Julien crumpled to the turf, and Evans desperately hoofed the ball out for a throw-in, his clearance was more panicky than accurate and precise.
The referee's arms remained by his sides with fingers waving dismissively.
No foul.
That single gesture ignited Old Trafford like a match to kindling.
The West Stand erupted first, thousands of United fans surged to their feet, fingers thrusting toward the penalty area where Julien lay sprawling. Their throats tore with accusations that thundered across the stadium.
"Dive! Blatant dive!"
"That's a bloody swan dive!"
"Cheating bastard!"
Scarves lashed through the air and cracked against the barriers with dull thuds, interposing the torrent of abuse that poured from the stands and washed over the pitch in a crimson tide of fury.
The Manchester United fans joined the chorus around them, voices were melding into a single accusatory roar. They were determined to influence referee Mark Clattenburg's decision, to bend his will through sheer volume and venom.
On the pitch, Liverpool's players reacted instantaneously, their arms were shooting up in unified appeal.
Gerrard thrust his finger toward the penalty spot, his voice was cutting through the chaos. "Penalty! Clear as day! That's a stone-cold penalty!"
Henderson sprinted over, planting himself between Clattenburg and the advancing United players, his words were tumbling out in urgent desperation. "He clipped his leg! How is that not a pen? He caught him!"
Clattenburg's brow furrowed deeply as he glanced toward his assistant referee, his fingers unconsciously gripping the whistle hanging against his chest. The decision was extremely heavy in those suspended seconds.
Manchester United's players swarmed forward, their voices were overlapping in protest.
Evans could barely contain his panic. He knew his leg had extended, knew he'd committed to the challenge, but Julien's movement had been too convenient, too dramatic. How could this French kid's foot have hooked his ankle so perfectly unless it was deliberate?
"It's simulation! Look at his movement! That's a yellow card for diving!"
Rooney joined the protest, thrusting his finger toward Julien. "He's conned you! Old Trafford doesn't accept this kind of cheating!"
The whistle pierced through the air.
It sounded sharp, felt decisive and was final.
Clattenburg's arm rose without hesitation, pointing directly at the penalty spot. His body language conveyed absolute certainty leaving no room for doubt or negotiation.
Evans had extended his leg.
That was the fatal flaw, the incontrovertible fact that sealed the decision.
Without that extension, nothing would have happened.
Manchester United's players exploded in disbelief and rage.
Büttner lunged toward the referee, nearly pressing nose-to-nose with Clattenburg before Giggs grabbed him by the shirt and hauled him backward, his veteran's experience was preventing a certain yellow card.
United players shook their heads in synchronized disgust, their body language was screaming rejection of this perceived injustice.
The abuse from the stands intensified, reaching a fever pitch that made the air itself feel hostile.
"Corrupt! Absolute corruption!"
"How the fuck is that a penalty?! Clattenburg, you might as well put on a Liverpool shirt!"
On the touchline, David Moyes gestured wildly, his face was flushed scarlet as he unleashed a verbal volley at the fourth official, his arms were windmilling in dramatic outrage.
Clattenburg strode toward the Manchester United technical area with determined steps and handed a yellow card directly at the manager. Even managers had limits.
Meanwhile, Julien had collapsed dramatically, clutching his ankle and slapping the turf repeatedly with his palm. But the moment Clattenburg's whistle confirmed the penalty decision, something changed.
He slowly sat up, delicately massaging his ankle joint as Liverpool's physio jogged over for a superficial examination.
Julien winced convincingly as he rose to his feet with Suárez's assistance, then took a few tentative steps, testing his weight distribution and adjusting his shin guards with meticulous care.
The full routine, performed to perfection.
Had Evans simply held his ground; Julien would have struggled to even deliver a meaningful pass. But Evans had extended that leg, and in doing so, he'd given Julien exactly the opportunity he needed.
While United players continued their futile protests, surrounding Clattenburg like angry wasps, Henderson placed himself as the referee's unofficial bodyguard, physically blocking any Red Devil who tried to get too close, his arms were spread wide in protectiveness.
In the commentary box, Gary Neville sounded as though he'd swallowed something particularly vile.
"Hold on! What is this?! His leg buckled on its own! Evans never touched his standing leg! This is diving! Textbook acting!
He practically threw himself at Evans's leg, then launched himself toward ground like he'd been shot. The movement was more stage acting than a West End production! How can Clattenburg not see through this charade?"
But the smiles of Manchester United fans, players, and legends wouldn't disappear completely. They would simply transfer elsewhere, waiting for vindication.
The Boot Room Pub
In the Boot Room Pub, Ted's beer glass slammed against the wooden table with such force that foam erupted over the rim and splattered across his shirt front. He didn't even notice, as he was too busy roaring at the television screen.
"Beautiful! That's a fucking penalty alright! Well done, Julien!"
At the neighboring table, a young Liverpool supporter pounded his fist down, his voice was cracking with excitement. "That's exactly how we should play! Utilize Julien's strengths! Get him on the ball!"
"I've been saying it all match—give everything to Julien! He can tear apart their defense! That screamer almost beat De Gea earlier, and now he's got his goal back with the penalty!"
George's mouth twitched at the corners, fighting against a smile that tried to break through his wrinkled facial features. He said nothing, just watched in silence.
Ted threw his head back with laughter. "Ha! What did I tell you? You can always count on Julien! Those United fans were chattering away earlier—let's see them talk now!"
On the television, Manchester United players were still surrounding the referee in futile protest, but the pub's volume only increased, drowning out any commentary.
Shouts of "Julien!" and "Penalty!" mixed with the clinking of beer glasses, transforming the frustration from falling two goals behind into raw, electric anticipation.
George's gaze settled on the screen where Julien walked toward the penalty spot, ball tucked under his arm. His voice emerged as a whisper. "Steady now, lad. You can score this."
At Old Trafford
Old Trafford's volume decreased marginally, though the silence felt more voracious than peaceful.
Every eye locked onto David De Gea, standing on his goal line. Those stares carried the weight of desperate hope, he represented their final barrier against Liverpool's resurgence.
In the away section, Liverpool's traveling fans screamed Julien's name with voices that had long since gone hoarse, the sound was now carrying an almost religious fervor.
Julien placed the ball on the penalty spot with precision, then tested the turf surrounding it with the toe of his boot, checking for irregularities.
Some players created small depressions in the penalty spot using their studs, subtle sabotage that happened more frequently than most fans realized. Occasionally someone got caught and earned a yellow card for their troubles.
These were football's dark arts, the gamesmanship that existed in the margins.
But there was another factor: the fans.
From the moment Julien approached the penalty spot to when he finally positioned the ball, the section of stands behind the goal transformed to become extremely hostile.
The sea of red bodies resembled boiling water, thousands of voices were unified in their mission to break his concentration. The noise wasn't scattered or disorganized, it was a focused, weaponized sound, designed to make his heart race and his hands tremble.
Fans in the front rows gripped the advertising boards and leaned forward as far as physically possible, their faces were bloodred with exertion, throats were raw from screaming.
"You dived for it, you cheating French bastard! You don't have the balls to take it!"
Some fans raised middle fingers high above their heads, it was a forest of obscene gestures. The red-shirted masses swayed intentionally, creating visual chaos meant to obstruct his view of the goal.
The verbal attacks continued persistently, layer upon layer of hostility was pressing down on Julien.
In that moment, he became their villain, their enemy, a criminal awaiting execution in the court of Old Trafford.
To claim Julien felt nothing would be dishonest. The pressure existed, it was undeniable and oppressive.
But he possessed the ability to narrow his focus to the twelve yards separating him from the goal, to transform the noise beyond that space into meaningless background still, white noise that couldn't penetrate his concentration.
The whistle blew.
Clattenburg's signal granted permission to proceed.
Julien drew a deep breath that completely filled his lungs.
He understood that De Gea's penalty-saving statistics were relatively poor, but that knowledge didn't permit complacency. He needed to execute perfectly, to leave nothing to chance.
In this frozen moment, not just Old Trafford's seventy-five thousand spectators watched him, but millions more across England, throughout Europe, spanning the globe.
Countless eyes converged on this eighteen-year-old French talent, waiting to witness either triumph or disaster.
Julien moved.
His run-up contained no deception, no stuttering hesitation, just explosive forward momentum culminating in a thunderous strike.
The connection sounded like a gunshot.
The ball rocketed toward goal with vicious intent; the velocity was almost visible in its trajectory.
Julien had generated tremendous power with that strike, holding nothing back.
His technique was transparent, De Gea read the direction correctly and anticipated the top corner destination.
Yet when this Spanish goalkeeper launched himself through the air, fingertips straining toward the flight path, the ball had already beaten him to its target.
The metallic clang echoed across the stadium as the ball smashed against the crossbar.
Julien had aimed with surgical precision, targeting the most difficult area to defend.
The ball struck the underside of the crossbar and rebounded down, spinning viciously across the goal line before nestling into the net.
Goal.
Two-one.
Liverpool had pulled one back.
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