As the first half came to an end, Martin Tyler gave a brief summary of the play: "After forty-five minutes of fierce competition, the score stands at Liverpool 1, Manchester United 0. Both sides now head into the break.
Looking back over the first half, nothing was more surprising than United's performance. Playing at home, they failed entirely to make the most of their home advantage, looking flat and passive throughout.
Judging by the overall play from both sides, Liverpool were unquestionably the stronger team. But it's clear they haven't fully opened up yet holding something back at both ends of the pitch, not yet playing at full tilt.
Julien especially, despite winning a penalty with a driving run and trying his luck with a long-range chip was nowhere near his usual level of activity this season. He hasn't unleashed his full attacking threat, and for most of the half he was simply linking up play and occupying defenders, clearly with plenty left in reserve.
At the back, Van Dijk, Agger, and company have been solid, cutting out several United attacks. The whole side has looked fluid transitioning between defence and attack, but you can tell they're deliberately controlling the tempo, looking in no hurry to extend the lead. A Liverpool side playing like this is actually more dangerous than one going all-out—United need to stay on their guard.
This halftime break is a crucial chance for both sides to regroup, but for United and Moyes, it's a matter of life and death. Moyes has to get this right—there's no room left to fall back on. He needs to rework the midfield connections, cut down on needless passing errors, give Rooney and Van Persie more support, and get the frontline's firepower fully engaged.
As for Liverpool, they need to hold onto their lead, and use United's eagerness to equalize against them looking for chances to counter and add to the score. United's biggest concern right now isn't just being behind—it's that Liverpool haven't even shown their full hand yet. One slip and they could find themselves in even deeper trouble.
Let's take a short break, and see what the second half has in store..."
Meanwhile, on Merseyside.
As the echo of the halftime whistle came through the television screen at the Boot Room, the little pub, a place that held so many memories for Liverpool fans was instantly swallowed up in cheers, shouts, and the clink of bottles. Even in the middle of the afternoon, the place was packed.
After the whistle, the screen kept replaying the moment Julien won the penalty and Gerrard slotted it home. Everyone in here was a die-hard Red—their hatred for United was woven into a century of derby blood. A match like this had them buzzing head to toe.
"Look at United, pathetic! Playing at home like they've lost their souls—that idiot Moyes doesn't deserve to manage United!" A young man in a retro Liverpool shirt shouted raisning his beer glass, grinning ear to ear. "That lot think they can compete with us? Stick a few more past them in the second half and shut Old Trafford up for good!"
The fans around him roared in agreement. Any mention of United, and the whole place erupted in jeers. There was a century of bitter rivalry behind every word.
"Too right! Anyone with eyes could see Rafael's handball—only United fans would still cry biased ref, shameless punks!"
"And that afro of Fellaini's, split open by Gerrard—serves him right, couldn't happen to a nicer bunch!"
Some pounded the tables cursing, others laughed and raised their glasses, foam splashing across the tabletops—nobody minded any of that. For Liverpool fans, watching their old enemy struggle while their own side held the lead—nothing felt better at halftime.
Besides ripping into United, the thing on everyone's lips was the title, getting closer by the week.
"That penalty from Gerrard was ice cold! That's our captain for you!"
"One more goal and Gerrard ties Wall for top scorer in the derby history, it's unreal!"
"We didn't even really open up in the first half, and Julien barely got going—hold steady in the second half and this one's ours!"
"We have to win this and widen the gap at the top of the table—this year's title must be ours!"
"Twenty-four years!" At the bar, Ted stood with a brimming pint, face flushed red, voice louder than anyone else's. "It's about time we won it again!"
He was a regular at the Boot Room, a die-hard Red who loved his drink more than life itself. Emboldened by drink, he slammed the table and yelled, "I'm telling you all—if Liverpool win the league this year, I, Ted, will quit drinking! Not a drop, ever again!"
The moment the words left his mouth; the pub went silent for a moment then erupted into laughter. His old mates piled on with the jokes.
"Give it a rest, Ted! You've been saying that for years! Remember when we won the Champions League and you swore off drink then too? You ended up dead drunk, passed out at the pub door—we had to carry you home!"
"Too right! If you ever quit drinking, the sun'll rise in the west—Jenny wouldn't believe it for a second!"
Jenny was Ted's wife.
"Quit talking big and finish that pint in your hand first!"
The fans kept ribbing him, one after another, nobody took him seriously. As far as they were concerned, Ted's drinking habit was harder to kick than his loyalty to the club.
Ted, flustered, thumped his glass down on the table and shot back, "I mean it this time! This year's different—the squad's this strong, Julien, Steven, Kevin, every one of them's the real deal! If we win it, I'll follow through, I swear!"
Just then, George ambled over with a chilled pint in hand. He set it down in front of Ted with a faint smile. "Ted, the title's still a long way off, no need to rush it. How about this—finish this glass, and if the lads win tonight, then starting right now, you don't touch a drop until the team loses again. Deal?"
The room went quiet, every eye was fixed on Ted.
Ted stared at the beer in front of him, then at George, hesitating for a few seconds—he loved his drink, but he loved Liverpool more. If the team won the derby tonight, they'd be one step closer to the title, even giving up drink for a while would be worth it.
He slapped the table and boomed, "Fine! It's settled! George, you're on! If we win tonight, I'm off the drink till we lose again!"
"That's the spirit, Ted!"
The fans cheered and clapped, some slapping Ted on the back, others were still laughing and needling him.
One fan who knew Ted well called out, "George, if you actually get Ted off the drink, Jenny will owe you big time! Last I heard, Jenny was complaining Ted got so drunk he passed out right in the street in middle of the night, and her a woman on her own couldn't budge him an inch, cried her eyes out over it!"
That set everyone off laughing even harder.
Ted scratched his head, a flash of guilt appeared on his face, though he still wouldn't back down. "That was all in the past! This time's different—for Liverpool winning the league, I can hold out, it's no problem!"
George laughed and clapped him on the shoulder, pushing the glass toward him. "Finish this one first, and remember what you said. Tonight, let's beat United—we'll talk about the title one step at a time."
Ted picked up the glass and drained it in one go, the cold beer slid down his throat but it did nothing to cool the fire burning in him. The fans around him raised their glasses again, cheering, "Liverpool will win!" and "Smash United!"
The mood in the pub surged to a new high.
On the screen, the highlights from the first half kept playing on repeat from Julien's breakaway run, Gerrard's penalty, Mignolet's flying save. Every replay brought fresh waves of cheering.
Nobody cared whether Ted would actually make good on his bet, and nobody dwelled on how far the title race still had to go. For every Liverpool fan in the Boot Room, leading their bitter rivals 1-0 at the half was, right now, the happiest thing in the world.
Amid all the chatter and debate, on the television, Martin Tyler's voice came through once more. "Ladies and gentlemen, halftime is almost over, the second half is about to begin..."
The picture cut back to Old Trafford.
The Red Devils' home ground was roaring back to life. In the stands, the United fans seemed to have shaken off the gloom of the first half, breaking out once more into thunderous chants as a sea of red scarves waved, the noise was rolling around the whole stadium.
"United! Get it together!"
"Just one goal! We can still do it!"
"Hold the fort, level it up!"
The fans chanted together, their voices was filled with defiance, trying to will the players on the pitch back to life with sheer passion, trying to pour the strength of home advantage into the team through noise alone.
To them, a 1-0 deficit was nothing as long as the team could rally, a turnaround was still possible. Besides, they could lose to anyone else, but not to Liverpool again!
After the thrashing Liverpool had already handed them this season, United fans couldn't hold their heads up in front of Liverpool fans.
Soon, both teams came back out onto the pitch. Unlike the jittery nerves of the first half, there was now a new resolve on the United players' faces. Every one of them wore the look of a man fighting with his back against the wall. They knew that, trailing at home, only an all-out effort could salvage the Red Devils' pride.
During the break, Moyes had rallied the troops firing them up hard.
"I saw how passive we were in the first half, and you can hear the fans out there too. I know it hurts, but this isn't the time to sulk. It's only 1-0, we've still got forty-five minutes, we've still got a chance!
Drop the baggage, tighten up the midfield, give the front line more support, hold your shape at the back, no more needless fouls. We are going to level this at home, maybe even turn it around!
Remember, you're United players, you're wearing the Red Devils' shirt. Give everything you've got, and there's still hope!"
The players soon lined up at the centre circle. Julien exchanged a glance with his teammates.
Peep!
As referee Clattenburg's whistle sounded, the second half officially began.
Liverpool kicked off, and United immediately pushed up, hoping to win the ball back and launch a quick counter, pressing Liverpool hard from the first whistle. In the stands, the United fans roared louder watching every movement on the pitch intently, terrified of missing a single scoring chance.
But nobody could have predicted just how sudden, and how brutal, the second half was about to turn.
Liverpool, straight from kick-off, had no intention of controlling the tempo. They went straight on the attack.
De Bruyne picked up the ball in midfield, his sharp eyes spotted a gap in United's back line, and threaded a brilliant long ball through to Sturridge's feet. Sturridge burst forward, cutting into the box and bringing the ball under control, a clear sight of goal opening up in front of him.
Behind him, Phil Jones, desperate to intervene, shoved Sturridge from behind in a panic. Sturridge lost his balance and went down hard inside the United penalty area.
Peep!!!
Referee Clattenburg didn't hesitate for a second—he blew his whistle at once and pointed decisively to the spot, awarding Liverpool another penalty!
The stadium erupted. For a moment, the whole of Old Trafford stood stunned. United and Liverpool fans both froze—the second half had barely been going twenty-seven seconds, and already a penalty?
The next second, the United fans snapped out of it, and the stands erupted in deafening jeers, curses, and cries of protest. Fans threw their arms up, chanting together, "Robbery! Robbery!"
Their faces showed a mix of disbelief and fury—they never imagined that barely into the second half, their team would concede another penalty. For a United side already behind, it was a bolt from the blue, a devastating blow.
On the pitch, the United players were just as stunned. They stopped in their tracks, faces full of shock and confusion, as if they couldn't believe what had just happened.
Phil Jones scrambled up off the ground, hands spread wide, and rushed at Clattenburg with an innocent look on his face, shouting his defence. "I didn't push him! He fell on his own, that's a dive!"
Rooney, Carrick, and others quickly surrounded the referee too, all pleading their case, trying to talk Clattenburg into reversing the call. Anxiety was written all over their faces.
But Clattenburg stayed calm, his gaze was steady, not budging an inch from his call. He shook his head slowly, waved the United players back with a gesture, and pointed to the spot again—the decision stood, no room for change.
He'd seen it clearly—Phil Jones's shove had been obvious, an undisputable foul. United's protests, in the end, came to nothing.
Seeing the outcome, something close to despair crept onto the United players' faces. They knew that if this penalty went in, they'd be down 2-0, and turning the game around would become close to impossible. Their fightback hadn't even begun, and already it seemed all but over.
Meanwhile, the moment the penalty was given, the Liverpool players had already started celebrating. This time, Julien scooped up the ball as before and handed it to Gerrard. "Go on, Stevie—go be the first!"
That last goal had made him the greatest scorer in Liverpool's club history. If this one went in too, he'd become the derby's all-time top scorer as well!
Gerrard took the ball, patted Julien on the shoulder, and walked toward the penalty spot. He kissed the ball, then set it down on the spot.
He drew a deep breath. This was the record-breaking chance his teammates had created for him.
________________________________________________________
Check out my paatreon where you can read more chapters:
paatreon.com/LorianFiction
Thanks for your support!