"WELCOME TO THE CAULDRDRON OF PAIN, THE FACTORY OF FOOTBALL, THE MAGNIFICENT, MENACING TURF MOOR!" the commentator, Barry, roared, his voice filled with a mixture of terror and pure, unadulterated excitement. "Liverpool, the artists, have come to the home of the artisans! The Ferraris have entered the tractor pull! This is going to be brutal! This is going to be beautiful! This is Burnley versus Liverpool!"
Arne Slot's final words had been simple: "We will give them a waltz." But from the very first whistle, it was clear that Burnley had no interest in dancing.
The ball was kicked off, and within ten seconds, Andy Robertson, who had received a simple pass, was sent flying into the air by a tackle of such agricultural, bone-crunching force that it seemed to shake the entire stadium.
The referee blew his whistle. A foul. The Burnley crowd roared its approval.
