For fans familiar with Japanese football, the name Ryo Miyaichi carries many regrets and what-might-have-been, he was a generational talent destroyed by injuries before he could truly grow.
When Julien transmigrated, Miyaichi hadn't retired yet.
Born in 1992, he was now only twenty years old but had already broken into Arsenal's first team as an occasional starter. His talent was undeniable and showed a glimpse of excellence that injuries would cruelly extinguish.
The other young player making news was Serge Gnabry, whose recent performances had been equally impressive.
The match began at a slow pace. Both sides spent the opening ten minutes feeling each other out, neither creating any genuine threat. Despite fielding mostly youngsters away at the Hawthorns, Arsenal showed no signs of being rattled by inexperience or the hostile atmosphere.
After the initial cautious period, the tempo gradually picked up.
In the sixty-first minute, Nicklas Bendtner received the ball outside the box and sent a perfectly weighted pass into the channel. Eisfeld used his pace to shake off his marker and slotted home calmly.
One-nil to Arsenal.
The lead lasted barely ten minutes.
In the seventy-first minute, West Brom equalized from a set piece. The left-wing free kick was delivered to the near post where Lugano flicked it on to the far side. Long collected and chipped the ball back across goal, where Berahino headed home from close range.
One-one.
The match dragged into extra time, both sides were searching desperately for a winner.
Then disaster struck for Arsenal again.
Mikel Arteta pulled up clutching his leg, looking clearly in discomfort.
Wenger's face on the touchline turned black. He'd already rotated so many players to manage the load, and now Arteta was injured too.
Without hesitation, Wenger signaled for a substitution. Even if it meant losing this match, he couldn't risk Arteta's fitness any further. He was too crucial to Arsenal's plans.
Watching Wenger's expression, Julien felt a pang of sympathy for the professor.
The summer transfer window had brought none of Wenger's targets to the Emirates. And just before this League Cup tie, Arsenal's majority owner Stan Kroenke had delivered one of his typical proclamations.
He declared confidently that he believed Arsenal could reclaim past glories under Wenger's leadership, and to help the professor achieve this goal, the club would spend big money to bring in well-known stars who could make an immediate impact.
Arsenal's recently published financial report for the previous season revealed cash reserves of one hundred and twenty million pounds.
Kroenke had said, "I've already invested substantial funds into Arsenal. We now finally have the strength to challenge for the Premier League title. The only mistake I made was not joining forces with Arsenal earlier to reach our current level."
Regarding Wenger's contract extension, Kroenke gave a positive answer.
"Of course, there's no doubt about it. He knows what we're thinking, what we want to win. I believe Wenger and Arsenal have become one. He understands my vision, I appreciate his methods, and we align on many things. As for those who wanted to buy Arsenal this summer, I didn't agree because I believe under our leadership, Arsenal can achieve even greater honors.
I can say without hesitation that those who wanted to purchase Arsenal took away some of our former heroes, and they wanted to take Wenger too. That's something I absolutely won't allow. So, Wenger's renewal won't be an issue. The club has sufficient funds for his transfers. Going forward, Wenger can identify any superstar he wants to sign, and I won't interfere."
It all sounded incredibly supportive, didn't it? The owner delegating authority, promising unlimited funds?
But what was the reality?
The reality was that every penny of that money had been earned by Arsenal themselves. The Kroenke family had invested almost nothing into the club. Arsenal even had to service the stadium debt from their own revenues.
Of that supposed one hundred and twenty million pounds, how much could actually be spent? Did Wenger dare use it freely? Of course not. He had to keep developing young prospects, then sell them for profit when they matured.
The referee's whistle pierced through Julien's thoughts, snapping him back to the present.
Penalty shootout.
That Arsenal had even reached this point proved Wenger's tactical setup had worked, considering he'd rotated nine players and fielded basically a youth team against a full-strength Premier League side in West Brom.
Both teams converted their first-round penalties, but Gnabry's effort in the second round was read correctly by Daniels and saved. Then Dawson blazed his fourth-round attempt over the bar, bringing the sides level again.
In the crucial fifth round, Fabianski dove to his right and palmed away Amalfitano's penalty.
Nacho Monreal stepped up and converted with ice-cold composure. Arsenal won five-four on aggregate and advanced to the next round.
Wenger's celebration was primal and unrestrained.
The players celebrated wildly on the pitch before racing to the touchline to embrace their manager. For many of Arsenal's young players, Wenger occupied a role almost like a parent in nature.
Though this version of Wenger differed greatly from his younger self.
Dennis Bergkamp had recently revealed in his autobiography "Stillness and Speed" some stories from his time at Arsenal, including unpleasant confrontations with Wenger. Bergkamp wrote that those arguments ultimately led to the end of his career at the club.
During his eleven years in north London, Bergkamp scored eighty-seven goals for Arsenal. He'd arrived from Inter Milan in 1995 and finished his playing career at Highbury, with Wenger witnessing the Dutchman's peak years.
Bergkamp disclosed that toward the end of his career, his desperation to maintain a first-team place had poisoned his relationship with Wenger.
"Of course I wanted to play every match. When I didn't feature, I'd get angry with Wenger until he gave me game time. Sometimes we felt like complete strangers to each other. He'd always evaluate me with statistics, and I'd snap back, 'Can your statistics show how a dangerous pass I made changed the match?'"
Eventually, Bergkamp was gradually marginalized until retirement.
However, as Wenger aged, his personality mellowed considerably. At least from what Julien understood, particularly after Wenger eventually left Arsenal, he'd let go of so much pride.
In subsequent interviews, he openly admitted past mistakes and told players he'd discarded, "Yes, I was wrong."
That was the professor's evolution.
Julien switched off the television.
These scenes he'd only ever watched on screens were now entering his reality. He stared at the darkened display which had once been a mirage he'd chased throughout his youth.
He remembered watching matches in the early 2000s on a black-and-white television, the signal was occasionally cutting out, snowflakes were on the screen seeming to permanently separate two worlds.
And now?
His training kit hung casually in his personal locker at Anfield.
Tomorrow his boots would press into the turf at Old Trafford.
And there was Arsenal ahead.
Those legendary names from the television, once impossibly distant would become hands he'd actually shake during the pre-match ceremonies.
Meanwhile, he himself was gradually becoming one of those unreachable names in other people's eyes.
When signing autographs for young fans, seeing that gleam in their eyes, he'd realized with a flinch—that boy who once dreamed in front of a black-and-white television had truly become the dream itself.
Julien sighed and collected himself.
Early to bed tonight.
Tomorrow's match demanded every ounce of energy he could muster.
The next day, Liverpool's squad left for Manchester in the morning. The match wouldn't kick off until evening, giving them ample time to settle. The two cities sat only about fifty kilometers apart, were barely an hour.
Six o'clock in the evening.
Manchester's twilight wrapped Old Trafford in gentle amber light. The stadium's external light flickered to life, warm yellow beams were layering and spreading out, infusing even the air with a soft glow.
The statue of Sir Matt Busby stood at the intersection of lights and shadows, its base still bearing damp traces from the afternoon's rain, water marks were glistening under the floodlights.
Warwick Road on the stadium's west side was already packed with people.
Red dominated everything here: Manchester United red.
The fan shop outside the Stretford End was packed with bodies. Display windows were crammed with player figurines, scarves, and flags exuding pre-match excitement.
Walking toward the North Stand, the Red Lamp pub's windows were plastered with posters.
Names like "Moyes" and "Rooney" flickered in the backlight. The shop's glow leaked through windows, muffled conversation were drifting out with specific words indistinguishable, occasional sighs soft as wind, mixing with the sound of foam settling on glass rims, forming the fragmented anxieties unique to the post-Ferguson era.
"We'll win, right?"
"We will!"
"Absolutely we'll win!"
"Six-nil was just a fluke. We're not the same team we were at the start of the season."
Along the approach roads, variations of these conversations resounded through the crowd.
At quarter past six, the black team coach emerged from Wilmslow Road, its windows were like dark mirrors faintly reflecting red-shirted silhouettes.
The roadside crowd surged forward instantly, erupting in cheers.
"Rooney! Hat-trick! Destroy those dockworkers!"
"Show them your teeth!"
"Come on, Giggsy!"
The fans didn't care whether the players inside the coach could actually hear them. They just needed to roar.
Recent weeks hadn't been kind to Manchester United fans. The emotional pressure had built relentlessly.
Last week's Champions League victory had provided brief release, but the immediately following 1-4 derby thrashing by City had crushed them again.
Tonight, they needed release at Liverpool's expense.
Meanwhile, near the South Stand entrance, approximately two hundred Liverpool supporters had gathered. Though outnumbered massively, they refused to be silenced by United's verbal dominance.
YNWA badges adorned their shirt collars. Some clutched small flags, red fabric inscribed with "6-0" in particularly prominent lettering.
United fans' chants drifted over: "Dockworkers are finished!"
Liverpool supporters roared back, "Forgotten what six-nil tastes like?"
The voices weren't particularly loud but immediately drew supporting responses from nearby companions. Several shook their flags toward the United section. "Last time was a massacre, today won't be different!"
United fans fired back their own retorts.
But security personnel quickly intervened, preventing escalation.
Away supporters were corralled in designated sections specifically to prevent large-scale confrontations. Matches between these mortal enemies were no joke.
Soon enough, entry began.
The Liverpool group went through the entrance tunnel with scarves still draped across shoulders. Occasionally someone turned back, waving a flag toward the United sections, the "6-0" score was brazenly visible.
That previous result fueled their confidence.
Each step felt filled with resolve, like marching toward another inevitable victory. Their footsteps landed heavier and more assured than on arrival.
Time passed.
Both sets of supporters gradually filled the stadium. Players emerged onto the pitch for warm-ups.
The atmosphere reached peak.
Broadcasting Box
Sky Sports commentator Andy Gray partnered with Manchester United legend Gary Neville for match coverage.
Neville had transitioned into punditry after retiring in 2011.
They discussed both teams widely during the pre-match buildup, inevitably addressing the 6-0 scoreline and its psychological impact.
As warm-ups concluded and the big screen displayed both starting lineups, Andy said,
"The team sheets are now showing on Old Trafford's big screen, and Manchester United have undergone a significant reshuffle. Van Persie remains absent. Rooney and De Gea start, but Hernandez, Shinji Kagawa, and Nani—players who've struggled for regular starts this season form an unfamiliar attacking line.
Only three players from September's six-nil humiliation at Old Trafford retain their starting positions. Liverpool, conversely, field almost their entire first-choice eleven, with Luis Suarez returning after his biting suspension ended."
Andy turned to his co-commentator. "Moyes has completely overhauled both his attacking and defensive units, Gary. Seeing this lineup, what's your immediate reaction?"
Neville nodded thoughtfully.
"Surprise, but also understanding, Andy. That six-nil defeat inflicted enormous psychological damage. Selecting a lineup largely composed of players who didn't experience that humiliation avoids the mental scars. They weren't subjected to that helpless feeling, won't carry the burden of fearing another thrashing. They can play with freedom.
But the concern is obvious—this lineup's cohesion is completely untested. Giggs is the only midfield anchor, responsible for both organization and defensive coverage. Kagawa excels at forward runs but offers limited defensive protection. If Liverpool's midfield, particularly Gerrard pushes forward, United's central spaces could be brutally exploited."
Andy continued, "The forward line certainly packs attacking threat. Rooney's been vocal about revenge, Nani offers pace on the flanks, and Chicharito possesses exceptional penalty-area instincts. But they've rarely partnered together. Can they establish quick understanding?"
Neville responded, "That's Moyes's gamble. Rooney's determination needs no questioning—he'll be desperate to prove himself with goals today. Nani's speed can target Liverpool's right-side defense. Chicharito is the ultimate opportunist—if Liverpool's center-backs lose concentration even momentarily, he'll capitalize.
But two things are crucial.
First, avoid individual isolation. Rooney must drop deep frequently to link play and prevent the forwards becoming disconnected from midfield. Second, defensive tracking is essential. Nani and Chicharito's work rate off the ball has always been questionable. If Liverpool's fullbacks advance freely, the wide areas will buckle under pressure."
Andy pressed on, "Regarding the defense, apart from Phil Jones, Buttner, Rafael, and Smalling aren't regular Premier League starters. They're facing the newly returned Suarez plus the red-hot Julien De Rocca. That's a serious examination, isn't it?"
Neville agreed ardently. "Absolutely. De Rocca's cutting inside and dribbling ability means Buttner needs extreme caution. His defensive positioning sometimes pushes too high—if De Rocca changes direction suddenly, he'll be beaten easily. Rafael's right flank can't relax either. Suarez might drift there, and his close-quarters turns and passing are wickedly deceptive. Rafael must maintain tight marking, denying him any space for the one-two.
Most critically, communication is vital. This defensive unit has barely played together in competitive matches. Smalling and Jones's center-back partnership requires constant verbal coordination for coverage, otherwise Liverpool's combination play will slice through the gaps. Remember, the previous six-nil hammering resulted largely from defensive communication breakdowns that allowed repeated counterattacks."
Andy glanced toward the broadcast camera. "The camera's now showing Moyes on the touchline, discussing seriously with his assistant. His expression looks tense, Gary. Can this reshuffled lineup relieve the pressure on his position?"
Neville considered carefully. "Difficult to say, but it's currently the safest option available. Victory would vindicate his adjustments. Even without winning, he avoids the nightmare scenario of the same personnel suffering another humiliation. But fans demand more than avoiding embarrassment—they want genuine hope of victory. Can Rooney score? Can midfield control possession? Can the defense keep a clean sheet? These are the questions demanding answers."
Andy nodded. "Thanks for the excellent analysis, Gary. The players are now lining up in the tunnel. The game is about to begin."
The tunnel lighting casted cold white shadows.
Liverpool wore their white away kit.
Julien stood behind Mignolet, chin raised, the unstoppable roar of Old Trafford's crowd was flooding through from the tunnel's end.
Initially just blurred thunder, it gradually seeped into the passageway, crawling up through tile cracks, finally slamming into his chest cavity and raising the fine hairs on his neck.
The atmosphere was overwhelming.
"Go!" The referee gestured, signaling the players forward.
As Julien approached the tunnel exit, bright light flooded in accompanied by even more ferocious noise. The United fans' jeers were clear.
Julien inhaled deeply. The sound waves crashed over him, but his stride remained steady, eyes fixed on the pitch ahead.
Fresh mowing patterns caught the floodlights, the grass was almost glowing, seemingly awaiting his first dribble, his first pass.
Emerging from the tunnel's mouth, wind and sound struck him simultaneously. Julien lifted his gaze toward the red-draped stands at the pitch's far end, feeling his blood temperature spike.
Not from nerves but from anticipation. From the hunger to transform these jeers into silence.
Julien walked onto the field.
At the touchline, he knocked his studs together, then stepped onto this legendary Old Trafford surface.
From Bobby Charlton to Busby to Ferguson, layers of history was compressed into this turf.
Julien's eyes swept across all four stands.
From the North Stand—the Ferguson Stand—to the least imposing East Stand housing the scoreboard, to the South Stand, finally to United's most fanatical section, the Stretford End on the west side.
The passion was undeniable.
Manchester United's fortress exuded intensity.
"Glory, glory, Man United
As the reds go marching on, on, on
Just like the Busby Babes in days gone by
We'll keep the Red Flags flying high"
The anthem rolled across the stadium.
Yet amid this red storm, the away section's Liverpool fans' resembled a small boat in a storm, seemingly fragile but anchored boldly within the sea of United fans, refusing to capsize.
The pre-match ceremonies proceeded.
When Gerrard returned from the coin toss confirming United would kick off first, he clapped his hands, gathering the squad into a tight circle.
"Mark every ball tight, hold our rhythm, don't let their atmosphere knock us off balance. Do what we've been doing. Win this."
He thrust his hand into the center.
One by one, teammates stacked their hands atop his.
In perfect unison, they chanted: "Liverpool! Liverpool!! LIVERPOOL!!!"
Each repetition grew louder.
After the final shout, hands swung down in explosive unity.
Players dispersed to their positions.
Nobody expected an easy match. But they had every reason to believe victory was theirs for the taking.
On the touchline, both Moyes and Rodgers wore expressions of grim determination, staring toward the center circle.
This match carried enormous significance for both managers.
Both had faced criticism heading into this fixture, the complaints were remarkably similar—neither had successfully implemented their tactical vision.
Rodgers had it slightly easier. At least he'd been winning.
Moyes carried the heavier burden.
His hair seemed to have more grayed since arriving at Manchester United, the pressure of this position wasn't something ordinary people could withstand.
Many subsequent managers would struggle here. Only a certain Dutch tactician would prove to be immune.
Because he had no hair left to lose.
TWEET!
The referee's whistle shrilled.
The match exploded into life.
ROAR!
Old Trafford detonated.
Red scarves shot up throughout the stands. Arms were stretched high in unison.
"Glory, glory, Man United!!"
Before the opening whistle's echo faded, Old Trafford's volume climbed higher with each United pass.
From kickoff, Manchester United showed absolutely no lingering trauma from their previous defeat.
The ball barely left United's possession.
When Rooney collected in midfield, he no longer faced the suffocating pressure that had overwhelmed him in last weekend's derby against City.
Hernandez moved with exceptional intelligence, constantly probing the channel between Skrtel and Sakho.
One moment drifting behind the center-backs with a dummy run that pulled Skrtel out of position, the next dropping deeper to drag Liverpool's defensive line out of shape.
These movements alone created half a yard of turning space for Rooney. He turned smoothly and clipped a pass wide where Rafael recently recovered from injury had pushed high. He collected and drove forward two steps before delivering a cross that Kolo Touré barely managed to block, though Liverpool's defensive organization had already fractured.
Buttner supported from the opposite flank, both fullbacks were rotating their forward runs compressing Liverpool's wide areas into pure retreat.
Liverpool's midfield looked equally sluggish.
Gerrard attempted several interceptions but Kagawa's quick turns left him grasping at shadows each time.
Julien stood high on the right wing but service never arrived.
United's pressing intensity was relentless. Henderson barely touched the ball before Giggs closed him down.
Suarez was completely isolated up front. If he attempted to drop deep for combinations, Phil Jones marked him so tightly he couldn't even turn, and was forced to watch United players pass comfortably in front of him.
Moreover, Suarez clearly wasn't match-sharp yet.
When the ball did reach his feet and he tried to beat his man, Jones dispossessed him nine times out of ten.
In the ninth minute, United nearly broke the deadlock.
Rooney received Chicharito's layoff on the penalty area's edge with two full meters of space—Liverpool's midfield screen had completely vanished.
Neither Gerrard, Lucas, nor Henderson occupied their defensive positions.
As Rooney adjusted for the shot, Sakho desperately lunged from behind, and barely managed to block with his body.
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