The match continued.
Giggs drove forward with the ball, probing Liverpool's defensive line.
United's attack snapped fans' attention back to the present.
Focus returned to the derby, the first clash between both clubs in their new eras.
Nearly forty years old, Giggs still demonstrated his elegant dribbling rhythm. He glided past Henderson's press, then exchanged passes with Carrick in a neat one-two.
In the away section, United supporters began chanting: "Giggs will tear you apart again."
Van Persie moved intelligently into the half-space, calling for the ball.
Giggs understood immediately, delivering a precise diagonal pass.
Van Persie's first touch, turn, and shot preparation flowed seamlessly until Skrtel arrived with a perfectly timed sliding tackle, clearing the danger.
The loose ball fell to Ashley Young who forced his way down the flank and whipped in a cross with heavy curl, bending toward the far post.
Mignolet reacted instantly, barking at his defense: "Mine!"
He adjusted his positioning, came off his line, and plucked the ball from above Van Persie's head, ending United's attack.
After landing, Mignolet didn't hesitate this time.
Seeing United's shape slightly disorganized, he immediately threw the ball out quickly, finding Gerrard who'd dropped deep to receive.
Gerrard barely took a touch. His right foot's outside curve sent the ball skimming across the grass toward space on the right wing. He didn't need to look, he knew Julien would be there.
And Julien was.
The moment he saw Mignolet release the ball quickly, he understood what was required. He accelerated instantly.
United's recently advanced line scrambled back into position, Evra was racing to close down Julien.
But Julien had already read the situation. He didn't sprint at full speed yet as he was waiting for his teammates' runs to develop.
As Johnson overlapped and central players pushed forward, just as Evra closed in for contact, Julien suddenly flicked the ball laterally with his left foot's outside, appearing to cut inside.
Evra didn't bite on the feint.
Seeing the right flank becoming increasingly congested, Julien transformed his fake into reality. He accelerated laterally, cutting inside.
Simultaneously, he crossed paths with Sturridge making a run forward.
Julien slipped the ball to Sturridge's feet, then continued his run toward the left channel.
Ferdinand shadowed Sturridge tightly.
After a few strides, Sturridge shielded the ball, turned, and played a square pass.
The ball rolled toward Julien.
Everyone suddenly realized: Julien had drifted to the left wing!
Coutinho had made a crossing run with Julien, cutting inside.
Julien was now operating as a left winger!
Sturridge's pass didn't just find space, it also dragged Ferdinand out of position.
With most of United's defensive focus still oriented toward the right, Julien's sudden insertion on the left threw them into disarray.
United's defensive line fractured.
Carrick, who'd just tracked back from right to center, saw Julien drift left and immediately changed direction.
Cleverley positioned himself in front of Julien, trying to cut off his penetration route early.
But Julien's acceleration exceeded their predictions. Before the ball even settled, he flicked it up with his instep, skipping it over Cleverley's challenge. His body leaned forward, shoulder checking away the midfielder's reaching arm. The contact was minimal but perfectly timed, just enough to upset Cleverley's balance. Julien burst past him.
"Stop him!"
Evra roared, sprinting back in desperate pursuit, panic was flashing in his eyes.
He knew Julien too well. You couldn't defend him simply with numbers—you had to deny him space. Otherwise, it didn't matter how many players you threw at him.
Now, with all this space on the left, it was Julien's stage.
But the distance between them was still too great. All Evra could do was pump his legs harder, lengthening his stride.
Carrick saw Julien skip past Cleverley and assumed he'd cut inside. He stabbed out a leg to hook the ball, but Julien's right foot had already nudged it forward into space. His body spun, accelerating past Carrick's opposite side with ease.
The feint and direction change happened so quickly it was dizzying. Anfield's roar raised instantly.
Carrick's mind processed what happened, but his body couldn't keep up.
The problem was Julien's foot speed; it was absurdly quick for a player about six feet tall!
The action sequences blended together seamlessly; each movement seemed to be flowing into the next without pause.
Having bypassed Carrick, Julien cut inside from the left.
Only Phil Jones remained, the right-back having pinched inside. He positioned himself sideways, braced and ready, but Julien gave him no opportunity.
As he approached the penalty area's edge, Julien suddenly decelerated. Jones's weight shifted forward instinctively and in that micro-second, Julien nudged the ball forward lightly.
It rolled straight through Jones's legs.
A nutmeg!
Then Julien exploded past him with pure pace, burning the defender completely.
Jones grabbed frantically at Julien's shirt from behind, but his fingers couldn't find purchase.
The shirt slipped free!
Julien chased the ball into the penalty area. De Gea held his ground on the six-yard box, watching Julien's body movements, reading the rhythm.
Seeing the goalkeeper wouldn't come out, Julien didn't overthink it. He shifted the ball onto his right foot and pushed it toward goal from a tight angle. The shot skimmed just inside the near post!
The attempt caught everyone off guard.
Most knew Julien was left-footed. For him to slice through United's left side, then finish with his right, it defied expectations!
Liverpool fans had one thought racing through their minds: "Surely this one's in?!"
But—
In the next instant, their arms raised in celebration froze once more.
On the pitch, De Gea somehow reacted to Julien's finish, flinging himself down and deflecting the shot away with one outstretched palm!
Gasps echoed through Anfield.
Before the disappointment could fully settle over everyone, Julien was already moving faster than anyone else.
He'd never been certain he could beat De Gea cleanly. He'd been ready for the rebound all along.
Even as he struck the shot, he kept pushing forward. When De Gea miraculously palmed the ball away, Julien instinctively raised his left leg. The rebounding ball struck his shin, the area where his shin guard sat—deflecting toward the opposite side of the goal!
This time, though De Gea scrambled to his feet attempting a second save, he had no chance.
The ball was moving too fast.
De Gea couldn't reach it.
Julien tapped it into an empty net!
Seven minutes gone!
Liverpool 1-0 at home!
BOOM!
Anfield erupted into absolute pandemonium!
BOOM!
The roar of fifty thousand voices hit like a shockwave, rattling the barriers until the metal sang. The Kop transformed into a agitating sea of red—scarves were whirling toward sky, old-timers were embracing with tears streaming down their wrinkled faces, young lads were hammering their seats until their fists went numb.
One name tore through the Liverpool night hoarsely with raw passion and emotion:
"JULIEN! JULIEN! JULIEN!"
At the eye of this storm stood Julien, arms spread wide in front of the Kop as if to gather every soul in that seething stand into his embrace. Sweat-darkened hair caught the floodlights, his kit was plastered to his body, but nothing could diminish the fire radiating from him.
This was youthful audacity in the flesh.
This was conquest written in the aftermath of demolishing your fiercest rival.
He tilted his head back slightly, eyes closing, letting the tsunami of noise sweep over him. The chant crashed against him like Atlantic waves, that volcanic Anfield heat was surging through his bloodstream.
A smile appeared on his face.
This. This was what he lived for: standing at the center of the football universe, carried in the air by the faith of thousands. Proving himself with goals. The deep satisfaction that came from silencing doubters and igniting believers.
Camera shutters clattered like machine-gun fire, immortalizing the moment.
The wind caught his red shirt, making it swell. The kid's spine was straight, scarves were dancing before him, adoration was pouring down from the stands. Every spotlight tracked him as if Anfield itself had contracted to a single focus point.
This wasn't just a goal celebration.
This was the image scrawled in every football-mad teenager's notebook. The scene they conjured during late-night training sessions when their legs turned to lead: imagining themselves on this exact stage, under these exact lights.
An 18-year-old French captain.
At a North West Derby.
Carving open Manchester United's defense and throwing his arms wide with the kind of fearless swagger that couldn't be trained.
Julien opened his eyes, scanning every corner of the Kop. He raised his arms higher still, answering their devotion.
In this moment, Anfield bowed to its new king.
High in the stands, a white-haired supporter lifted a scarf from the Shankly era with trembling hands, tears were cutting through the wrinkles on his face.
Further along, someone hoisted a banner with Julien's silhouette, arms outstretched and the words: "You are Anfield's future!"
The Liverpool players charged in, caught between disbelief and euphoria.
Sturridge reached him first, practically mauling Julien's hair while roaring in his ear: "You absolute madman! Nutmegged three of them! Did you see Ferdinand's face?! He looked like he'd seen a ghost!"
Gerrard pressed his forehead against Julien's, gripping his shoulders, "I knew it! I knew you'd rip them apart! You magnificent bastard!"
More teammates piled on, voices were overlapping in a chorus of exhilaration,
"That pass was brilliant, but that run was fucking poetry!"
"You made them look like they were dancing the waltz out there!"
"I knew the counter would work, but Christ, you made it look so fucking crazy!"
Ten pairs of hands battered his head, back, and shoulders. In the chaos, Gerrard's voice cut through clearest of all:
"Remember this, kid. Anfield only boils like this for real heroes. And you—you're Liverpool's hero now."
In the Stands
Kenny Dalglish threw his arms to the heavens, his roar was swallowed by the crowd's thunder. Even the silver at his temples trembled with emotion.
He grabbed his friend's arm with blazing eyes: "That's it! That's how you do it! That's how you play a derby!" He was nearly shaking. "This kid—this kid can carry the banner. He's the real thing!"
The old King's face wrinkled with joy, but his gaze never left Julien on the pitch. The floodlights caught Dalglish's expression, and for a moment, it was 1977 again—him in the red shirt, making Anfield erupt just like this.
But the way he looked at Julien now was softer than any trophy lift and hotter than any title celebration.
Like watching new light blaze along Liverpool's bloodline, illuminating Anfield from within.
"Course, I didn't have that kind of footwork at his age," he murmured, half to himself. "Look at that finish. Composed. Deadly. At eighteen, I was still playing defense. The torch is passing, lads."
His hands trembled, not from age, but from sheer excitement.
Across the way, Sir Alex Ferguson stood with arms folded, but his jaw worked furiously on his gum—a expression that showed the turmoil below. When Julien struck, Ferguson's hand had twitched instinctively toward his watch. That old nervous tic.
The cameras caught him forcing a tight smile.
But his eyes never left the French kid standing there with his arms spread wide. Sweat-slicked hair catching the lights. That dangerous, electric swagger. Just like a young Cantona.
Another French genius.
No, he was more fluid than Eric ever was.
Ferguson remembered his own words in a recent interview: "If I were still in charge, I'd have brought Julien to Old Trafford."
He regretted those words now. Even if retired, he should have done more, should have dragged this kid away from Liverpool's clutches before they got their claws in.
A player this good didn't have to be at United. But he damn well shouldn't be wearing red at Anfield.
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