De Gea knelt on the turf, turning his head just in time to see the net still rippling from the ball's impact, the evidence of his failure seemed to be mocking him from behind.
Julien had already grabbed his shirt collar and sprinted toward the Liverpool fans' section, his expression was exuding pure, unrestrained elation.
In this moment, eighteen-year-old shoulders carried the weight of Liverpool's fightback was bearing the responsibility with bold confidence.
They remained behind on the scoreboard. Perhaps wild celebration seemed inappropriate given the circumstances, but Julien couldn't contain himself. He needed this release, this outlet for the pressure that had been building.
He roared.
The sound tore from his throat and pierced through Old Trafford's chaotic atmosphere, it was a primal scream of vindication.
The abuse and jeers from behind De Gea's goal had vanished completely, replaced entirely by the Liverpool fans' joyous celebrations that soared toward the stadium's roof.
Television cameras tracked his sprint, capturing the surname: "De Rocca" printed across his shoulders in High Definition.
His teammates chased after him toward the away section, reaching the advertising boards where they waved frantically at their traveling fans.
The Liverpool fans in that corner responded with euphoric abandon, finally able to breathe again after thirty minutes of suffocation.
Julien represented the brightest light in this frustrating first half, the spark that refused to be extinguished by Manchester United's dominance.
"Julien!"
"Keep going! Turn this around!"
"Give him the ball—Julien can score!"
"Come on Liverpool!"
Twelve hundred voices couldn't compete with Old Trafford's capacity under normal circumstances, couldn't make themselves heard above the home crowd's roar.
But in this moment, with United fans temporarily stunned into silence by the goal, Liverpool's away support could actually be heard, their voices were carrying across the pitch with desperate hope.
Henderson wrapped Julien in a crushing embrace, his voice was cracking with emotion. "Julien! You've fucking dragged us back into this!"
He spoke the unvarnished truth.
Thirty minutes had elapsed with Liverpool creating almost nothing, completely dominated by Manchester United's home-field advantage, conceding two goals and appearing destined for humiliation.
Then Julien had changed everything—first with that ferocious shot that nearly beat De Gea from distance, then by forcing his way into the penalty area to win the spot-kick, and finally by stepping up under immense pressure to convert it with ruthless efficiency.
Teammates swarmed around him, hands were clapping against his shoulders and back, fingers were ruffling his hair in affectionate celebration.
Gerrard pressed his forehead against Julien's, shouting above the noise. "Brilliant work, kid! Keep it up!"
The on-field celebration concluded quickly, there remained work to be done.
But when that ball crossed the line, Liverpool fans across the city and beyond erupted in united relief and brand new belief.
They could see the possibility of a comeback, the faint outline of victory was emerging from the darkness.
The League Cup tie wasn't finished yet.
Throughout Liverpool's streets and alleyways, in every pub along Anfield Road, hope mingled with desperation in equal amount.
Back in the Boot Room Pub, when the television speakers broadcast the metallic clang of ball against crossbar, the entire pub froze.
Every breath caught simultaneously, hearts seemingly pausing mid-beat.
Even George's perpetual glass-polishing motion suspended in mid-air, his wrinkled hands were motionless.
Then the ball dropped into the net.
De Gea collapsed to his knees with head turning toward the goal in defeat.
The pub exploded like ignited fireworks, erupting into chaotic celebration.
"Brilliant, Julien!"
"Off the bar! Absolutely cunted it! De Gea couldn't get near it!"
"Score another! Put United down!"
The pub transformed into sensory overload—shouting voices, clashing glasses, jerseys waving in the air were creating rustling thumping. The frustration from falling two goals behind vanished completely, replaced by wild optimism.
Even the clock on the wall seemed to accelerate, ticking faster as everyone's eyes remained glued to the screen, waiting for play to resume so Julien might produce another moment of magic.
Ted hammered the table with his fist, roaring what they all felt. "With Julien on the pitch, we can still chase this down!"
On countless television broadcasts, commentary teams were processing what had just happened.
"This goal means so much more than simply making it two-one! When the team was being dominated, when everyone felt suffocated by United's pressure, this eighteen-year-old French prodigy stepped forward.
First with that explosive shot from outside the box that forced a desperate save from De Gea, then by driving into the penalty area to earn the spot-kick, and finally by standing at the penalty spot facing De Gea, facing the full force of Old Trafford's hostility, and absolutely hammering the ball home off the crossbar. That wasn't only taking a penalty, that moment was also injecting belief into Liverpool's entire squad!
"Look at Manchester United's momentum before this goal—they'd controlled the match from kickoff, dictated the tempo, had their fans practically lifting the roof off Old Trafford. But after this goal? Everything changed. This is what crucial goals accomplish! They don't just change numbers on the scoreboard—they transform the entire atmosphere, the psychological dynamic of the match!
Liverpool desperately needed this moment, needed someone to emerge during the darkest period and deliver hope."
The commentator's tone slowed and now adopted a certain reflective quality.
"Eighteen years old, in a Northwest Derby, away from home, scoring after winning a penalty while trailing and doing it with that kind of fearless, powerful execution. This goal will remain in De Rocca's career highlight reel forever, but more importantly, it will be etched into Liverpool fans' memories.
Because when his team needed a lifeline most desperately, this young man provided it in the most decisive way imaginable, delivering hope when it seemed lost.
Now at one-two, Liverpool can finally lift their heads and compete properly with Manchester United. That's the value of this penalty goal.
It's brought this match back to life."
Liverpool's performance transformed noticeably after the goal.
The players' movement became sharper, more aggressive, their running was suddenly determined rather than desperate.
Though the tactical improvements hadn't yet produced clear-cut chances, Manchester United's attacking flow encountered significantly stronger resistance, their forward progress was repeatedly disrupted by more committed defending.
United's coaching staff recognized the shift and consciously slowed their team's tempo, seeking to stabilize the situation and regain control.
Liverpool seized this opportunity to reorganize their defensive structure while remaining alert for counterattacking possibilities.
The scoreline still favored Manchester United, but something intangible had changed, momentum, belief, psychological advantage, all those elements were gradually accumulating in Liverpool's favor.
In the stands, Sir Alex Ferguson's expression had hardened into stone.
From the moment Julien won the penalty through his conversion, Ferguson's attention had barely strayed from the French teenager.
Regret gnawed at him with sharp teeth.
He could have signed Julien. Should have signed him.
This would have been the perfect final transfer before retirement, a signing that could have strengthened United's attack for years, perhaps even a decade, possibly even two decades.
Someone like Giggs, who remained a United regular at forty years old.
In his youth, Giggs had terrorized defenses with electric pace and clinical finishing, scoring goals for fun from the wing.
As age accumulated, he'd transitioned into a deeper playmaking role while being still capable of attacking runs and goals while adding organizational skills and tactical intelligence.
In his old years, he'd dropped into central midfield, orchestrating play and allowing younger players to fulfill the attacking roles he'd once dominated, ensuring seamless generational transition.
What a waste.
What a terrible waste.
Ferguson shook his head in profound disappointment.
Now this talent was sharpening Liverpool's attack, creating problems for Manchester United in the present and looming as a threat for years to come.
A sudden roar from the crowd interrupted his brooding thoughts.
Ferguson's attention snapped back to the pitch just in time to see Suárez covering his face in frustration.
The stadium's big screens replayed De Gea's excellent save of moments ago.
But Ferguson's tactical mind focused on Liverpool's attacking sequence.
The buildup had featured Julien using his individual skill to cut inside from the right flank. Manchester United immediately collapsed numbers into the defensive zone, creating numerical superiority around the ball carrier.
Then Julien's ankle had flicked subtly, changing the angle of his body, and suddenly he was accelerating toward the byline instead of continuing inside.
His cross lashed across the six-yard box with vicious curl.
Suárez attacked the near post with predatory instinct, his header was redirecting the ball toward goal with a glancing contact that changed its trajectory completely.
Only De Gea's outstanding reflexes prevented the equalizer, the Spanish goalkeeper somehow adjusted mid-flight to push the ball away from danger. Evans completed the clearance with a desperate hoof up field.
On the pitch, Suárez extended his hand toward Julien, thumb and forefinger were pressed together with barely a sliver of space between them.
"That close—"
Julien shrugged and jogged back into position, already preparing for the next phase of play.
The first half entered stoppage time, just two additional minutes were remaining before the interval whistle.
The end was approaching.
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