Even Julien laughed at this, unable to maintain composure.
Because it was partly true. After the heavy defeat to Liverpool, Spurs had officially announced Boas's dismissal. And it hadn't turned their fortunes around: just days later, in the League Cup quarter-final, Spurs had been eliminated at home by West Ham, conceding two goals in the final minutes to lose a game they had been controlling.
Whatever manager inherited the Spurs job now faced a squad in need of serious reconstruction. Reports had emerged that several players in the current group had never been wanted by Boas at all—they'd been pushed through by technical director Baldini against the manager's explicit wishes.
Spurs had spent £110 million that summer bringing in Paulinho, Chadli, Soldado, Capoue, Chiriches, Lamela, and Eriksen. But Lamela, Chadli, Chiriches, and Eriksen had all arrived over Boas's objections. His targets had been Hulk, Moutinho, Villa, and Willian.
Now Boas was gone, and an uncertain future hung over many of those new arrivals—particularly the ones he never wanted.
According to the latest reports, the appointment was now confirmed: Tim Sherwood had beaten out Netherlands national team manager Van Gaal for the Spurs job. An eighteen-month contract—a season and a half to prove himself.
Sherwood had spent four years at Spurs as a player, then another five on the coaching staff as assistant manager. He'd taken caretaker charge for the League Cup tie against West Ham the previous midweek—the night they went out.
Julien said nothing more. He had no intention of discussing Messi's future with his teammates. He already knew perfectly well how that story ended—Messi would sign a monumental new contract with Barcelona.
But Julien stayed quiet, just smiling, letting teammates enjoy their banter. He certainly wouldn't discuss Messi's future. Because he knew Messi's future—.
Messi would renew with Barcelona. Eventually. After months of negotiation and public theater, he'd sign a massive contract. He couldn't remember the exact figures. He only knew that after re-signing in 2016, Messi's weekly wage from 2017 onward was somewhere in the region of a million euros. Plus, image rights, bonuses, endorsements—total compensation in the tens of millions annually.
Could Liverpool afford that? Technically yes. The club had money, had ambitious owners.
But would Liverpool pay it?
That, Julien thought, was a question of who the board would choose between him and Messi.
Time accelerated through final preparations and suddenly it was matchday.
December 21st.
Afternoon kickoff.
By 2 PM, Anfield Stadium sat shrouded in typical Liverpool drizzle.
But rain meant nothing to the fans.
Red tides surged toward the stadium from every corner of the city—Anfield Road, Walton Breck Road, side streets were packed with fans in red shirts and scarves, singing, chanting, building atmosphere hours before kickoff.
Three hours early, fans had already flocked outside the Kop—that famous stand, that spiritual home of Liverpool support.
"You'll Never Walk Alone" rang out spontaneously, multiple groups singing at different tempos, creating this beautiful chaotic harmony.
When gates opened for warm-ups, when players emerged for their preparation routines, the atmosphere achieved a particular intensity.
Every time Julien touched the ball during warm-ups—even simple passing drills with nothing spectacular, the stands erupted with deafening approval.
Fans held homemade posters with his face, his name, his number. Some displayed statistics: "29 GOALS IN 16 MATCHES - LEGEND IN THE MAKING."
They were hoping, expecting—he'd add to that tally tonight, would narrow the gap to Shearer's single-season record with every match now.
No one doubted whether he'd break the record. The question was: how far beyond 34 could he push it? 40? 45?
Even Alan Shearer himself—joint record holder, Newcastle legend, BBC pundit had commented earlier that day when asked about Julien's pursuit:
"What he's doing is simply miraculous. I'm not being modest—it genuinely is. The consistency, the variety of goals, the assists alongside the scoring? I've never seen anything like it in English football. If he breaks my record, I'll be the first to congratulate him. He'll have earned it completely."
As for the match result itself?
Absolute confidence radiated from the Kop.
Liverpool, flying high with momentum and quality, against Cardiff City clinging to survival three points above the relegation zone?
Outcome felt inevitable. The only questions: by how many? Who scores? How spectacular?
When both teams finally emerged from the tunnel—Liverpool in home red, Cardiff in their controversial new red (which still looked wrong to anyone who remembered their traditional blue)—Anfield reached its crescendo.
45,000 voices merged into one enormous roar.
PHEEEEEP!
The referee's whistle sounded.
The match began.
Cardiff kicked off, knocked it back, and Liverpool immediately pressed aggressively.
From the opening seconds, the pattern established itself with brutal clarity.
Liverpool controlled everything. Tempo. Territory. Possession. Attacking intent.
Their passing was fluid—quick combinations through midfield, switches of play stretching Cardiff's defensive block, patient buildup filled by sudden accelerations.
Cardiff sat deep, numbers behind the ball, desperately trying to maintain shape, hoping to survive long enough to perhaps catch Liverpool on a rare counter.
But they looked overmatched. Outclassed. Already resigned to damage limitation rather than competing.
Anfield's noise barely paused. Every Liverpool pass drew approval. Every Cardiff clearance was met with renewed pressure.
The breakthrough arrived early, inevitable as sunrise.
Gerrard received possession in central midfield with space ahead of him, Cardiff was sitting too deep.
He looked up once, processed options, then struck a magnificent long diagonal pass—50 yards through the air, dropping perfectly into the channel behind Cardiff's high defensive line.
Julien had timed his run to perfection, beating the offside trap by half a step, arriving just as the ball did.
The Cardiff defense appealed desperately for offside—arms raised, shouting at the linesman but the flag stayed down.
Julien collected the ball 25 yards from goal, one touch to control, took two strides toward the penalty area.
Cardiff's goalkeeper rushed out to narrow the angle, making himself big.
But Julien had already decided. While still moving at pace, he struck cleanly across the ball—low, hard push toward the far post with his right foot.
The ball arrowed past the diving keeper, grazed the inside of the post, and nestled in the side netting.
1-0!
Anfield detonated.
Julien ran away toward the corner flag, arms spread wide, face split by joy, and was immediately mobbed by teammates.
Gerrard arrived first, embracing him, shouting something lost in the noise.
Then Suárez, then Kante, then the others piling on until it was a knot of red shirts and pure euphoria.
In the stands, fans jumped, embraced each other, spilled beer, screamed themselves hoarse.
Some held up scarves with both hands. Others bounced in unison, creating waves of motion through the Kop.
The noise was physical—a wall of sound that pressed against your chest.
Liverpool didn't ease off. If anything, the goal intensified their hunger.
Seven minutes later, they struck again.
Julien received the ball on the penalty area's left side, back partially to goal, two Cardiff defenders closing aggressively.
He controlled with his first touch, shifted his body weight to suggest going left, then suddenly cut the ball right with the outside of his boot—a sharp, unexpected direction change that created half a yard of space.
Before the defenders could recover, he struck a perfectly weighted diagonal pass across the six-yard box.
Suárez arrived right on cue, timing his run to stay onside by inches, meeting the ball with a simple side-foot push into the unguarded net.
2-0!
Suárez's celebration was pure emotion—sprinting toward the Kop with both arms outstretched, face contorted with joy and relief and satisfaction.
Julien caught up with him, jumping on his back with both of them laughing.
Anfield was in full carnival mode now. The result was already feeling secure.
The third goal was pure quality.
Coutinho cut inside from the left flank, drawing multiple defenders toward him, then played a square ball across the edge of the penalty area.
Julien met it in stride, no need to break momentum, and without any backlift or revealing preparation, struck the ball with his right foot.
The technique was perfect—striking through the ball's equator to generate dip and power simultaneously.
The shot flew like a missile, rising slightly then dropping viciously, arrowing into the top left corner with such pace the goalkeeper barely moved.
Just stood there, watching it fly past into the goal.
3-0!
Madness.
Anfield fell into genuine madness.
Fans were removing shirts despite the December cold, waving them over their heads.
Others stood on seats, bouncing and singing.
Julien ran straight to the corner flag, slid on his knees across the wet grass, arms wide, face toward the heavens.
Three minutes before halftime, Liverpool twisted the knife once more.
Sterling received wide right, isolated against Cardiff's left-back who was already exhausted from chasing shadows.
His pace was frightening—he dropped his shoulder, accelerated past the defender like he wasn't there, and drove to the byline.
The cross came low and hard across the six-yard box.
Suárez arrived unmarked—Cardiff's defensive organization having completely collapsed—and slid the ball home from five yards.
4-0!
The stands were beyond control, supporters high-fiving and embracing each other. You'll Never Walk Alone rang out again.
When the half-time whistle blew, the whole of Anfield rose to its feet to applaud the perfect first-half performance. Cardiff City's supporters sat in silence, shaking their heads helplessly.
This match had long since stopped being a contest.
During the interval, the noise inside Anfield barely dropped. Supporters replayed the highlights of the half—especially Julien's two goals and one assist. In the press box, journalists hammered at their keyboards, filing the news: Julien De Rocca now just three goals from the all-time Premier League single-season scoring record.
The second half saw Liverpool maintain possession and control, but with slightly less intensity in attack. Clearly Klopp was conserving energy ahead of the brutal Christmas fixture run.
In the 55th minute, the substitution board appeared on the touchline: number 10, De Rocca, was coming off.
As Julien walked toward the sideline, Anfield erupted in thunderous applause and cheering.
Julien slowed his walk toward the touchline, waving to all four stands in acknowledgment.
Every section roared back approval.
When he reached Klopp on the touchline, the German manager pulled him into a big embrace and thumped him on the back.
"Perfect, Julien. Perfect performance. Now get some rest," Klopp said, "Christmas is coming—and then we come back and do exactly this all over again!"
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