The scoreboard at Old Trafford clicked past the forty-fifth minute and into stoppage time.
One minute was remaining.
Manchester United was in possession.
The United fans in the stands had already begun humming their victory songs. Some were checking their watches, others stuffing crisps into their mouths, thoroughly satisfied with the half they'd witnessed.
This was the Manchester United they recognized, the scoreline they expected. Perhaps another two goals in the second half would be ideal. And speaking of last week's 6-0 drubbing by Liverpool; that was merely an abnormality.
Even the United players had stepped off the accelerator. Their passing had lost half a beat; their defensive tracking no longer carried the same urgency. Everyone assumed the half would end with their comfortable 2-1 advantage intact.
Everyone except Henderson.
He was still running. From the right flank back to the center circle, his shirt number was darkened by sweat across his back, his breathing was ragged and heavy, but he showed no intention of slowing down. No matter how much they tried to evade him, he simply kept his head down and ran.
He knew the Liverpool fans were questioning him. He knew he lacked the natural talent others possessed. So, he could only keep running, using his raw coverage to unlock space for his more talented teammates.
On the United side, Giggs had just received a pass in midfield. Catching sight of Henderson charging toward him from the corner of his eye, his mouth curved slightly.
Rather than releasing the ball immediately, he touched it delicately with his right instep, shifting it half a step to his left, as if deliberately toying with this eager young Liverpool player.
That half-second of hesitation was all Henderson needed. He didn't lunge with his foot but committed his body instead, his left shoulder connected lightly with Giggs's right. The contact wasn't heavy, but it disrupted the rhythm of Giggs's control perfectly.
Giggs's touch weakened, the ball was escaping his command briefly.
Henderson instantly stabbed his foot forward, nudging the ball half a meter ahead, then used his left hand to brush aside Giggs's reaching arm as he bent to secure possession.
"Foul!" The cry erupted from the stands, boos were pouring down like a wave crashing onto the pitch.
United players raised their arms appealing for the foul. Kagawa shouted at the referee: "He pushed him!"
But Clattenburg merely waved them off, gesturing for play to continue.
The Liverpool players weren't about to let this moment slip away.
Henderson had barely controlled the ball before knocking it back to Gerrard, who was already moving to support him. The execution was so swift that United's players had no chance to close him down.
Gerrard received the pass and immediately spotted the gap opening up ahead. United's defenders were still retreating, Büttner hugging the touchline as he backpedaled, Julien was already pulling wide on the left channel.
Without adjusting his stance, Gerrard swept a long diagonal ball forward. The football arced over the midfield chaos, seeking out Julien's position with perfect trajectory.
Julien cushioned it with his chest, the ball dropped perfectly half a meter in front of him. Before Büttner could close him down, Julien flicked his right foot backward, sending the ball sailing over the defender's head.
Büttner instinctively turned his head to track it, but Julien had already used the momentum of his flick to spin his body, meeting the dropping ball in perfect step and gliding past the still-turning defender in one motion.
A vast area of space suddenly opened in front of Julien.
Evans started to shift across to cover, but found himself drawn toward Suárez, who was making a diagonal run from central areas into the box.
Suárez deliberately brushed his shoulder against Evans's arm as he moved, calling loudly for the ball, pulling the entire United defensive focus toward him.
After beating Büttner, Julien didn't decelerate. He cut inside sharply from the right edge of the area toward the center, the ball glued to his feet, each touch was bringing him closer to the top of United's penalty box.
The boos from the United fans shifted tone, transforming from anger into something approaching panic. Fans in the stands rose from their seats, fingers were rising toward the pitch: "Stop him!"
But United's defensive shape had disintegrated. Despite having numbers back, bodies crowding the penalty area, nobody could get across in time to make the crucial intervention.
Julien recognized it instantly.
The defense was apparently compact but was actually exposed.
At the edge of the box, he pushed the ball laterally once more, feinting another cut inside.
Then, his left leg whipped forward like a released bowstring.
The crack of boot on ball resounded across Old Trafford.
The football barely rotated as it skimmed across the turf toward the penalty area, aimed at the near post, directly into the channel where Suárez was occupying space.
Suárez, still grappling with the United defenders, caught sight of the incoming shot from the corner of his eye. Without thinking, he sprang up, folding his body tight in midair as the ball flashed beneath him.
De Gea had already committed part of his attention to Suárez's movement. As he processed Julien's strike, trying to calculate whether it was a shot or a pass, the ball was already zipping beneath Suárez's flying body.
By the time he moved to dive, it was too late.
The ball kissed the inside of the right post and hammered into the corner of the net. The netting bulged out dramatically before snapping back, the ball was rolling twice along the goal line before coming to rest.
Level.
In the dying seconds of first-half stoppage time, Liverpool had equalized.
The moment the ball nestled into the net, Old Trafford fell silent, it was so quiet you could hear the gentle clatter of plastic seats in the stands, so still you could see United scarves frozen mid-wave in fans' hands.
Then, in the next heartbeat, the Liverpool section detonated like a match struck on oil paper, flames were consuming that corner of the stadium instantaneously.
Fans wrapped scarves around their heads and jumped manically. Others whipped their shirts overhead in wild circles, throats raw with chants of "Julien!" and "Liverpool!"
The sound wave rolled across toward the United sections sounding unstoppable and unrelenting.
The West Stand United fans reacted first, boos were pouring down like a tidal surge, but they couldn't suppress the Liverpool celebrations. One older fan in the front row was so enraged he hurled his Coca-Cola cup to the ground, while the drink was also splashing across his shoes.
He didn't even glance down, his eyes locked furiously on the pitch.
Further back, United fans began shouting toward the Liverpool section, but their voices lacked the earlier swagger as only frustration remained.
On the pitch, Julien dropped into a knee slide after scoring, gliding toward the corner flag and leaving three distinct tracks scarred into the turf behind him.
Using the momentum from his slide, Julien sprang to his feet and turned toward the stands with arms spread wide.
In that moment, with the floodlights illuminating his outstretched arms, his white shirt seemed to glow with warmth. He simply stood there, not shouting, not jumping.
Countless cameras captured the scene, preserving this instant for future.
With nothing more than that cruciform silhouette, he projected the confidence of the comeback, the audacity to conquer Old Trafford, spreading it across the stadium air.
There were no excessive gestures, just his outstretched arms.
Like a young king emerging from Anfield, he stood on hostile turf in the most open posture imaginable, pinning Liverpool's glory to this precise moment at Old Trafford.
His teammates were equally euphoric.
Henderson reached him first, sprinting all the way from midfield, his white shirt was stained with grime, his back was soaked through with sweat showing dark patterns across the fabric.
He threw his arms around Julien, roaring: "We've clawed it back! Julien! You're United's fucking nightmare! That goal was absolute class!"
Gerrard followed close behind, not shouting, just grinning so wide the wrinkles at his eyes seemed to express pure relief.
When Suárez arrived he was still laughing, his shirt was riding up slightly from his earlier leap to dummy the shot, exposing half his waist. He slapped Julien's shoulder and said, "I thought that ball was going to smash into me! Your accuracy is insane!"
Surrounded by his teammates, Julien wiped the sweat from his face and raised his hand once more toward the Liverpool section.
Then he turned toward the United stands and made a peace sign with his right hand in direct response to Giggs's earlier gesture.
The United players looked like puppets with severed strings, scattered across the pitch in various states of shock.
Giggs stood in midfield, right where Henderson had dispossessed him. The turf still bore the shallow groove his studs had carved. Arms on hips, he stared toward the rippling net, all trace of his earlier composure had vanished.
De Gea lay sprawled near his goal line, gloves pressed against the grass, head buried for several seconds before he finally lifted it.
Rooney walked over and clapped his shoulder, and opened his mouth to speak but found no words, he could only observe his scattered teammates in silence.
On television, the moment the ball skimmed beneath Suárez and buried itself in United's net, the Boot Room Pub exploded with such volume that ears rang from the sudden pressure.
This wasn't a gradual crescendo of cheering; it was an instantaneous detonation. Even the hanging lights swayed from the shockwave.
Ted's pint glass crashed onto the table with a bang, his arms were windmilling as he roared: "It's in! Fuck me! Julien! Absolute worldie!"
By the time he reached "worldie," his voice had completely cracked.
The entire pub had joined the chorus of roaring voices.
Young fans in the back rows climbed onto their chairs, flinging their red scarves towards skies. One landed perfectly on a light fixture, and the lad didn't even bother retrieving it, just stood there screaming: "Julien's a fucking monster! That turn past Büttner was mental!"
The people around him pounded his back in celebration, phones were held high to record the television replay. Each time they showed Julien's strike again; they shouted in unison: "It's in!"
The synchronized shouts rattled the windows in their frames.
When the replay showed Henderson's initial tackle, someone yelled: "That press from Hendo was crucial! Without that interception, we'd have no counter-attack!"
Another voice chimed in, "Gerrard's long ball was perfect though, found Julien on a plate!"
Eventually, every line of analysis circled back to the same name, "It's still Julien though! Anyone else wouldn't have the bollocks to shoot from there!"
Ted stared at the screen showing Julien mobbed by celebrating teammates, his eyes were suddenly reddening as he continued shouting: "United fans were giving it large with their booing earlier, weren't they? Look at them now—absolutely rattled! Two goals up and what good did it do? We've dragged ourselves right back into it!"
His voice had a tremor that showed his emotions.
Someone beside him laughed and slapped his shoulder, "Why're you crying? Save it for the second half!"
He wiped his face roughly and broke into a grin, grabbing his pint and hoisting it toward the television, "To Julien! To Liverpool!"
The noise in the Boot Room never subsided. The television replays continued on loop, and each time Julien's boot connected with the ball, fresh cheers erupted.
Like a bonfire burning at full intensity, the heat was filling every corner of the pub.
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