When Julien stepped onto the pitch, the roar of Old Trafford hit him.
The Manchester United fans section was a shaking sea of red flags and banners, rising and falling in waves. The familiar anthem "Glory Glory Man United" thundered through the stadium at twice the volume it had reached in the first half.
The word "Champions" rang out with particular venom, as if the home crowd were trying to expel the frustration of being pegged back through sheer verbal force alone.
But the Liverpool fans' section refused to be drowned out. "You'll Never Walk Alone" swelled from the away end, fewer voices perhaps, but carrying a bold intensity that cut through the Manchester chorus. The two songs collided above the pitch, creating a wall of sound that seemed to compress the very air.
Players from both sides took their positions in the center circle. Neither manager had made changes at the break.
Referee Clattenburg glanced at his watch, then brought the whistle to his lips.
Tweet!
The second half was underway.
Liverpool took the kickoff but showed no urgency to attack immediately. They knew what was coming—Manchester United would come at them with everything.
Their strategy was simple: weather the storm, hold the shape, and strike on the counter when the opportunity presented itself.
As Liverpool dropped deeper, United's players pressed forward exactly as expected. The high press was effective; Liverpool had limited ball-carriers in midfield, and possession quickly turned over.
Three minutes into the second half, United carved open the first real chance down their right flank.
Rafael surged forward along the touchline, José Enrique tracking him from a half-yard behind, his arm was resting lightly on the Rafael's waist, just enough contact to slow him down without drawing the referee's attention.
Rafael didn't try to power through it. Instead, he dropped his left shoulder into Enrique, using the contact as a axis point, then flicked the ball forward with his right instep. The ball rolled past Enrique's body toward the byline while Rafael's body feinted out, evading Enrique's lunging leg.
Their shoulders collided with a dull thud, but Rafael kept his momentum, chasing the ball toward the corner of the penalty area before whipping in a dangerous cross.
Rooney peeled away from Kolo Touré's back, extending his leg for what looked like a certain tap-in. But Martin Skrtel arrived from a diagonal angle, his arm pressed against Rooney's back, palm flat against the lower hem of Rooney's shirt; maintaining contact without committing a foul.
At the same time, Skrtel's knee jutted forward half an inch, blocking Rooney's movement line.
Rooney's foot missed the ball completely. Instead, Skrtel got there first, poking it toward Jonny Evans.
Whoosh!
The Manchester United supporters exploded in fury.
"That's a foul, ref!"
"How's that not a bloody penalty?!"
But the protests went unheard.
On the pitch, Evans couldn't afford to dwell on the ball. He turned, looking to knock it back to Ryan Giggs, but Jordan Henderson had already circled behind the Welsh legend. Henderson closed the distance immediately, chest pressed against Giggs's back, preventing him from turning. His hands came up, pushing steadily and legally aggressively.
Giggs tried to spin away, but Henderson got a toe to the ball first.
It was almost a carbon copy of the first half; Henderson using his youth and physicality to bully Giggs, nearly winning possession.
Giggs with his experience reacted instinctively, and lunged back to reclaim the ball. But Henderson didn't try to control it himself. Instead, he swept it sideways to Lucas Leiva.
Liverpool's counter-attack erupted in an instant.
Lucas received the pass and knocked it backward with his right foot toward the deeper-lying Steven Gerrard, evading Shinji Kagawa's outstretched leg. His head came up immediately, scanning the space ahead.
Gerrard surged forward to collect the ball without breaking stride. He took two touches forward, eyes sweeping across United's defensive line.
Alexander Büttner and Jonny Evans were both joining on Julien, forming a pincer to cut off his supply line.
Gerrard registered it in a fraction of a second.
'Only two on Julien?'
Thinking this, he didn't hesitate.
Thump!
Gerrard drove a flat, penetrating pass toward Julien, it was fast and precise, cutting through the air like a dart.
Julien stood in the channel between the two defenders with body angled slightly, eyes locked on the falling ball.
Büttner reached out to shove his shoulder, but Julien shifted half a step left, slipping the contact, while simultaneously lifting his left foot. The inside of his boot cushioned the ball with perfect timing, killing its momentum completely. It dropped at his feet and stuck to the turf as if glued there.
Büttner anticipated a move to the left and shifted his weight accordingly. But Julien's left foot merely feinted over the ball, it was a ghost touch that sent Büttner's center of gravity lurching further in that direction.
Then Julien's right foot dragged the ball back in the opposite direction, his knee was bending to shield it. His body positioned itself at the perfect distance from Büttner; close enough that the defender couldn't reach the ball, but not so close that contact would impede his movement.
Evans rushed in from the other side, sliding in with his leg extended, trying to win the ball with a last-ditch tackle.
Julien didn't retreat. Instead, he pushed forward half a step, flicking the ball to the right with the outside of his right boot while his body darted left.
A perfect split: man and ball separating around the defender.
Evans's tackle found only air. He could only watch helplessly as Julien burst into the attacking third with the ball at his feet.
When Julien regained control of possession, Manchester United's entire defensive structure had collapsed toward him.
Büttner spun and sprinted back desperately. Rafael shifted from the center of the box toward the right channel. Even Chris Smalling, who had been marking Suárez, couldn't help but glance toward Julien, ready to provide emergency cover.
Julien's peripheral vision caught Daniel Sturridge lurking unmarked on the left side of the penalty area.
He exploded forward with a sudden burst of acceleration.
Then, with the instep of his right foot, he thrashed a curling cross toward the far post.
The ball arced over the cluster of Manchester United defenders in the center, bending perfectly toward Sturridge's position.
Sturridge didn't go for the header directly at goal. Instead, he controlled the ball with his chest, letting it drop to his feet. He took one touch to set himself, then side-footed a shot toward the far corner. The pace wasn't severe, but the placement was exquisite, destined to creep inside the far post.
David de Gea launched himself in a desperate dive. His left hand stretched to its absolute limit, fingertips grazing the outside of the ball just enough to alter its trajectory. The ball cannoned off the right-hand post and rebounded back into the penalty area.
For a split second, every Manchester United player froze.
Evans stretched out a leg to clear it, but Julien was already ready to anticipate the rebound.
The moment he'd delivered the cross to Sturridge, he'd sprinted toward the six-yard box, timing his run to arrive at near the spot where the ball would fall.
Now, he was there first. His left foot met the ball with a firm push.
It was practically an open goal.
De Gea was still on the ground, scrambling desperately. He could only watch as the ball rolled into the net.
Swish!
Goal!
2-3!
Only four minutes into the second half, and Liverpool had retaken the lead.
Julien rolled away toward the Liverpool fans section with his fist pumping furiously.
Liverpool were ahead again!
And this was his third hat-trick in derby matches.
When he reached the base of the away section, he stopped abruptly and slapped the Liverpool crest on his chest with both hands.
Then he spread his arms wide, tilted his head back, and gazed up at the sea of bouncing red above him. His eyes shone with an intensity that seemed to capture all the stadium lights at once.
There were no tears, no forced composure, only the pure joy of an eighteen-year-old living out his dream on the grandest stage of all.
He stood there, arms outstretched, chest heaving with ragged breaths, as if he could absorb all of Old Trafford's lights into himself.
The air around him seemed to burn with his intensity.
"JULIEN!"
"JULIEN! YOU BEAUTY!"
The Liverpool fans screamed his name with fervor. In that moment, his name was their faith.
At eighteen years old, he should still be hoping for scraps of playing time in the youth teams. Instead, he stood on the biggest derby stage in English football, dragging his team out of deficit with a hat-trick that would be remembered for decades.
He was writing the most glorious chapter in his young football life.
Suárez was the first to reach him, grabbing him in a crushing embrace and bellowing, "Hat-trick! Julien! That was fucking brilliant!"
Sturridge arrived next, seizing Julien's wrist and thrusting his arm into the air like a championship belt, presenting him to the traveling supporters as Liverpool's ace.
Julien let Sturridge lift his arm, turning his gaze back to the away section. Hundreds of Liverpool scarves waved in unison, creating a crimson wave. Supporters jumped and chanted his name. Someone held a "Julien 10" shirt above their head, the red was somehow looking even more vivid than Manchester United's home colors.
Kolo Touré and Mamadou Sakho jogged over. The veteran center-back clapped Julien's back hard enough to make him stagger forward a step, but his grin was extremely wide.
When Julien turned, he caught sight of Steven Gerrard standing at the edge of the penalty area, giving him a thumbs-up. The pride in his captain's eyes was obvious.
The counter-attack had been a thing of beauty—from Gerrard's incisive pass, to Julien's run and cross, to Suárez's movement dragging defenders away, to the final poacher's finish. Every link in the chain had been perfectly executed.
And Julien had been the key that unlocked the door.
Behind him, the Manchester United fans section had fallen eerily silent. The "Glory Glory Man United" that had shaken the stadium just minutes earlier had vanished, replaced by scattered boos and jeers.
On the touchline, the technical areas presented two contrasting portraits of emotion.
David Moyes's hands were clenched into fists. He stared at the celebrating Liverpool players in the penalty area, his face had turned pale and stiff as frozen marble.
On the opposite side, Brendan Rodgers froze for half a second when the ball crossed the line, then suddenly straightened, pumping his right fist into the air with a roar that expelled all the accumulated pressure of the match.
Scoring at Old Trafford, nothing could match that release.
When his assistant coach rushed over to embrace him, Rodgers finally broke into a full smile, slapping the man's back with delight. "See that? I told you he could do it!"
He turned back to watch Julien on the pitch, tracking the white-shirted figure with eyes brimming with satisfaction.
He'd told them in the dressing room that they needed more goals. Julien's nod hadn't been empty acknowledgment, it had been a promise. And he'd delivered.
'This is Julien De Rocca.'
Rodgers's voice carried absolute conviction as he spoke to his staff: "We're going to win this match."
There was no grand gesture, no dramatic celebrations. But the confidence in his smile carried more weight than any shout could have.
Liverpool had reversed not just the scoreline, but the entire momentum.
And Rodgers's faith in this team, in Julien had been vindicated.
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