The match continued amid a chorus of boos that rolled across Anfield like thunder.
In the away section, Manchester United supporters sat with faces like stone, their displeasure was etched into every scowl and crossed arm. Surrounding them, Liverpool fans gleefully thrust two fingers toward sky in the universal gesture of a 2-0 lead, their grins were wide and merciless.
The United fans erupted in response, thrusting fingers at the Premier League champion badges sewn onto their shirts, then pointing mockingly at the Reds supporters while forming zeroes with their hands giving a brutal reminder: since the Premier League's inception, Liverpool had never lifted the trophy.
The exchange of taunts only poured petrol on an already raging fire. Not that it needed much—this rivalry had burned hot for generations. The metal barriers and rows of high-vis stewards between the two sections weren't just for show. Without them, fists would have flown long before kickoff.
In England, football violence wasn't rare. Sometimes it turned fatal.
Manchester United and Liverpool had never shown each other mercy. When one stumbled, the other gleefully twisted the knife. When one celebrated, the other seethed.
Gerard himself once said: "At Liverpool, they tell you from day one to hate everything about Manchester United. Their players, their manager, their fans, even their mascot. I understand that hatred because on their side, I'm the enemy too."
Gary Neville had been equally blunt: "I despise Liverpool. I hate everything about them. Don't even mention that name to me—it makes my blood boil. Why did we celebrate so wildly at Anfield that time? Because we were strong enough to humiliate them. That's what brought me joy."
But tonight, the tables had turned.
Tonight, it was Liverpool's turn to celebrate.
"JULIEN! JULIEN! JULIEN!"
The Kop thundered with chants for the eighteen-year-old winger. Both goals had come through him. In his young legs, they saw Liverpool rising from the ashes.
33rd Minute
Referee Andre Marriner waved his fourth yellow card of the night, pointing it at Michael Carrick.
Carrick's face flushed red as he waved his arms in protest, adamant he'd done nothing wrong.
On the pitch, Julien calmly adjusted his socks before Steven Gerrard pulled him to his feet. "You alright?"
"I'm fine."
Carrick's studs had caught Julien's calf just as he slithered past him. As Julien rose, applause poured down from the stands. Nearly every dangerous Liverpool attack tonight had originated from his devastating wing play.
This was the luxury of having an elite winger, someone who could dribble, create, and finish.
Eighty million pounds?
Liverpool had struck gold.
As the free kick was taken quickly, manager Brendan Rodgers gestured ardently from the touchline. Gerrard repeated the instructions, his arms were orchestrating the tactical shift. Liverpool's shape compressed, three lines were staying compact and disciplined.
With two goals ahead, there was no need to press high. Besides, with their pace and technical quality up front, Liverpool thrived on space. It was better to invite United forward and exploit the gaps left behind.
Henderson and Lucas intensified their midfield pressing. United's passing grew frantic, and desperate.
36th Minute
Ryan Giggs tried to force his way down the right. Lucas read it perfectly, sliding in with a clean tackle that sent the ball spinning toward Henderson. Instantly, Liverpool transitioned from defense to attack.
Henderson's head snapped up. One glance, then a raking fifty-yard pass toward Julien on the right flank.
Julien cushioned the ball with his chest, flicked it up with a skillful touch, spun away from Patrice Evra's pressing, and left the French left-back grasping at air.
The stadium gasped. That kind of ball control. that effortless technical mastery was something special. Many longtime Liverpool supporters, seasoned by decades of watching football had never seen anyone with Julien's pure touch and close control.
After beating Evra, Julien didn't rush. He scanned the center, spotted Carrick closing in, then executed a perfect elastico—pushing the ball one way with his instep, snapping it back with the outside of his boot leaving Carrick lunging at shadows.
The yellow card made Carrick hesitant, but he still sprinted back in pursuit.
Julien sensed United's defensive line tilting right to cover him. Before they could recover their shape, he whipped a diagonal ball across to the wide-open Coutinho on the left wing.
Martin Tyler's voice crackled through the broadcast: "Brilliant! This is what Julien brings, not just devastating dribbling, but vision! This kid is a natural playmaker!"
On the pitch, Vidić roared at his teammates: "Get back! Get back!"
But defensive transitions always leave gaps, it's the nature of football.
Coutinho spotted United's disorganized backline. He feinted forward, then slipped a through ball into the channel.
Daniel Sturridge timed his run perfectly, staying onside by inches. He reached the ball before Rio Ferdinand, then rotated and unleashing a half-volley that screamed toward goal.
David de Gea launched himself through the air, but halfway through his dive, he pulled his hands back. The ball sailed high over the crossbar.
The Kop erupted in shared groans, then broke into applause for the mesmerizing attack.
Sturridge clutched his head in frustration. His technique had been spot-on, he'd just lacked that final touch of precision.
Some fans couldn't help but think: if that had been Julien in that position, the ball would've found the net. He had a knack for scoring from extreme angles, defying physics with outrageous finishes.
But they only had one Julien. They couldn't clone him to play on the wing and lead the line.
Sturridge gave Coutinho a thumbs-up, then turned to do the same for Julien. Those two passes had carved United's defense wide open, creating a golden opportunity. He'd simply failed to capitalize on them.
The United players looked shaken. Vidić barked at his teammates, blaming them for slow recovery. Evra stood with hands on hips, shaking his head as he watched Julien jog back. Carrick bent over, gasping, his shirt soaked through with sweat.
On the touchline, David Moyes looked like a man watching his house burn down.
He'd managed Everton for eleven years, but the pressure in those two months at Manchester United dwarfed anything he'd experienced. This was life at a giant club—every match was dissected under unforgiving spotlights, every decision was scrutinized by millions.
Tyler's commentary dripped with appreciation:
"What a shame that didn't go in! That sequence was the ultimate showcase of Julien's talent. Pure artistry. Evra completely sold by the feint, Carrick afraid to commit because of the yellow card. And just when everyone expected him to dribble again, he switches play with a pinpoint cross-field pass to find Coutinho unmarked!
That kind of vision makes United's defensive organization look amateur. Even though Sturridge skied it, we've just witnessed tactical brilliance—one individual performance and one world-class pass completely dismantling United's defensive structure. Look at Ferdinand's face, he's still rattled!
That's what elite players do: even without scoring, they haunt you for the entire half."
Time marched on.
39th Minute
United won a free kick in the attacking third. The ball looped into the box. Van Persie rose above Agger, powering a header toward goal, but Simon Mignolet flew across to punch it clear.
Skrtel booted the clearance downfield. The ball dropped near the halfway line.
Julien and Carrick both sprinted toward it with their bodies colliding in a clash of muscle and momentum. Julien's explosive acceleration gave him the crucial half-step. He got there first.
Carrick slid in from behind, studs raking across Julien's ankle.
Marriner's whistle pierced the air: No card.
"RED CARD!" The Kop howled in protest, a tsunami of outrage was resounding.
Rodgers stormed down the touchline, with his arms windmilling furiously. This was a blatant tactical foul, surely it should have been a yellow?
Carrick should be off!
But Marriner stood firm. When Rodgers's language turned heated, the referee marched over and flashed a yellow card at the Liverpool manager.
The boos intensified, crashing over the pitch in relentless waves. Marriner's expression remained resolute, but the sweat on his forehead whether from exertion or nerves told its own story. He swallowed hard as he jogged back into position.
He understood these decisions would spark controversy.
But the FA's instructions had been clear: yellow cards were acceptable; red cards required extreme caution. Don't change the game unless absolutely necessary. In high-stakes matches like this, a sending-off could decide everything.
Julien shook off the knock and got back into position.
37th Minute
Liverpool's tactical trap sprung again. As United poured forward, Gerrard intercepted in his own half and launched another long ball toward Julien.
But United had packed the right side this time.
Julien didn't force it. He controlled possession, waiting for support, shielding the ball from Evra and Carrick's pincer movement. Then, in the split-second both defenders committed, he eased a pass between them.
Gerrard stormed forward, meeting the ball thirty yards out. He struck it pure and clean, it was a thunderbolt destined for the top corner, the kind of shot that makes goalkeepers look helpless.
But De Gea was otherworldly tonight. He flung himself horizontal, fingertips somehow clawing the ball away from goal at full stretch. It was a save that defied belief.
Vidić, not knowing how close it had been, panicked and smashed the rebound out for a corner.
Anfield groaned as one. Gerrard shook his hands in disbelief. The Spanish keeper had robbed them of at least three goals tonight.
Even Julien stood with hands on his head, stunned. 'Was De Gea even human?'
De Gea high-fived his defenders, then turned on them, rage was blazing in his eyes. "Mark your men! How is the top of the box completely open?! Wake up!"
On the touchline, Moyes felt his chest tighten. He'd thought that was in. Three goals down, and the match would've been over. His hand moved instinctively toward his jacket pocket, half-expecting to find emergency medication.
Rodgers had already started celebrating before the save, leaving him frozen mid-gesture, scratching his head in frustration. They were so close!
Corner Kick
The penalty area became a shoving match. Marriner issued warnings to both sides before Gerrard finally delivered the corner.
The ball swung toward the six-yard box. De Gea started to come for it, then abruptly retreated, he trusted his shot-stopping more than his aerial command.
Bodies rose in a forest of legs and elbows. Vidić got his head to it first, but his clearance skewed right, toward the edge of the area.
Julien had been tracking the ball's flight the entire time. As it dropped, he burst toward it, killing the bounce with his thigh.
Evra closed him down immediately, less than two meters separating them.
No hesitation. Julien flicked the ball with the outside of his right boot, using pure speed to blow past Evra on the outside. No skill moves were needed, just raw pace and timing.
Carrick slid over to cover, but Julien poked the ball toward the byline and accelerated. Carrick's pivot was too slow; his standing leg slipped, and he crumpled to the turf.
Julien was already into the box, cutting inside from the right corner.
Vidić rushed to close the shooting angle. Ferdinand marked Sturridge at the back post.
Julien glanced up and that one look was all he needed. His right foot swept across the ball, drilling a low cross along the ground.
The ball shot between Vidić's fixed legs. The Serbian captain's momentum betrayed him; he could only watch helplessly as it rolled past.
Sturridge exploded off Ferdinand's shoulder, arriving at the perfect moment. One touch. Side-footed finish.
This time, De Gea never had a chance. Vidić's body had screened him completely.
The net bulged: 3-0.
Anfield erupted.
Three years.
Three years without beating United. Now, before halftime, they were tearing them apart.
Three goals up! When was the last time that happened?!
The Kop transformed into a roiling sea of red, 50,000 voices were merging into a sonic force that rattled the steel barriers. Fans embraced, spilling beer down the concrete steps in their euphoria.
Martin Tyler's voice soared above the chaos: "Unbelievable! The third goal! Julien's moment of magic!"
He was almost shouting now: "Look at that nutmeg! Vidić's absolutely humiliated! United's defense looks like schoolboys against this eighteen-year-old genius!"
The broadcast cut to scenes of pandemonium with red scarves whirling, flags waving, grown men weeping with joy.
Tyler continued, "This attack was the complete package! The touch, the burst of speed, the composure to pick out Sturridge through four defenders! United's backline had no answers!"
When the stadium announcer declared, "Goal assisted by... JULIEN DE ROCCA!", the volume increased, shaking the foundations.
Improvised chants broke out: "He came from France! He conquered the derby!"
Sturridge didn't care that his goal was overshadowed by Julien's brilliance. He sprinted toward the Kop, screaming along with the supporters, then leaped onto Julien's back, roaring: "3-0! This is Anfield!"
The crowd echoed back: "THIS IS ANFIELD!"
"THIS IS ANFIELD!"
The sound was apocalyptic.
In the away section, United fans sat in shell-shocked silence, faces pale, and dreams shattered.
Martin Tyler delivered his summary: "Manchester United have no answer for Liverpool's right flank. This is capitulation. Forty minutes played, three goals down. This is turning into a massacre."
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