Up in the commentary box, Martin Tyler's voice had risen several octaves.
"Incredible! Look at that, the way Julien receives the ball! His sense of rhythm in the center is extraordinary! Gerrard's pass is weighted perfectly, and despite the wet turf, Julien controls it without a stumble and in the most contested zone on the pitch, where Scott Parker and Sidwell were trying to close him down, that shoulder drop completely eliminates both of them at once!
This is a real evolution in Julien's game, Klopp has moved him into the number ten role, and it's a revelation. He's no longer simply a wide player making direct runs. He can pull defenders horizontally, penetrate vertically with the ball at his feet, and just as we've seen: deliver with exceptional vision.
He didn't shoot. He saw Suárez's run and served him with a cross-field pass of perfect weight and angle.
And Suárez!
That finish, the heel flick, against all expectation, Fulham's defense was already broken, and that was the exclamation mark!"
The celebrations at Anfield had barely begun when Liverpool won the ball back again.
Suárez had closed down a Fulham defender on the restart, forcing a mistake under pressure. The clearance rolled straight to Julien.
He took one touch.
Then hit it.
His shot flew toward the top-right corner with such velocity that Stekelenburg didn't move. The ball was in the net before the keeper had processed that the shot had been taken.
2–0. Liverpool.
Two goals in two minutes.
Anfield detonated.
The noise was enormous, instantaneous, tens of thousands were simultaneously on their feet, scarves thrashing in the rain, water spraying from the cloth in arcs as the crowd bounced and crashed into each other.
Strangers held each other around the shoulders, jumping, unable to hear their own voices. A middle-aged man was already crying, knuckling the tears away from his face but unable to wipe away the helpless grin.
"Julien! Julien! JULIEN!"
The name rang around the stadium in a single, synchronized shout, cutting clean through the rain and the wind.
In the small Fulham corner, there was a silence like a door slamming shut.
The Liverpool fans were already calling for more.
"Come on, then—one more!"
"Make it three–nil!"
Arm-waving, pleading, insatiable, in the space of two minutes their team had struck twice, and now the hunger was for a third.
On the Anfield touchline, Klopp threw a punch at the air.
One. Two. Three.
On the third, he threw his head back and roared.
This.
This was the football he had come here to build. The relentless, suffocating press. He wanted every opponent to dread facing them. He wanted mistakes, not those lucky ones, but earned ones, mistakes squeezed out of teams by the pressure they couldn't withstand.
He had known, when he wrote that letter and put his name to those promises about trophies, that the questions would come. He was new to the Premier League. He was unproven at this level. Of course they'd doubt him.
But doubt didn't frighten him.
He would take all the time he needed, and he would let the results speak louder than anything. Every sceptic would become a believer. Every opponent would learn to fear them.
TERRIBLE—the word he'd chosen on his very first day in charge.
That hadn't been bravado.
It had been a statement of intent.
The Boot Room pub.
It was a home game, so the crowd was sparser than usual but still respectable for a wet Saturday afternoon. The air smelled of beer foam and chips, and the televisions on the walls showed the live feed.
When Suárez's goal went in, the pub erupted.
Before the celebration had even finished, Julien's strike hit the top corner.
The place detonated.
"YESSSSS!" A man with a thick beard crashed his pint glass onto the table so hard the foam leapt over the rim. He didn't notice. He had his arms spread wide, face to the ceiling, "That's a proper bloody Liverpool! Two goals in two minutes, Fulham don't know what's hit them!"
The middle-aged man next to him was slapping the table, voice shredded, "I swear I didn't enjoy my wedding night as much as this. Julien, you absolute genius!"
The pub became a sea of red. Strangers bounced into each other with their arms around each other's shoulders, soaked in spilled beer, not caring the slightest bit.
"Who was it before the match saying Klopp couldn't hack it? Who was calling Julien a one-off, a lucky chance?" A man raised his glass and pointed at no one in particular. "Look at that high press! Look at the efficiency! Klopp's been building something special, and Julien is the trump card in his hand!"
The man beside him nodded vigorously.
"This football, even if we somehow ended up losing from here—is already more enjoyable than anything Rodgers ever gave us."
"Another goal! Let's break Fulham completely!"
The room answered as one.
George sat at his usual spot, as steady and still as he always was, the same composure he maintained when Liverpool were losing as when they were winning.
He had watched this club through everything.
He had been there in 1977 for the first European Cup. He had been there for Istanbul in 2005. Every pennant on his wall had a story behind it; of a peak he'd witnessed, of a low he'd endured. The high points had taught him restraint; the valleys had taught him to hold onto hope without letting go of realism.
Decades of it had made stillness second nature.
But even he was murmuring quietly to himself.
"Is this really it? Is this actually the beginning of a new era?"
He wanted to believe the good run would hold, that Klopp could truly lead them out of the wilderness. But all those years of rise and fall had made unconditional faith a thing he no longer found easy to give.
The pub roared around him.
Across Liverpool, across every pub and sitting room and street corner where fans were watching, the same ecstasy was playing out. Two goals in two minutes had sent the entire city into a frenzy, and that joy was still building, still spreading, still ringing off the walls of Anfield and down through every red street in the city.
Back on the pitch, Liverpool's dominance remained overall.
Fulham had the look of a team that had given up trying to solve the puzzle.
Even when they managed to win the ball back, it lasted seconds before Liverpool retrieved it on the spot. Red shirts swarmed at every press, every second ball, Stekelenburg barked at his defenders until his voice was raw, but the tide was entirely against them.
Meanwhile, on the Fulham bench, Martin Jol had finally cracked.
He tore off his rain hood, exposing his soaked hair to the downpour, and moved on the pitch with his arm outstretched, pointing directly at Senderos:
"WHERE IS YOUR DEFENDING?!"
His voice was hoarse and furious, barely clear over the noise of the crowd. He pumped his arms furiously as he shouted, as if he could physically force the message into them.
The Swiss defender stood with both hands clasped behind his head, motionless in the rain. He was a man who had played for Bayern Munich in his career. He had believed, genuinely believed that no one at this level played passes like that. Not under pressure. Not from that position.
He murmured the same words over and over.
"Shouldn't have. Shouldn't have."
Martin Jol couldn't help but wonder: were these men trying to get him sacked? Or were they just genuinely that bad?
In front of him, Berbatov stood up field, hair plastered flat against his face by the rain. He wasn't looking at his teammates. He was looking up into the grey sky above Anfield, his expression was hollowed out.
All game, he had been given nothing to work with. He had wanted to make something happen. He'd had no means to do it.
After the restart, Liverpool's intensity did not drop by a single degree.
In the twenty-fifth minute, Julien drove forward through midfield again. Kasami who had no chance of winning the ball fairly reached out from behind and dragged him down.
The referee had no hesitation. Yellow card, and a free kick awarded just outside the Fulham penalty area.
The angle and distance weren't ideal for a direct shot.
Julien consulted briefly with Gerrard, then stepped back. Gerrard would take it.
The captain walked to the ball, crouched to smooth a patch of rain-soaked turf, the armband was standing out against the grey of the afternoon. Around him, players filed into their positions. The stadium fell quiet in that loaded; held-breath silence particular to set-pieces in big moments.
The referee's whistle.
Gerrard ran up and swept the ball with the inside of his left boot. It bent in a clean, curving arc that cleared the jumping wall and dropped toward the back post.
A cluster of bodies rose together and above them all, one red figure climbed higher than the rest.
It was Sturridge, who had timed his run perfectly, arriving into the box with momentum that gave him a full extra inch of height over those jumping from standing. He met the ball with his forehead and drove it downward with force.
Stekelenburg, already diving, got a hand to it barely and felt it brush his fingers as it crossed the line.
3–0.
The ground shook.
Commentator Martin Tyler abandoned any pretense of restraint:
"GOOOAL! Unbelievable! Three–nil! And we're only twenty-six minutes in!
Liverpool are running riot!
This doesn't look like a Premier League match, this looks like an exhibition!
Look at this team, they've found themselves again!
That relentless pressing, that fluid attacking movement, this is the Liverpool we knew was in there!
Two matches in and Klopp has proved every point he needed to prove. He hasn't just brought a new system; he's reignited something vital in this club's identity.
Who's doubting him now?
Who thinks he doesn't belong in the Premier League?
Watch De Rocca, Gerrard, Suárez, Sturridge, this combination is devastating!
This club is going somewhere!"
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