Martin Tyler's voice strained through the broadcast, hoarse from shouting:
"Julien on the left! The boy who terrorizes from the right just switched flanks and butchered United's backline! This is £80 million worth of talent in full flow!
Six goals in three Premier League matches!
His 120th career goal!
And he's not even nineteen!
While other players are still finding their feet in England, he's waltzing through defenses like they're training cones!
And here's what matters most: for the first time since Ferguson's era, Liverpool are dominating a derby at Anfield! Three years of frustration's pouring out of the Kop in one glorious moment!
Remember this, ladies and gentlemen. When Julien stood there with his arms wide, accepting the worship, we didn't just witness a goal. We witnessed the unveiling of a new era. Liverpool's red dynasty is being forged under this French prodigy's boots.
Cantona brought United glory. Now another Frenchman might just drag Liverpool back to the summit of English football."
After the celebrations subsided, Gerrard rallied his troops in the center circle, voice sharp: "Stay focused! This is United, they don't fold!"
Gerrard himself knew it too well: Manchester United had backbone. One goal wasn't enough, not enough under any condition against them.
Whistle.
United came out swinging, pressing high, refusing to surrender.
Minutes later, Van Persie dropped deep near Liverpool's box, Agger glued to his back. They jostled, arms tangling, and as Van Persie tried to turn, his elbow suddenly swung up with a smack—catching Agger flat in the face.
Agger crumpled with hands covering his face and was rolling on the turf.
The Kop exploded. Boos poured down like artillery fire. Even a plastic bottle arced onto the pitch.
What did Referee Marriner do?
Arms out: Play on.
Van Persie even got his shot off. Though, it went wide.
Skrtel charged in first, closing up: "You here to play football or throw punches?!"
Henderson wrapped him up from behind, screaming at Marriner, "How is that not a foul?!"
The replay clearly showed Van Persie's hand striking Agger's face. His cheek was already red and swelling.
Liverpool's physio sprinted onto the field to treat him.
And after a while, Marriner waved them off. Not even a foul was called.
Even United's players looked surprised. Van Persie himself seemed confused by the non-call.
When play resumed, every whistle was met with venomous boos from the Liverpool fans.
The tackles got harder and more physical. United players venturing into Liverpool's attacking third were met with thunderous challenges.
Anfield's volume climbed.
Then Henderson launched himself into a sliding tackle on Ashley Young—took ball, man, and dignity in one sweeping motion. He sprang up, arms raised to the crowd.
ROOOOAAAAAR!
The stadium shook. Red scarves whipped in circles. Fans pounded advertising boards, someone even screamed, "THAT'S HOW WE DO IT!"
Every cell in Julien's body buzzed with adrenaline.
He stood on the right wing, feeling it all—the roar vibrating through his bones, the heat radiating from the stands, grass and sweat thick in his nostrils, his fingertips tingling.
The crowd's passion gripped his heart like a fist and squeezed.
He clenched his hands.
Anfield's atmosphere was intoxicating. It hit like whiskey—hot and potent, making every nerve fire. He watched his teammates battling, watched the Kop swelling like a living organism, and felt an overwhelming urge to attack again. To throw gasoline on this inferno.
That chance came fast.
At 15th Minute, United's midfield coughed up possession. Gerrard intercepted and launched a raking pass over the top. Julien exploded down the right like a hunting cat.
He feinted inside, then as Evra bit, he bursted outside.
The ball nearly ran out for a goal kick, but Julien's toe flicked it perfectly into the box just as he reached the byline. Sturridge arrived right on cue.
SHOT—
De Gea scrambled, throwing his leg out in desperation.
It was Deflected!
"Ahhhhhh!"
The Kop's groan of frustration reverberated.
Liverpool's chances were piling up. Only De Gea's heroics kept it 1-0.
On the sideline, Moyes looked grim despite the save. When your goalkeeper is your best player, your defense is in crisis.
He muttered under his breath: "De Rocca…" Then shook his head.
18th Minute
Henderson won the ball and sent it right to Julien. Instead of driving to the byline, Julien cut inside sharply, drifting into the half-space.
It was his killing zone.
United collapsed inside—Evra, Carrick, even Vidić were stepping up. Julien shaped to shoot, and every United player prepared to block.
Then he spun.
A sudden reverse pirouette, drawing every eye. But at the apex of the spin, his heel flicked back sending a nutmeg pass easing between Vidić's legs.
Sturridge ghosted past Ferdinand.
Through on goal!
No hesitation, he smashed it.
The net rippled.
GOAL—!
Anfield erupted.
Sturridge sprinted toward the corner flag, arms in the air—
And then the whistle shrilled.
Not pointing to the center. The assistant referee's flag was up.
Offside.
Sturridge's face fell. He turned, disbelievingly, toward the linesman.
Julien caught his eye from across the pitch. They shared a helpless shrug.
The scoreboard stayed frozen: 1-0.
Gerrard protested, waving his arms, but the replay was clear: Sturridge had been half a step ahead when Julien released the pass.
Martin Tyler's voice cut through the groans:
"Let's set aside De Gea's miracle save and this fortunate offside call. Look at the pattern forming here: United's defensive structure is being dissected.
Watch how easily Julien receives the ball in the right half-space. Evra is being tortured by pace and movement. United's center-backs look paralyzed against the swap between Julien and Sturridge.
This isn't random. This is a systematic weakness being exploited.
United fans might celebrate escaping, but Moyes should be sweating. His backline is being carved open by the same scalpel, over and over.
When your goalkeeper needs to be world-class just to survive, when your defense relies on offside calls to bail them out, that's not luck. That's a tactical alarm blaring.
Liverpool keep coming. As long as Julien operates freely in that zone, as long as United's midfield offers no protection, the next goal is inevitable.
Luck saves you once, twice, but not for ninety minutes against continuous tactical superiority."
Evra was breathing hard. Defending Julien was exhausting. The pace, the feints, the constant changes of direction, it was torture.
He glanced at his fellow young Frenchman and sighed.
Club rivalries aside, he couldn't go full dark-arts on Julien. If he injured France's golden boy, the backlash would be disastrous. Deschamps might drop him from national team permanently. And French fans would crucify him.
Julien was untouchable; the national team's centerpiece.
So, Evra was stuck: outmatched in skill, unable to use his usual tricks. What was he supposed to do? Just get roasted over and over?
22nd Minute
Coutinho collected the ball on the left. Phil Jones slipped during the challenge, clutching his ankle.
The Brazilian saw no whistle and kept driving forward.
Then Cleverley came flying in from behind with a scissor tackle that took Coutinho's legs out from under him.
WHISTLE.
Coutinho wriggled on the ground, clutching his shin. Anfield's boos turned savage. More bottles flew.
Cleverley immediately jumped up and got in Coutinho's face, screaming: "You see someone down and you keep going?!"
Gerrard shoved him back hard, "What the hell are you doing?!"
Both sides swarmed in. Vidić grabbed Henderson by the shirt. Sturridge and Welbeck went nose-to-nose.
Marriner's whistle shrieked frantically as he waded into the fray.
Coins rained from the Kop. United's away section hurled abuse back.
After consultation, Marriner pulled out a yellow card—for Cleverley.
Liverpool's bench went ballistic. The fourth official had to physically restrain Rodgers.
Meanwhile, United's physio treated Jones for his "injury."
The bitter irony was that Coutinho, the actual victim was the one needing treatment.
The boos were earsplitting.
The Boot Room Pub
Inside the packed pub, there was chaos.
"Fucking United scum!" A young supporter in a Gerrard kit slammed his pint down, beer slopping everywhere. "Cleverley's a dirty bastard! That's intentional!"
When the replay showed the scissor tackle in slow-motion, the place exploded with curses. Someone hurled a bowl of peanuts at the TV.
"Don't break the telly! We need to watch!" another shouted. "Throw it at United's crest instead!"
"That's a RED CARD!" A bald middle-aged man yanked his scarf, his voice was cracking. "Marriner's bought off!"
George stood calmly behind the bar, pouring drinks like nothing was happening.
A young fan yelled over: "George! You're not angry?!"
The old man barely glanced up. "Seen worse, lad. United's always played dirty. But trust me, we never let them get away with it."
Then he paused, thinking of recent results. Liverpool had feared United, sure. But they'd also lost to them, repeatedly.
He turned back to the television.
The chaos had settled.
Liverpool had a free kick, at left side, at an awkward angle.
The camera zoomed in on Julien.
George thought: 'Maybe tonight's different. Maybe it starts here.'
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