The sa anxiety troubled at Abdullah Mansour.
He sat with David Dein in one of Old Trafford's executive boxes, his brow furrowed as he watched the disaster unfold below. After such a dream start to the season, other teams were figuring out Liverpool's weaknesses. Recent matches had beco increasingly harder to watch.
This one simply laid all the problems bare.
Abdullah leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his fingers were unconsciously scratching at the leather armrest.
On the pitch, Liverpool's players had bunched into their own half, scrambling back on defense while Manchester United's midfielders passed the ball in leisurely circles. Liverpool could barely get a touch.
"What the hell are they even playing at?" Abdullah straightened up suddenly; frustration was sharping his tone. "I don't even understand proper football and I can see we're being completely strangled out there."
He pointed at Liverpool's players chasing shadows. His voice rose in indignation. "How are we supposed to win like this? We need to keep buying players! We don't have anyone in midfield who can win the ball back, the defense collapses at the first sign of pressure—if this continues, we'll finish the season with nothing. Not even European football to show for it!"
David Dein sat beside him, his voice was restrained and steady. "I've been thinking about what you said last ti. The list is basically finalized. I had preliminary discussions with two clubs just last week. Both targets can plug our holes imdiately. It won't drag out; once the January window opens, we'll move fast."
Abdullah's scowl softened slightly. He grunted. "If it's decided, then push it through quickly. Don't drag your feet. Money isn't an issue, what matters is that they actually solve our problems."
David nodded. "Trust . This ti I have a clear recruitnt strategy. It'll be different."
Abdullah pressed on. "What about the manager? I don't like him."
His finger pointed toward Liverpool's technical area on the touchline. He genuinely disliked Brendan Rodgers; everything from the man's public statents to his tactical approach rubbed Abdullah the wrong way.
In his assessnt, Rodgers was too soft, practically a defeatist with his pre-match comnts.
Abdullah spent ti on Liverpool fan forums. The general sentint toward Rodgers wasn't particularly positive there either.
David gave a slight nod. From a purely sporting perspective, he had soone in mind, an old colleague who would be perfect.
David could barely imagine what his forr partner might accomplish with an unlimited transfer budget. Unfortunately, that option was basically impossible.
But he had a backup candidate. This alternative had actually co up during a conversation with Julien, who'd ntioned in passing that: "Borussia Dortmund's style is really impressive. They even reached the Champions League final last season. I think it's just their squad depth that's lacking, the tactics are absolutely sound."
That comnt had drawn David's attention to the German coach at Dortmund.
David looked at Abdullah. "I do have soone in mind. I'm in the process of making contact, though it might prove to be difficult."
Abdullah frowned and spoke. "What difficulty can't money solve? Stop being so penny-pinching from now on. When you're trying to sign people, be willing to spend. Don't drag things out over a million or two euros. What we want to see is results, and we want them—"
Abdullah stopped mid-sentence.
BOOOOOOO!
An enormous wave of jeering erupted from the stands!
"They're losing it! Liverpool's losing it!"
"Go back to Anfield! You don't belong here!"
Tens of thousands of supporters unleashed their mockery toward the pitch, with fans in the front rows waving their arms and hurling abuse.
On the field, Liverpool finally had an attacking opportunity. When Steven Gerrard managed to send a pass out to Julien on the flank, Julien collected the ball and imdiately went to work.
One feint, sharp and decisive, sent Alexander Büttner stumbling. He was already beaten, but even after Julien had gone past him, Büttner stuck out a trailing leg from behind and caught Julien's shin with his studs.
The referee's whistle ca imdiately. But no card followed.
Julien shoved Büttner away as he got to his feet, unleashing a string of French curses before switching to English. "Keep your fucking tackles clean!"
Büttner, being Dutch, understood enough French to know exactly what Julien had called him. He stepped up, chest out, ready to straighten up. "Listen, kid—"
Jordan Henderson ca charging in from an angle, his right hand was slamming into Büttner's chest and sending him stumbling back two steps.
Jonny Evans imdiately grabbed Henderson's arm. "What's your problem? Looking for a fight?"
Henderson wrenched his arm free, pointing directly at Büttner's face. "You were already beaten and you still tried to kick him! You're trying to injure soone, you dirty bastard!"
That lit the powder keg.
José Enrique, Liverpool's left-back, rushed over and started gesturing furiously at the referee.
anwhile, Shinji Kagawa placed himself in front of Büttner while Henderson pushed forward chest-to-chest. Steven Gerrard tried to separate the players, but Wayne Rooney's elbow caught his shoulder. Gerrard's jaw tightened as he placed his hand firmly on Rooney's arm.
The referee hurried over to separate everyone, pulling out his yellow card. He pointed first at Julien, then at Büttner—one card each. Henderson was spared, which was relatively lenient. He clearly wanted to defuse the situation before Liverpool's collective anger boiled over completely.
This kind of situation was always tricky to manage. The Manchester-Liverpool derby never offered easy monts.
After the cards ca out, things settled slightly. Julien imdiately pushed past Henderson. "Don't waste energy on them! Finish the match first, then we'll talk!"
He'd achieved what he wanted. Büttner now carried a yellow card, which ant he'd have to think twice before making another aggressive challenge. It was an indirect way of easing the defensive pressure on himself.
But before the tension fully dissipated, Ryan Giggs walked deliberately into Liverpool players' line of sight. Slowly, almost exaggeratedly, he raised his right hand. Two fingers extended. The other three curled in.
Two-nil.
Julien actually smiled at that. So, this was Giggs's response to Gerrard's three-finger gesture from the previous match at Anfield? A clumsy imitation at best.
Did Manchester United really think they had this match wrapped up?
Julien gathered himself and walked toward his position for the restart. He'd been probing United's defensive structure throughout the match, constantly searching for vulnerabilities and trying to create opportunities.
On the football pitch, victory ultimately belonged to those who kept their composure and seized their monts when they ca.
Liverpool prepared to take the free kick. Given the distance, it would be treated as a regular restart rather than a direct attempt on goal.
The jeering at Old Trafford continued to flood over the pitch in ugly waves.
In the broadcast booth, Gary Neville caught sight of his forr teammate's gesture and laughed. "Now that's the Manchester United I know! I've said it before—I despise Liverpool's attitude when they're losing. They fall behind and imdiately start panicking, trying to compensate with shouting and rough play. Where's the ntality of a top club in that?"
His voice was seeped with contempt.
"They win at Anfield once and suddenly think they're bigger than United? Really? And what are we seeing now? Ryan stands there calmly, doesn't say a word, just raises his hand with that simple gesture and it cuts deeper than their entire team's protests combined.
You know why? Because it's backed by a two-nil scoreline. Because it's backed by United dominating them across the pitch. Because it's backed by reality, they can't argue away no matter how much they complain!"
Neville was warming to his the now, his accent was thickening.
"Don't give this nonsense about Büttner's challenge being too heavy, or the referee not showing a card. Those aren't Liverpool's problems! Their midfield can't hold possession, their defense can't hold their positions, their attack can't move the ball forward. The mont they face any real physicality; they lose their heads—that's what's killing them!"
He leaned closer to the microphone, his voice was rising with satisfaction. "Ryan's gesture wasn't provocation. It was a reminder. A reminder that at Old Trafford, in front of Manchester United, they'll never hold their heads high. And I'll be watching with pleasure when they lose!"
But just as Neville's words faded—
ROAAAAAR!
Old Trafford erupted in shock.
Liverpool's free kick found its way to the right flank where Julien collected it with a neat first touch. After a brief adjustnt, he exploded into acceleration, cutting inside.
He linked up with Luis Suarez, who'd dropped deep to offer support, executing a perfect one-two combination.
The flowing move, combined with Julien's explosive burst of speed, left both Büttner and Kagawa grasping at air. He was into the penalty area.
That single mont triggered a roaring response from the United supporters—this was exactly how Julien had torn them apart at Anfield. And now he had carved his way into the most dangerous territory on the pitch once again.
As Julien penetrated the box, Jonny Evans closed him down quickly, knowing he couldn't give the kid any space to operate. But in this kind of tight area, Julien's ball control was absolutely world-class.
The instant Evans committed, Julien dropped his shoulder, feinting as if to continue cutting left. Evans shifted right to cut off the angle. Then Julien's eyes flicked toward Suarez's run, his foot was rolling over the ball as though preparing to send a pass through the defense.
The series of linked feints completely sold Evans on the wrong move. The United center-back lunged desperately off-balance to intercept what he thought would be a pass, and Julien seized that precise mont with predatory instinct.
His ankle flicked the ball slightly in, directing it straight into Evans's outstretched leg.
Their ankles collided.
"Ahhh!" Julien cried out and went down in the penalty area, clutching his ankle and slapping the turf in apparent agony.
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