At the Boot Room Tavern, the mont Julien's shot cannoned into the net, the entire pub detonated.
The explosion of noise and movent was instantaneous, mirroring scenes playing out simultaneously in Liverpool pubs across the city. Everyone was caught up in the sa wild celebration, the sa outpouring of pure joy.
"FOUR! IT'S FOUR!" Ted cupped his hands around his mouth and roared over the noise, "JULIEN! Eighteen-year-old Julien! The king of Old Trafford!"
Even George, who prided himself on maintaining composure through decades of following Liverpool, felt sothing crack inside his chest.
His eyes remained fixed on the television screen showing Julien being mobbed by teammates, and when he finally spoke, his voice trembled with emotion he couldn't quite control: "I've watched Liverpool for forty years... I've never seen anyone go to Old Trafford in a derby and put four past United. Never."
He glanced down at his own hands and realized they were shaking. He'd thought himself beyond this kind of instinctive response, thought age and experience had armored him against such raw emotion. But tonight had proven him wrong.
The pub's sound system had been cranked to maximum volu, and when the opening notes of "You'll Never Walk Alone" began playing, every voice in the room joined in imdiately.
So people were shouting more than singing, their voices were cracking and going off-key without any concern for lody. Others threw arms around complete strangers' shoulders, heads pressed together as they swayed and humd.
Even the normally taciturn bartender set down the glass he'd been polishing, joining the chorus with rhythmic stomps of his feet. The floorboards thundered beneath dozens of stamping boots, creating a drumming accompanint to Julien's mont of glory.
The singing never stopped. Soone launched an empty beer can toward the ceiling in exuberance. It pinged off the overhead beam and tumbled down, striking soone's shoulder, but the accidental target simply turned and pulled the thrower into a bear hug, both n laughing.
The television replayed Julien's four goals on a continuous loop, and each ti the footage showed another goal, the pub erupted afresh with cheers. Even the replays, monts they'd already seen and celebrated triggered new explosions of noise.
Everyone sang together in voices blending into one imperfect but passionate rendition of the Liverpool anthem. There was no coordination, no sense of proper rhythm or lody. Just pure emotion given voice.
The portrait of Bill Shankly hung on the wall, his face was glowing by the red-tinted lights that subrged the entire pub. His stern expression seed to soften in that glow, as if the legendary manager himself was watching over this mont of conquest.
The pub's windows rattled in their fras from the volu inside. Outside, the Liverpool night seed to carry Julien's na on the wind, whispered through the streets of the city where he'd beco a hero in re months.
This wasn't just another victory celebration. Liverpool supporters were pouring decades of hope, years of disappointnt, and generations of passionate devotion into this single ninety-minute match.
And eighteen-year-old Julien had responded to all of it with the most blistering, most emphatic answer imaginable: four goals that would echo through derby folklore for years to co.
Beyond the pubs scattered throughout Liverpool, the internet had caught fire.
Twitter feeds were scrolling at incredible speeds, overwheld by the sheer volu of posts flooding in from around the world.
One tweet captured the mood perfectly: "EIGHTEEN YEARS OLD! AT OLD TRAFFORD! FOUR GOALS! What kind of monster is De Rocca?!! My hands are still shaking—when he started that run from midfield I nearly threw my phone across the room!"
Another chid in: "Julien just descended on Old Trafford tonight like so kind of Anfield deity made flesh!"
The FIFA 14 comparisons started imdiately. The ga had only launched two days earlier, and fans were already catching up:
"That final thunderbolt finish! De Gea looked completely lost! De Rocca pulled off sothing that looks like pushing the power bar into the red zone in FIFA 14—just maximum power!
De Gea's diving animation looked exactly like when I'm controlling the keeper and press the save button too late, watching helplessly as the ball screams past into the corner! Julien is unreal! A natural-born finisher!"
FIFA 14 had marked a milestone for Julien, it was his first inclusion in the video ga franchise, which had naturally attracted thousands of fans eager to play with their new hero.
One supporter vented his frustration, "Don't even ntion that ga! FIFA 14 just dropped and the first thing I did was search for Julien—this is his debut appearance in FIFA! So, I opened twenty gold packs yesterday, and I couldn't pull a single Julien card!
In the ga he's a silver card marked as a future star, which ans his drop rate is way lower than regular silvers! On the Ultimate Team market, his silver card is selling for nearly 20,000 coins! I stayed up until three in the morning trying to snag one, and soone outbid by 0.1 seconds. I wanted to scream!"
Another player agreed enthusiastically, "Exactly! Look at his player stats—82 pace, 79 shooting, 80 dribbling, and his potential rating is 91! That ans if you train him up properly, he'll reach elite striker status!
EA are evil geniuses for making him a rare silver. The pack odds are lower than most golds. My friend opened fifty packs and only got one bronze substitute version of Julien. He nearly smashed his PS4 in rage!"
Soone else added a reality check, "I actually tested Julien's stats in FIFA 14—boosted his shot power and accuracy both to 90-plus. Even then, I could only replicate that kind of finish one out of every ten attempts! The fact that he scored that screar in the ninetieth minute of a full match, after playing the entire ninety, is basically like playing with cheats enabled in real life!"
The celebration continued across social dia, "From 0-2 down to 4-2 winners! From being dominated to turning it around completely! Julien De Rocca carried Liverpool on his back tonight! After tonight, nobody can claim we don't have a world-class striker!"
Another supporter comnted: "Rember how much our attack struggled last season? Now we've got Julien, and it feels like the entire team has co alive! Gerrard's passing finally has a reliable target; Suárez has more freedom to roam... I'm so happy right now!"
"I justt made all four Julien goals my phone wallpaper! Every ti I unlock my screen, I see them, and my mood instantly improves! Co on Liverpool, co on Julien!"
There was even an ambitious prediction from a passionate fan, "I genuinely think Julien could win the Ballon d'Or! An eighteen-year-old who's never even played Champions League football competing for the Golden Ball? Would've been laughable before tonight. But after watching this performance, who's brave enough to say it's impossible?"
Amid this wave of Liverpool euphoria, Manchester United supporters were conspicuously absent from the conversation. The Reds' fans kept building montum with increasingly bold proclamations, their excitent was feeding on itself as the post-match analysis stretched into the early hours.
And truthfully, nobody was paying attention to what remained of the actual match. Four minutes of stoppage ti ticked by in what felt like seconds. The outco was no longer in doubt.
When referee Mike Dean's whistle pierced the air three tis in quick succession, signaling the end of the match, Old Trafford was consud by silence broken only by one sound; the jubilant roaring from the Liverpool away section, a pocket of red joy in a sea of ho disappointnt.
The match was over. Liverpool had won. Over two fixtures this season, the aggregate score read 10-2. United hadn't just been beaten, they'd been demolished, humiliated in a way that would take years to forget.
United players trudged toward the tunnel with heads bowed, shoulders slumped in the physical manifestation of defeat.
anwhile, the Liverpool squad lingered on the pitch, celebrating with each other before turning as one unit toward the away section where their traveling support waited to share this mont.
At the barrier separating players from fans, fans were packed so tightly together they could barely move. Those in the front row slapped their hands against the tal railing, their fingers were trembling with lingering adrenaline and overwhelming emotion.
A young girl in the front row, red ribbon tied in her hair, stood on her tiptoes with one arm stretched overhead as far as it would reach, trying to get closer to her heroes.
The opening notes of "You'll Never Walk Alone" began spontaneously, starting with just a few scattered voices before swelling into a unified chorus.
The song wrapped around the players like a warm embrace, carrying through the cold Manchester night air, reaching their ears as the most beautiful sound in football.
The players ford a line facing their supporters, waving and applauding the fans who'd made the journey. Then, together, they joined the singing.
When the anthem faded into the Manchester night, Gerrard and Sturridge moved forward, cornering Julien from both sides, their hands were gently on his back but pushing him toward the front of the group.
As soon as Julien stepped forward into clear view, the away section detonated with sound. "JULIEN! JULIEN! JULIEN!"
The chant crashed over him in wave after wave of adoration and gratitude from supporters who'd witnessed sothing they'd rember for the rest of their lives.
He raised one hand and waved.
"Take us to the title!" soone shouted from deep in the crowd. Imdiately, others picked up the sentint: "Julien! The championship! Bring us the championship!"
Another voice rang out with emotion: "Don't ever leave Liverpool!"
Julien heard those words clearly. He stopped waving for a mont, his arm was falling to his side as he looked directly into the mass of supporters, taking in their faces, their hope, their desperate belief.
For two full seconds, he simply stood there, eting their gaze. Then he nodded solemnly.
This wasn't empty showmanship or a hollow gesture designed to please the crowd. This was Julien making a promise to everyone watching.
His eyes scanned the barrier until they found what he was looking for—the young girl with the red ribbon in her hair, the one who'd been reaching toward him throughout the celebration. She was watching him with wide, hopeful eyes.
Julien grabbed the hem of his shirt and pulled it over his head. He took two steps toward where she stood, pointing directly at her to make sure there was no confusion about his intention, and called out over the noise: "This is for you."
He extended the shirt toward the barrier. The girl's father, understanding imdiately, hoisted his daughter higher so her small hands could reach over the tal railing.
The instant her fingers made contact with the shirt, tears spilled down her cheeks. She clutched the shirt to her chest and then thrust it high with both hands, displaying it like a trophy as her voice, high and clear, cut through the celebration: "I got Julien's shirt! I got Julien's shirt!"
The away section's volu increased even further. So fans were crying, wiping at their eyes while still managing to cheer. Others shouted in support: "Julien, we'll back you forever!"
But Julien wasn't finished. He bent down and began working on his right boot, fumbling slightly with the laces. They'd been tied in multiple knots, and his calf muscles were still twitching from the exertion of his final sprint. His hands shook slightly as he tried to loosen them.
Finally, he freed the boot and held it high, his gaze shifted to another section of the barrier where two young boys had been watching him with desperate, pleading expressions.
They wore Liverpool shirts that were clearly too large for their small bodies, sleeves were dangling past their wrists, hem falling was nearly to their knees, trouser legs were rolled up in thick cuffs to keep from dragging on the ground.
Julien worked on his left boot next, pulling it free, then moved toward the boys. He handed each of them a boot. The boy on the left nearly lost his balance when he received it and was stumbling backward before catching himself, then imdiately hugged the boot against his chest with both arms.
The boy on the right pressed his boot against his heart, his lips were moving whether in prayer or disbelief or simple shock, it was hard to tell. But the smile that spread across his face needed no explanation.
It was pure, uncomplicated happiness.
Both boys had been overwheld by sudden fortune, neither quite believing what had just happened to them in this mont they'd rember for the rest of their lives.
Watching them, seeing their reaction, Julien felt sothing warm spread through his chest and smiled.
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