This match was destined to send shockwaves through English football.
During the interval, Liverpool fans having suppressed their joy for too long flooded social media and forums with comments:
"Look at that scoreboard! 3-0! United can crawl back to Manchester!"
"Julien worth eighty million? It's highway robbery in our favor! Evra's being turned inside out like a training cone! Ferguson's face is priceless! I hope they keep showing him; watching him suffer is absolute bliss! With Julien here, he'll never hang another title banner at Anfield again."
"Van Persie's running his mouth all match. What's he done besides shoving people? He looks soft as butter!"
United fans, backed by their club's trophy-filled history, fired back:
"Crying about the referee now? Marriner's in your pocket!"
"One match and you're this cocky? Have you forgotten how we've dominated you for years? Our twenty-one titles, can you even count that high?"
The online warfare escalated rapidly, drawing more supporters into the fray:
"Ferguson's looking for his nurse! United's calling for their mummy!"
"Liverpool dock workers! Never seen a Premier League trophy in your lives!"
"Too much Manchester industrial runoff in your water supply!"
"Liverpool harbor rats! The wind off the Mersey's gone to your heads!"
"Neutral fans here, honest question: Who's softer—Van Persie or an inflatable doll?"
The hostility wasn't restricted to Internet. At Anfield itself, verbal abuse was mixed with beer showers and physical jostling until security intervened.
In United's dressing room, the atmosphere was suffocating.
Once the door closed, Anfield's celebrations became muffled, leaving only the air conditioning's monotonous hum.
Evra hurled his sweat-soaked shirt onto a chair. Ferdinand sat in the corner massaging his knee brace, knuckles white, eyebrow furrowed into deep creases. Van Persie leaned against the wall, staring at stud marks on the floor, fingers unconsciously picking at his wristband's edge. He said nothing.
The only sounds were towels being wrung out and shin guards being removed with sharp clicks, the room felt like an unopened beer, pressure was building with no release.
All three goals involved Julien. The defensive issues were obvious but no one voiced it aloud.
"Why the long faces?" Giggs broke the silence first. He draped a towel around his neck, voice was low but carrying authority.
"De Rocca's good, very good but he's not invincible. Patrice, you got turned because you committed too aggressively. Michael, your cover was a half-step slow, giving him space for that cross. We've got forty-five minutes left. Adjust, and we can contain him. Danny, your runs from the left actually pinned him back, don't retreat into your shell because we're behind."
Welbeck nodded. He'd been caught between two minds all match: wanting to defend, wanting to attack, ultimately achieving neither.
Vidić raised his head, his adam's apple was bobbing with voice hoarse but bold: "Right. Losing three-nil isn't shameful—losing our fight is. Robin, that long-range effort nearly went in. Keep looking for openings."
Van Persie finally lifted his eyes, nodding. "Yeah."
Moyes pushed through the door, gripping his tactics board so tightly the edges had curled. Red and black lines covered the whiteboard in dense patterns.
"Everyone over here!" He slapped the board onto the table, pointing at a red circle on the right flank, his voice was emphatic:
"De Rocca's the priority! Patrice, stop trying to defend him one-on-one. Just cut off his path inside—don't bite on his feints. Michael, your double-team can't break down so easily. Don't go hunting the ball, that's exactly what he wants. We know he's nearly impossible to dispossess cleanly, don't we?
De Rocca loves cutting inside to pass. So, block his passing lanes. If he goes wide, get tight—don't give him space to cross. The key isn't winning the ball; it's preventing him from executing."
Moyes's finger moved to midfield, his eyes swept over Cleverley. "Tom, you can't just shadow Gerrard. When De Rocca drops deep to collect, you need to step. He turns fast so anticipate his body shape, get on his shoulder, disrupt his rhythm. Ryan, tuck inside more to cover. We can't have De Rocca drifting left to combine with Coutinho like their second goal."
He paused, his voice was toughening with resolve: "I know De Rocca's got two goals and an assist. I know our defense has looked ragged. But he has weaknesses: he's covered tremendous ground in that first half, his legs will tire. Plus, he favors the flank. So, we compress the flank, force him central where space is tighter and easier to defend."
"Let's fucking have it!" Vidić slammed the table first, locking eyes with Evra and Carrick. "Patrice, Michael—lock onto De Rocca, don't let him breathe on the ball! Robin, grab us one back and we're right in this!"
Giggs squeezed Carrick's shoulder: "You're on a yellow, don't do anything rash. If we shut down De Rocca, we win half the battle."
Moyes observed his players, nodding subtly. "We've got the second half. Don't give up. Keep attacking."
Meanwhile, in Liverpool's dressing room:
The door hadn't closed properly, allowing Anfield's jubilation to spill through the gap, mixing with the players' laughter in warm noises.
The moment Julien entered, Henderson slapped his back and said. "That back-post run for the second goal, it was absolutely criminal! Evra never saw you coming! I was watching from midfield pissing myself!"
Sturridge crept over, shaking his water bottle, grinning at Julien, "Cheers for that cross, mate. Ball landed right on my bootlaces. Ferdinand didn't have time to blink. Two goals, one assist; you've dismantled United's defense single-handedly!"
Gerrard chuckled which was quite a rare sight. "First time in years playing United's felt this comfortable."
Laughter swelled through the room, especially from the veterans like Gerrard and Lucas.
Yes, this was unprecedented comfort. Because Liverpool now possessed a genuine game-breaker.
This was what a superstar did for a team, even an eighteen-year-old one.
Julien wiped sweat from his forehead, smiling with his teammates.
So, this was the North West derby. Perhaps it wasn't such a big deal after all.
That's why players needed big-match experience, only by living through it did you realize it was just another football match.
Rodgers entered moments later with notepad filled with first-half statistics, pen tucked behind the pages. "Good intensity out there, but two points of emphasis."
He moved to the center, scanning every face. "First, United will absolutely swarm Julien in the second half. Their right-side defense will be massively reinforced. That creates opportunities elsewhere: central or opposite flank."
His eyes found Julien. "Don't force it. Switch with Coutinho, or recycle to Gerrard. Exploit the gaps they create covering you.
Second, Carrick will drop deeper to help. Henderson, stick with him, don't let him spray passes comfortably. When we win it back, hit them on the break—their backline's too slow recovering."
Julien nodded.
Coutinho flashed an "OK" gesture, grinning.
"Also," Rodgers added, "Henderson, that clearance tackle was necessary, but don't be reckless in the second half. United's hunting for cards. We protect this lead, don't give them rhythm."
Henderson scratched his head sheepishly: "Got it, boss. I'll be smarter."
After reinforcing defensive shape, Rodgers kept it brief. He'd seen enough this match to understand Liverpool's blueprint going forward: build everything through Julien, let him tear defenses apart.
Rodgers marveled again; expensive things only had one flaw: their price. However, Julien's eighty-million-euro fee was every single penny justified.
He checked his watch, clapping sharply, "Right, ten minutes. Get your legs moving. Second half, we don't ease off: three-nil isn't the end, it's where we make them surrender!"
He exited the dressing room.
The atmosphere heated up again, but without the earlier chaos. Skrtel stretched in the corner, humming Liverpool's anthem. Flanagan discussed United's wide rotations with Agger. Julien and Sturridge replayed their goals, occasionally laughing.
Soon, the second half came.
As the players went into the tunnel, Julien immediately felt the wind carrying sound waves inside, Anfield's roar hadn't diminished at the break. If anything, it intensified, as if trying to lift the night sky itself.
Liverpool led the march. Julien walked beside Gerrard.
The moment they emerged, the stands detonated: "Julien! Julien! JULIEN!"
The North Stand raised red scarves high, waving them like surging crimson seas.
The Kop went berserk, some held hastily-made signs reading "3-0 ISN'T ENOUGH", others whipped club flags until they cracked like gunshots.
The anthem "You'll Never Walk Alone" swelled across the stadium, more unified than before, soaked in passion and bloodlust, wrapping around every player's ears.
The pitch had been freshly watered, gleaming under the floodlights.
Julien tapped the touchline again before stepping onto the field.
United's players emerged behind them, immediately dampening the atmosphere. Evra tightened his armband, his eyes were locked on Julien's position, saying nothing.
Vidić walked centrally, patting Van Persie's arm, muttering something the cheers mostly drowned out. Giggs stood by the touchline, occasionally glancing at the stands, his eyebrows were permanently wrinkled.
The assistant referee took position with his flag. The referee checked his whistle. He waved both teams into position.
Liverpool's players formed a huddle. Gerrard stood at the center; his voice was steady but carrying to everyone: "No complacency. Own the first minute!"
All hands were stacked together.
A unified shout of "Liverpool!" cut through United's rallying cries.
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