He gestured toward the pitch, signaling United players to fall back. The movement was small and stiff.
The jeers continued, drowning whatever words he might have spoken.
In this moment, Moyes had shed his pre-match confidence, lost Everton's legendary edge. All that remained was the humiliation of a five-goal deficit and enemy's abuse, yet he still refused to bow his head at Anfield.
He was an Everton man, forged in iron. He would never bend at Anfield.
Tweet!
Through Anfield's feverish atmosphere, the match resumed.
The 5-0 scoreboard hung like a millstone around United's necks.
After kickoff, they still fought with everything they had.
But errors crept in everywhere as United's players seemed lost in a fog.
Carrick won possession, attempted a pass to Van Persie—it went astray, rolling to Skrtel instead. Van Persie ran onto Agger's shoulder in the box, arm raised demanding the ball, frustration was filled across his face yet service never came.
Evra bombed down the touchline looking for the overlap, only to realize no one was there to receive. He had to retreat, running patterns in chaos.
The team's cohesion had completely disintegrated.
Cleverley tried helping Carrick in midfield but overran his position, allowing Coutinho to ghost through the gap between them. Vidić shouted at Phil Jones to cover centrally—Jones didn't hear, he was still tracking Enrique on the flank. By the time he reacted, Coutinho had already cut inside.
Everyone was running, everyone lunging for tackles. But their movements carried only panic, and zero coordination. Like soldiers trying to salvage a battle without knowing where to fight.
At 63rd minute, Cleverley drove down the left wing with possession, attempting to exploit space behind Liverpool's defense.
Lucas pursued from a diagonal angle, his eyes were locked on the ball as legs pumped faster. His challenge was mistimed and…. the studs caught Cleverley's ankle instead.
"AHHH!" Cleverley crumpled to the turf.
Marriner didn't hesitate to whistle, then rapidly walked over.
Yellow card was flashed toward Lucas.
It was the eighth booking of the match.
Lucas waved dismissively, he couldn't care less.
United players swarmed the referee. Welbeck thrusted his finger at Lucas's boots, shouting at Marriner: "Studs up! That's a red card!"
Carrick nodded forcefully, his expression showed irritation.
But Marriner merely waved them back, pointing toward the touchline, signaling play to continue.
The remaining minutes fell into choppy, foul-ridden chaos. The rhythm shattered into fragments.
Yet Liverpool fans were having the time of their lives.
The Boot Room pub.
Beneath walls covered in Liverpool legends' posters, George drummed his fingers on the bar, grinning at the television: "Look at United—they can't play football so they're kicking people instead! At least our lads aren't letting them get away with it! Hahaha!"
George hadn't felt this exhilarated in years. He felt decades younger, transported back to Liverpool's golden era of English football dominance.
His words sparked a chorus of agreement.
A young fan wearing Julien's number 10 shirt saw Moyes featured in a close-up and roared: "Moyes! Go back to Goodison! Even Everton's better than this United shambles! Look at that defense, it's tissue paper! Julien ghosts past whenever he wants, Sturridge runs wherever he pleases! Five goals! FIVE!"
He spread his right hand, mimicking Gerrard's on-field gesture, shouting at the pub: "FIVE!"
Everyone joined in, palms slapping tables until "BANG BANG BANG" echoed, beer foam were splashing over rims.
In the corner, several fans chatted with massive grins: "Giggs, remember? King of Old Trafford back in the day. Now, he can't even keep up with the play. United's legend getting absolutely schooled tonight!"
Another fan chimed in: "Not just him! Did you see Welbeck's horror tackle? He nearly launched Lucas into orbit! Marriner was generous not showing red. United's out of ideas trying to foul their way back into the match."
Near the pub entrance, someone had draped Julien's shirt on a hook beside the TV. The hem fluttered in the fan's breeze much like their euphoric moods.
A group of young lads huddled together, improvising new lyrics, singing wildly off-key but magnificently loud:
"United don't panic, five's just the start,
Julien cuts you open, Sturridge tears you apart!
Anfield's burning, Liverpool red,
Game's already over—crawl back home to bed!"
By the final verse, the entire pub clapped along in unison. Even George behind the bar nodded appreciatively, his glass-polishing rhythm was slowing.
The Boot Room had zero tension, only mockery of United and the pleasure of viewing such a match. Beer glasses were clinking, fans' laughter, and improvised songs, all blended into this glorious noise.
For them, this five-goal North West demolition wasn't just victory. It was the sweetest humiliation of their mortal enemy.
Tonight, even Anfield's air tasted of triumph.
75th minute.
Moyes finally cracked. He made his move: three substitutions at once.
On: Nani, Antonio Valencia, Javier "Chicharito" Hernández.
Off: The exhausted Giggs, the ineffective Ashley Young, the clearly rattled Phil Jones.
When play resumed, United had shifted to 4-4-2. Nani on the right wing, Valencia at right-back, Hernández partnering Van Persie up front.
Moyes stared at the pitch intently. He knew three substitutions probably couldn't salvage a five-goal crater.
But at least he had to try. Had to stop his team looking like headless chickens. Had to give United's traveling fans something to cling to even just a shred of fight.
On Liverpool's bench, Rodgers saw the changes and simply shouted toward the pitch: "Keep it tight! Don't give them anything!"
Julien and Coutinho throttled back their aggression, they were no longer charging forward recklessly. They understood to avoid mistakes, and that 5-0 was enough to seal the victory.
United's fresh legs showed some spark. Nani made two driving runs down the right. Valencia snuffed out one of Enrique's overlaps. Hernández got his head to a cross inside the box but directed it wide.
Meanwhile, Liverpool kept creating chances. After two near-misses, Julien suddenly burst into the box with another incisive run. He cut the ball back centrally.
This time, Gerrard didn't waste the opportunity. From outside the area:
BOOM! Thunderous strike!
Finally breaking through De Gea's defenses!
The ball hit the net!
6-0!
Anfield EXPLODED into absolute mayhem.
Front-row Kop supporters collapsed over the railings, their knuckles were white from gripping the barriers hard, as they roared toward the pitch: "GERRARD! YOU ABSOLUTE BEAST! THAT STRIKE JUST BLEW UNITED'S FACE OFF!"
Spit flew with their roars landing on the metal.
Others punched the sky, screaming: "SIX-NIL! SIX-FUCKING-NIL! United can't even keep a clean sheet! FIGHT BACK THEN! DO SOMETHING!"
Some thrust their arms desperately toward the players, trying to reach closer, their voices were shredded: "Julien! Again! Assist hat-trick! You're grinding United into the DIRT tonight!"
Liverpool fans showed United zero mercy. Many turned toward the away section, screaming: "United fans! Look at the scoreboard! Five wasn't enough? NOW IT'S SIX!"
"MOYES! Back to Everton with you! You're not managing United—you're babysitting yellow-card merchants!"
"GARBAGE! GARBAGE! UNITED ARE TRASH!"
"Tonight, Anfield is HELL! We're the devils! United's NIGHTMARE!"
The noise rolled in continuous waves! Chants crashed through every corner without pause, howling wind was carrying them across the turf.
Anfield had become an ocean of roaring celebration and fury! Every shout, every scream was Liverpool's victory symphony!
On the pitch, Gerrard turned toward the stands and raised his right hand spreading five fingers. Then his left hand lifted and one finger was extended.
Six goals.
Six bloody goals!
Had Liverpool ever led United by six in history? Gerrard didn't know and didn't care.
In this moment, he wasn't thinking about records. He was simply celebrating wildly with his teammates.
The squad swarmed him, embracing their captain in ecstatic chaos. Gerrard wrapped Julien in a bear hug, shaking his shoulders violently, "Incredible! Magnificent! BEAUTIFUL!"
Gerrard was so excited that clear words could not be released from his mouth him, only pure exclamations remained.
In the stands, Liverpool legends had nearly fainted from excitement. Especially Dalglish.
People around him had never seen their King laugh so openly, so freely.
Everyone celebrated with abandon, fans, players, staff!
Tonight, Liverpool had drowned in euphoria!
This was their moment. Their night. Their Anfield!
Across England, the nation was paralyzed with shock.
No one could believe this scoreline. Yet it was happening, live, was undeniable.
"My God! 6-0?! This is a North West derby, not Liverpool versus Sunday league! How can United be this abysmal? And De Rocca with a double hat-trick?! He's eighteen! Is he pre-booking the Ballon d'Or?!"
"As a Liverpool fan, I obviously wanted us to win, but I never imagined SIX-NIL!"
"Those passes from De Rocca were world-class. This kid's future is limitless. United's defense doesn't exist when he's on the ball. Moyes must want the earth to swallow him whole!"
"I'm an Arsenal fan, came to watch the derby for entertainment—now I'm speechless! 6-0! Worse than when we lost to City! De Rocca destroyed United's entire flank single-handedly, creating AND scoring.
Premier League teams are gonna have nightmares about him. Wait—this means Liverpool's even stronger, which makes our top-four fight HARDER. Shit, are we gonna miss Champions League next season?!"
"Been watching since '98—never seen a 6-0 North West! I've reversed Julien's outside-foot assist three times and still can't believe someone does that in this fixture! United's players must've been sleepwalking!"
"Who predicted this? Last week everyone said United would win the title. This week they're getting slaughtered 6-0! Julien with a hat-trick AND three assists?! Those numbers would be insane in the Champions League! Anfield's noise tonight probably reached London! United won't recover from this for six months!"
"Liverpool's pressing is terrifying. Every attack feels like it'll produce a goal. Julien's only eighteen but can dribble, can pass, this talent is absurd!"
"Julien's the new Anfield legend, isn't he?"
"This match is surreal. My United-supporting mate has gone completely silent."
Anfield.
For United's players and fans, this was hell incarnate.
In the away section, some emotional United supporters were openly crying. Young children stared with blank confusion at the carnage unfolding.
This scene would scar their football memories forever.
The players themselves were unresponsive, standing motionless, looking utterly lost.
On the substitutes' bench, Giggs sat draped in United's red training jacket. The white towel in his hands had been twisted into a wrinkled ball.
His gaze drifted emptily across the pitch toward Gerrard and Julien surrounded by celebrating teammates, toward the scoreboard's brutal "6-0". He didn't move for long moment.
Cheers crashed over the bench like tidal waves. Anfield's red ocean made his eyes sting.
He remembered his younger self on this pitch, tearing Liverpool apart. But those memories were interrupted by the stadium chanting "JULIEN! JULIEN! JULIEN!"
Giggs's brow furrowed instinctively. 'Now, I can't even relive my memories in peace?'
His eyes found Julien again. Giggs had seen talents before but never one this devastating.
Eighteen years old. A hat-trick of goals AND assists in the North West derby.
Finally, he dropped his gaze to his boots—these studs had carried him through countless matches. The tread had worn smooth, much like United's current state. Their edge ground down bit by bit.
Liverpool's celebration continued. Their fans' songs drifted over. Giggs slowly raised his head, looking back at the pitch.
His Adam's apple bobbed. He wanted to say something. Eventually, he just sighed softly, dropping the crumpled towel onto his lap.
In this moment, the United legend felt only bottomless emptiness and confusion. Watching arch-rivals revel in front of him, watching his team drown in humiliation, unable to do anything about it.
On the touchline, Moyes stood frozen, his eyes were never leaving Julien.
Just watching that eighteen-year-old figure.
Every Julien breakthrough, every pass felt like knives stabbing his heart.
He thought of his eleven years at Everton. Every Liverpool clash. He'd never seen the Reds possess talent like this.
Julien's goal hat-trick, assist hat-trick, in a fixture this monumental and he'd played like it was a training ground exercise.
Moyes's emotions agitated with fury at United's defense, frustration at his tactical failure, and wariness of Julien. 'When's the last time the Premier League produced someone like this?'
Speed to demolish flanks, vision to dissect defenses, composure to finish crucial moments. This generational superstar had landed in Liverpool's hands. their greatest RIVALS.
He glanced at Liverpool's bench. Rodgers was high-fiving his assistant, there was unconcealed satisfaction plastered across his face.
Moyes understood now clearly: Liverpool hadn't just won tonight. They'd won the future. With Julien as their jewel, Liverpool's rise couldn't be stopped.
Wind carried Anfield's euphoria past him. Moyes unconsciously stepped back.
In that instant, he seemed to have lost his vigor.
Meanwhile, United's legendary former manager sat in the stands like a stone statue.
That face usually scorching authority showed no anger. Only unfathomable weight, as if digesting the absurdity of 6-0, mourning how quickly this United had fallen.
He wasn't looking at the pitch. Instead, his eyes fixed on the distant Kop, where red scarves still waved, where songs still echoed.
Liverpool's carnival.
United's disgrace.
This man who'd led United to countless North West victories, created countless miracles now sat powerless at Anfield, witnessing his former team's century-worst defeat. He couldn't even speak words of encouragement.
Tweet!
When the whistle blew to restart play, United fans felt their hearts squeezed tight. They suddenly feared the match continuing.
They wanted it to end. To avoid witnessing the final ten-plus minutes.
Martin Tyler still hadn't recovered from the shock: "...The architect of all this is that eighteen-year-old boy: Julien De Rocca!
"Goal hat-trick! Assist hat-trick!
The first double hat-trick in North West derby history!
From Anfield to Old Trafford, from Best to Giggs, from Dalglish to Owen—nobody's achieved this on this stage!
This isn't talent. This is a monster. Anfield's footballing MONSTER!
6-0! An unprecedented scoreline in this fixture's modern history!
United's worst defeat to Liverpool occurred in 1895—a 7-1 thrashing of Newton Heath. In 1902, businessmen paid £2,500 to save the bankrupt club, renaming it Manchester United.
This is a generational catastrophe!
Back then, United wasn't even called Manchester United!
This scoreline will be carved into North West history, etched into United fans' pain, immortalized in Julien's legend!
We used to say 'derbies create heroes.' Today, Julien's shown us heroes can be eighteen years old. Heroes can dominate with double hat-tricks!
After tonight, nobody asks 'Can Julien adapt to the Premier League?' Only 'Who can stop Julien?'
Nobody will underestimate Liverpool's resurgence. They've got a superstar who can carry them!
Remember today. Remember 6-0. Remember Julien's double hat-trick—this is the Premier League's new dawn, Anfield's new legend!
"Mark my words: in ten years, we'll still discuss this match. We'll talk about that eighteen-year-old who utterly destroyed Manchester United on this night."
80th minute.
During a stoppage, the referee signaled the touchline. The fourth official raised the substitution board. Anfield's cheers paused briefly, number 10 had lit up.
Then the realization hit: Rodgers was withdrawing Julien.
The front rows of the Kop erupted first, oldies were slamming palms against railings.
BANG BANG BANG!
Then younger fans jumped to their feet, chanting "JULIEN! JULIEN! JULIEN!"
The sound rippled like a tsunami from one corner across the entire stadium.
Everyone rose, applauding the French teenager making his North West debut.
Every face showed excitement and anticipation.
They understood:
Liverpool's era had arrived.
Julien the Conqueror's era had begun.
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