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Marriner's whistle launched the second half.
The stadium's volume peaked instantly. Scarves whipped faster. Chants of "THIS IS ANFIELD!" crashed against the players like tsunami waves.
Second half kicked off.
United's players surged forward almost in unison. Their intent was clear: we need a goal.
As United pushed into the attacking third, Phil Jones charged forward from right-back, sprinting along the touchline toward Liverpool's box. His right hand pointed toward the center, signaling Giggs for the pass.
Giggs, receiving Carrick's recycled ball, touched it forward half a meter with his left foot.
His eyes swept the front line rapidly. Van Persie held up play against Agger inside the box, shoulder pressing the defender backward. Cleverley tracked Coutinho on the left to prevent counterattacks. Meanwhile, Jones had blown past the halfway line, only ten meters from Liverpool's touchline with just José Enrique ahead of him.
Giggs didn't hesitate. Right foot, inside, attempting to slip the ball horizontally to the overlapping Jones.
But age had stolen crucial milliseconds from his scan. Henderson arrived from behind, the body contact was minimal but enough to throw off the pass angle.
The ball didn't roll where intended: it popped up half a meter, glancing off Jones's outstretched boot, trickling toward the touchline.
Jones tried to brake but his studs slipped. He stumbled half a step. By the time he regained balance, the ball was beyond his control zone.
Enrique had tracked Jones's run from the start. Seeing the loose ball, he pounced instantly, and won possession cleanly.
Cleverley closed down immediately. Enrique stayed composed, playing a simple pass to Gerrard, who had dropped into midfield.
Gerrard stood just right of the center circle. The ball arrived, he took zero touches, launching a raking diagonal.
The pass left his boot just as Welbeck's desperate lunge missed by inches.
For all Welbeck's energy, no amount of pressing could catch a ball which was already flying. He could only watch it soar toward the right wing.
Julien had anticipated Gerrard's intentions before the pass even came. He'd been positioned near the halfway line on the right touchline. The moment the ball traveled to Gerrard; Julien exploded forward.
The ball dropped two meters ahead. His left foot, inside cushion, killed it dead.
Carrick had pursued from behind, reaching out to grab Julien's arm. Julien felt the contact, leaning his left shoulder backward, driving into Carrick's chest. The impact staggered Carrick, buying precious half-seconds.
Exploiting that gap, Julien knocked the ball forward with his right foot, shifting gears instantly, accelerating down the right flank.
Ashley Young sprinted back desperately. He caught Julien, and his left hand went seizing the bottom of the red shirt stretching the fabric. Julien felt the jersey pulling against his back.
He didn't slow down. Instead, he drove harder forward.
Inside the box, Vidić instantly abandoned his central position, shifting right. His arms were spread wide, as he took long strides, trying to push Julien toward the touchline. Evra converged from left-back.
Two defenders were forming a pincer, compressing Julien's path into a narrow corridor.
This was Moyes doctrine: swarm coverage.
But Julien's left foot, outside of the boot, suddenly brushed the right side of the ball. It lifted into the air arcing elegantly!
Over Evra's stretched head. Around Vidić's lunging leg.
Dropping into central space.
Sturridge had been making his run!
He'd been level with Ferdinand. Seeing the ball's trajectory, his left foot kicked backward, body was launching forward like an arrow released.
Ferdinand reacted late, too late, reaching for Sturridge's shirt but only caught the edge.
Sturridge kept accelerating, rapidly closing on the dropping ball.
One-on-one!
"WHOOOAAA!"
The stadium gasped as Julien's outrageous outside-foot pass dissected United's defense. Everyone rose to their feet, hands were raised instinctively, all eyes now tracking Sturridge.
De Gea had no choice but to rush off his line, his knees were bent low, arms were spread to maximum width, eyes glued to Sturridge's feet trying to read the shot direction.
Sturridge gave De Gea no time. Left foot pushed the ball right, drawing the goalkeeper's dive left, then his right foot inside swept through the ball.
It skimmed the grass toward the bottom right corner. De Gea flew, his left fingertips grazed the ball's edge but couldn't divert its path.
The ball rolled into the net!
4-0!
Four minutes into the second half, Liverpool struck again!
BOOOOOM!
Anfield detonated like ignited explosives. There was no gradual build—the front rows erupted first, then the back, then the entire stadium! The red human tide exploded, the pitch was seeming to tremble beneath their feet!
The Kop went apocalyptic. The front-row veterans clutched their faded scarves, whipping them overhead and roared: "Sturridge! Brilliant run! Perfect finish!"
Beside them, younger fans wrapped arms around each other's necks, jumping wildly, pointing at the pitch while shouting a different name: "Julien! JULIEN! That pass was UNREAL! That's the assist of the season!"
Soon both names merged into one thunderous chant echoing from the Kop across the stadium:
"STURRIDGE!"
"JULIEN!"
Calls and responses like drumbeats were hammering eardrums. Someone thrashed a flag so hard its edge swept across the neighbors shoulders but nobody cared. A fan in a retro Liverpool kit hoisted his beer with foam spraying the person in front, both laughed. Nobody complained.
Pure joy overrode everything.
Touchline ball boys jumped and clapped. Liverpool staff crowded the technical area, some applauded frantically, others embraced, even the usually stern fitness coach grinned while punching a colleague's shoulder, shouting: "These two lads are absolutely ruthless!"
Rodgers pumped his fist wildly towards the sky.
Four-nil! In the North West derby!
It felt fucking brilliant!
Rodgers, a Scotsman raised on stories of this rivalry's magnificence, understood its significance across Britain. This was the match everyone watched.
And right now, his Liverpool were slaughtering Manchester United.
In the directors' box, Dalglish shot to his feet his one hand was gripping the railing, the other punching the air repeatedly, staring at Julien and Sturridge's position, his voice had turned hoarse from shouting: "Perfect pass! Perfect finish! Magnificent, both of you!"
His voice merged with the crowd becoming barely distinguishable but was dripping with emotion.
The stands erupted in song, not the anthem, but improvised lyrics:
"Julien splits the red wall wide,
Sturridge finishes—ice in his stride,
Anfield erupts, the night runs red,
United shaken, dreams left dead!"
The melody was rough but unified circulating from the East Stand to the West, looping back across the center of the pitch, riding the wind over the turf.
On the pitch, the moment the ball hit the net, Sturridge spun and charged toward Julien with arms spreading wide, launching himself into an embrace.
He pounded Julien's back, his voice was booming. "That outside-foot pass! I didn't even think you'd attempt it, that landed right on my run! Ferdinand had no chance!"
Julien staggered from the collision, laughing, patting Sturridge's waist, "Your run was perfect. Half a second slower and you're offside."
"Bollocks!" Sturridge released him, gripping his arm and dragging him toward the stands. "That ball was genius!"
Reaching the advertising boards, Sturridge suddenly stopped, mimicking Julien's signature celebration of arms thrown wide to both sides, identical to Julien's iconic pose.
The stadium's roar spiked even higher. Fans slammed railings, chanting Sturridge's name. He held the pose, grinning broadly at the crowd, then jutted his chin toward Julien as if saying, "How'd I do?"
Julien couldn't help but laugh.
Then Gerrard and the rest swarmed them, a mass of bodies were piling on, slapping shoulders and roaring celebrations.
This was Liverpool's moment!
Meanwhile, United had completely frozen.
Carrick stood rooted with hands on hips, head bowed. Welbeck's earlier fire had vanished, he stared at the ball nestled in the net with blank eyes. Worse, Marriner had shown him a yellow card for his earlier tackle, darkening his mood further.
Evra tugged at his shirt, yanking it tight, yet lacked the energy to shout.
On the touchline, Moyes simply stared at the pitch. His lips moved mutely.
Three minutes, two goals conceded. The defense looked tissue-paper thin.
Giggs's earlier rallying cry of "grab one back, find our rhythm" had turned to ash.
In the stands, Ferguson's expression had completely hardened. When the camera found him, he couldn't even fake a polite smile. The match had infuriated him beyond measure.
This was his Manchester United. This had never happened before.
And it occurred just three league matches after his departure.
Nearby, Dalglish noticed Ferguson's reaction. His lips curled slightly, not one of smug triumph, but the satisfaction of watching his club win a derby, of witnessing a new star's emergence.
He murmured to someone beside him: "Anfield has a new hero."
His gaze returned to the pitch. Julien had just turned, waving toward this section of the stands.
Dalglish raised his hand, waving back slowly, purposely. He didn't know if Julien could see him.
But this was the old Red soul saluting the new legend. This was Anfield's most precious inheritance.
Wind carried the stands' singing past him. He hummed along to "You'll Never Walk Alone."
In that moment, the old king's eyes shone brighter than the stadium lights.
Martin Tyler's voice boomed across every television in England: "Are we dreaming? Three minutes! Just three minutes! United concede twice! From four-nil to FIVE-NIL! Anfield isn't a football stadium—it's Manchester United's chamber of horrors!
Liverpool lead five-nil! When was the last time United trailed by five in this fixture? Ten years ago? Twenty? I've checked the records—the last time United were five goals down in a North West derby was over thirty years ago!
And look at this goal! Julien's third! Hat-trick! An eighteen-year-old in the North West derby, scoring three and assisting twice! Today, Julien is Anfield's KING!
"From left to right, finishing and creating, Julien's played the game exactly as he pleased! From interception to goal, Liverpool needed barely sixty seconds to shred United's defense!
Is this even the same United we know? Anfield's noise could lift the roof! 'Julien! Julien! JULIEN!' drowns out everything! Meanwhile, United's players look drained of all life!
This match will haunt United fans forever. It'll be written as the most catastrophic chapter in North West history! Three minutes, two goals—today, Anfield has lost its mind!
I guarantee you: no United supporter predicted this scoreline before kickoff."
Countless United fans watching had completely lost their composure.
In Anfield's away section, a few hundred United supporters who'd made the trip from Manchester had been shouting themselves to hoarse and raw minutes earlier. Now they looked like someone had drained their souls.
A middle-aged man in an old early 90s era shirt had his arm still half-raised. His scarf lay on the ground, stained with mud, he didn't bend to retrieve it.
In a South London pub, the wall-mounted TV displayed "5-0". Fans who'd been thumping tables minutes earlier, insisting "United can come back", sat mute.
At the bar, a young man's beer glass had tilted, its liquid was streaming across the table unnoticed. He stared at the screen showing United players standing defeated, his eyebrows were furrowed into knots, yet looked too exhausted for anger.
In the corner, an old fan wearing a United scarf sat with his pipe extinguished. He hadn't relit it. His mouth corners drooped. He said nothing for a long while.
In a suburban Manchester home, a ten-year-old boy sat cross-legged on the carpet, clutching a signed Rooney shirt. Minutes earlier he'd been chanting "Come on!" with the TV commentary. Now his face was buried in the cloth.
His mother approached with tissues, but saw he was simply staring at the scoreboard, asking softly, "Dad, how can United lose this badly?"
His father sat slumped on the sofa, none of his usual match-watching energy was left. He sighed softly, unsure how to explain to his son that a single player had demolished United.
In a Leeds apartment, four United fans packed the sofa. They'd been debating substitutions minutes ago. Now, there was only silence.
The lad in a Ferdinand shirt had dropped crisps everywhere, ignored then and began refreshing his phone's live score repeatedly, as if trying to confirm "5-0" was fake.
By the window, a girl stared at United's shellshocked players on screen with blank eyes, not even reaching for the Coke her friend offered. She used to jump when United won. Now even blinking felt tortured. She whispered, "How is this happening?"
Countless such moments unfolded across England and beyond. The 5-0 scoreline pressed like a stone on every heart. In those blank stares lived disbelief, frustration, anguish.
Most of all was one question: Is this still the Red Devils who dominated the Premier League?
In this moment, facing Liverpool fans' tsunamis of cheers and mockery, United supporters had lost the will to fight back.
The scoreline was a massive boomerang, smashing everyone who'd talked trash before kickoff.
Some wanted the match to end immediately, freeze this nightmare here.
Others begged for at least a goal to reclaim tonight's lost dignity!
But regardless, barely fifty minutes had passed.
Martin Tyler simply commented in such silences: "Time enough for United to score... but perhaps more worryingly for Moyes, also enough time for Liverpool to add more."
On the touchline, United's bench.
Behind them, Liverpool's section erupted in jeers, not scattered jeering but coordinated, vicious mockery:
"Everton reject!"
"Crawl back to Goodison Park!"
These taunts were surgical strikes. Moyes had spent eleven years at Everton, most of his managerial career was locked in combat with Liverpool. Now, as United's manager, he watched his team get gutted at Anfield five-nil while enemy fans weaponized his old club against him.
Moyes's back stiffened. His shoulders tensed but he didn't turn around.
He just stared at United's defeated players, his lips were compressed into a thin line, Adam's apple was bobbing making no sound.
The assistant coach whispered beside him, "Do we adjust the lineup?"
Moyes turned his head, eyes empty of their usual sharpness, replaced by deep gloom. He nodded but didn't specify whom to substitute, just raised his hand to massage his temples.
Behind him, the abuse continued: "Moyes out!" "You're worse than Everton!"
He acted deaf. His mind drifted to Goodison Park, the scene of leading Everton to draw with Liverpool, being hailed a hero by Toffees fans.
Now, at Anfield, he'd become Liverpool supporters' punchline, his United team was becoming such a disgrace.
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