds poured onto the pitch at full time in an impromptu demonstration at our demise, but the noise of their protest is not as troubling as the sound which has been the backing track to this fresh horror.

That has been silence. It was there again as the dust settled on each of Burnley's two goals, and as those under-performing players attempted some sort of response. It was there in the pubs after the game, as fans refreshed the league table on their phones and were comforted with consoling looks from loved ones.

It was there in the home dressing room, according to Dean Saunders, as millionaires once rich in reputation as well as wealth searched for answers only they could provide.

This chapter in Wolves' illustrious history has been too shocking, too painful, too shattering, for anyone to comprehend. There have been moments of clarity. The 3-1 reverse to Huddersfield was a wake-up call which brought many of us round from our slumber. This really could happen, we realised. Then we beat Hull and that seductive mistress, hope, was there again.

There will even be some who continue to flirt with her as we face our day of humiliation this weekend. They should not.

If fate hands Wolves a chance, if Peterborough and Barnsley should conspire to lose, this team looks in no place to deliver victory at Brighton. How did it come to this? Since the last brick was laid in that shiny new stand, it has stood as a constant reminder of Steve Morgan's ambitious vision of a Wolves dining consistently at the top table of the money-lavished modern game.

This was a vision founded not on mere fancy, but on the slaying of giants. Chelsea, Manchester City, Manchester United, were all dispatch-ed by Mick McCarthy's vibrant young tyros.

They came, they saw, and were conquered. This was a Wolves team, unlike any other in the last two decades, connected with the masses.

They played like the supporters dreamed they would had they made the grade and turned out in their beloved Old Gold. They shed blood and sweat for the cause. They probably did it for each other, and for Mick, but we liked to believe they did it for the shirt.

Now, many of them are not fit to wear it. And that connection between the fans and the team has been severed, ripped apart by match after match of pitiful, passionless disappointment.

Roger Johnson – who more than anyone has come to embody this era of decay – arrives at training drunk then cups his ears to the fans when the team secures a lucky win over Bristol City, the one miserable side below us the table.

Well, listen, Roger – that's the sound of silence. You've brought our great club to its knees.