As Julien walked slowly toward the touchline—acknowledging all four sides of the stadium, Martin Tyler in the comntary box had fully abandoned professional restraint.
His voice rose several octaves in excitent:
"I'll be completely honest with everyone watching: I originally thought—we might witness sothing absolutely miraculous tonight. Yes, I thought Julien could score five goals tonight. Maybe even six or seven!
That sounds insane, doesn't it? Completely mad! But—this is Julien we're discussing! With him, the supposedly impossible becos routine!"
Tyler paused for breath, then delivered the statistics.
"Look at these numbers. Burn them into your mory because you're witnessing history:
17 league matches played. 31 goals scored.
"Let that sink in. Seventeen matches. Thirty-one goals.
Tonight, with his perfect performance—2 goals, 1 assist, complete dominance—Julien has narrowed the gap between himself and the Premier League single-season record to just 3 goals!
Alan Shearer and Andy Cole jointly hold that record at 34, set back in 1994-95. Nearly two decades that mark has stood untouched, almost mythical in its permanence!"
Tyler paused, then pressed on. "So, was I wrong to expect him to break it tonight? Of course not. The Christmas fixture congestion is brutal, and Klopp is obviously protecting him from injury. Nineteen years old—no, he was still eighteen for the first half of the season! A young man arriving straight from Ligue 1 with zero adjustnt period, imdiately switching into goal-machine mode. He has earned every expectation we place on him."
Tyler paused, allowing his guest co-comntator tonight so space. Jamie Carragher took over seamlessly sounding prideful.
"Martin, you're absolutely spot-on! Tonight illustrated everything special about this player!
That first goal—the composure was ridiculous. Beating the offside trap perfectly, bursting through, one-on-one with the goalkeeper, and finishing with the calmness of soone doing a training ground drill."
"That second goal—" Carragher whistled appreciatively "—unstoppable rocket from the penalty area arc! Marshall literally couldn't move! Just watched physics happen! The power, the placent, the technique—world-class in every respect!
And that assist to Suárez? Threaded through two defenders in minimal space, perfect weight, arriving exactly when Luis needed it. Telepathic.
This is what makes him genuinely terrifying, Martin. He's not just a goal-scorer—though God knows 31 goals in 17 matches proves he can finish. But he's also the creator, the playmaker, the one who activates everyone around him!
He's not a pure number nine waiting for service. He's the complete modern forward—the core that makes the entire attacking system function at peak efficiency!"
Tyler resud, his tone shifting to tactical analysis. "Klopp substituting him at 55 minutes with the match comfortably won—that's absolutely the correct decision.
Because look at the schedule: After Christmas, Liverpool face consecutive away matches against Manchester City and Chelsea separated by just three days. The Etihad on Boxing Day, Stamford Bridge three days later.
Those two fixtures will define Liverpool's season. Genuine title six-pointers against direct rivals, both away from ho, both against elite opposition with superior defensive organization to anyone they've faced so far.
Klopp understands what he has in Julien. The kid's beco Liverpool's dual core—essential for both the title challenge AND the record chase. You don't risk that in a 4-0 match against relegation candidates. You protect your crown jewel.
"But seriously—" Tyler's voice turned playful, rhetorical. "—is anyone still discussing whether he can break the record?"
He let the question hang for stage effect, then answered himself.
"Of course not! That's settled! That's done! The question now—the only interesting question—is: How far will he push it?
44 goals? That's 10 beyond Shearer. Certainly achievable.
48 goals? Approaching 50, looks unthinkable. But with his efficiency?
Maybe even 50 goals in a single Premier League season?
Think about that. Fifty. In 38 matches. Nobody's ever approached that. Nobody's even threatened it. The record's been 34 for two decades!
He's got 21 matches remaining. At his current rate of 1.82 goals per ga—and there's zero indication he's slowing down—he could genuinely hit the mid-40s. Maybe beyond.
This is absolutely insane!"
Tyler's voice swelled with awe.
"Anfield is applauding him. All of English football—no, all of world football—is witnessing a legend's birth! This young man is rewriting history with goals. Shocking the world with talent. Making the supposedly impossible look routine!
And we—everyone watching right now, everyone in this stadium, everyone following English football in December 2013—we're fortunate enough to witness it firsthand!
This is why we love football! This is the magic! This is what keeps us coming back! Monts like these, players like this, performances that transcend sport and beco cultural touchstones!"
Carragher, overco with emotion and pride, interjected. "You know what, Martin? Watching Liverpool's current defensive performance tonight, watching how this team operates, I started to think I retired too early. Should've stuck around one more season."
Tyler laughed warmly. "Well, Jamie, you're technically a free agent! Winter window opens January 1st. Maybe Liverpool need experienced cover at center-back with Skrtel injured—"
"Don't tempt !" Carragher shot back, grinning. "According to all the dia reports, Liverpool are planning massive January reinforcents anyway—"
Three miles from Anfield, in the heart of Liverpool's city center, the legendary Boot Room Pub had completely transford into a heaving mass of red-shirted humanity.
The pub normally busy on match days but manageable had exceeded fire code capacity an hour ago.
When Julien's second goal flew into the top corner in the 34th minute, the eruption of noise inside the Boot Room had been genuinely dangerous—glass-rattling, structural-integrity-testing volu that made so wince and reach for earplugs.
Now, with the match won and Julien substituted off, the celebration had evolved from explosive joy to building euphoria.
Beer glasses raised and crashed together endlessly, foams were spraying everywhere, sticking to shirts and faces and the ceiling. Nobody cared. Drinks could be cleaned. Monts like this ca maybe once in a lifeti.
A bearded middle-aged fan—Liverpool supporter for 40 years, season ticket holder since 1987, soone who'd endured the disappointnts and near-misses and soul-crushing failures stood on a chair (questionable decision) holding his pint in the air like a trophy, face flushed red from alcohol and emotion and sheer disbelieving joy.
"THIRTY-ONE GOALS! THIRTY-ONE! JUST THREE AWAY FROM THE RECORD! MY GOD!"
His voice cracked slightly, "Seventeen matches! SEVENTEEN! Is this kid even human? Is he an alien? So kind of footballing experint?!
Rember the sumr? Rember people saying eighty million was too much? Saying he'd need adaptation ti? Saying the Premier League would 'find him out'?"
He gestured wildly, his beer was sloshing: "WHO'S LAUGHING NOW?! WHO'S GOT EGG ON THEIR FACE?!
The question isn't 'can he break the record'—that's done, that's settled, might as well start engraving his na on it NOW! The question is: Can he hit SIXTY?! Can he push so far beyond the old mark that nobody ever threatens it again?!"
The pub roared in approval.
A young fan wearing a Julien number 10 shirt that clearly cost too much of his student loan—jumped onto the table next to the bearded guy (seriously concerning decisions were happening here), laughing with overexcited joy.
"Never mind the record—that's done, that's settled. A few gas after Christmas and it's gone.! Because here's what matters RIGHT NOW:"
He spread his arms dramatically: "WE'RE TOP! WE'RE TOP OF THE TABLE! THIRTY-SEVEN POINTS!"
The pub went nuclear. Glasses raised, voices rged into one nonstop roar.
"Yeah, okay, we've played one more match than Arsenal! Fine! But when—WHEN—is the last ti Liverpool sat top of the Premier League at Christmas?!"
He looked around, challenging anyone to answer. Nobody could. It had been too long.
"CHRISTMAS CHAMPIONS! We're going to be CHRISTMAS CHAMPIONS! When's the last ti that happened? When's the last ti we even sniffed the top spot this deep into a season?!"
His proclamation triggered absolute mayhem—people were jumping, hugging strangers, spilling drinks, not caring, too happy to care about anything except this mont.
An older man in late 50s, eyes reddening, hands trembling slightly as he raised his pint to his lips—spoke more quietly, but the emotion in his voice cut through the noise.
"The Premier League era..." he began with emotion. "Liverpool's never won it. Think about that. Twenty-one years this league's existed. Twenty-one years watching United dominate, watching Arsenal have their monts, watching City buy their way to titles, watching Chelsea do the sa.
Twenty-one years of 'next year,' of 'we'll get there,' of near-misses and false dawns and crushing disappointnts.
From Owen to Gerrard—" his voice actually broke saying Gerrard's na, the weight of watching his hero play his entire career for Liverpool without winning the one trophy that mattered. "—we've hoped. Year after year. Season after season. Always believing, always hurting.
And now?"
He gestured toward the television screen showing Julien's smiling face: "Now this kid arrives from France. Nineteen years old. And suddenly—suddenly—everything's different. Everything's possible. Everything feels...real."
The fan standing next to him gripped the older man's shoulder with firm reassurance,
"Uncle, listen to : This ti we're going to do it. This ti is different.
Look at the montum! Five straight wins! Big wins too—not scraping 1-0, DESTROYING teams! Four, five goals a match! That's what wins titles! Consistent domination!
And it's not just Julien—though yeah, he's basically worth half a team by himself. But we've also got Suárez hitting form again, Gerrard still conducting from midfield, De Bruyne arriving in January, plus Sterling, Sturridge, Coutinho, everyone clicking at once!
This season—THIS specific season—we genuinely have a shot! A real shot!"
Soone near the bar with voice hoarse from sustained shouting bellowed loud enough to cut through the ambient noise: "TOMORROW NIGHT! ARSENAL PLAY CHELSEA! THE HEAVYWEIGHT BOUT!"
This triggered fresh laughter and excited chatter, a number of conversations were starting simultaneously about it.
"Best case scenario—" soone said hopefully. "—they absolutely batter each other! Both teams picking up injuries, getting players suspended, exhausted from the fight!"
"Even better—" another voice chid in. "—Arsenal LOSE! Then we're outright Christmas champions regardless!"
Nods and grins spread through the crowd.
"Exactly! Let them batter each other. We've already won. Best result for us is a draw—keeps both of them further away."
As the match on television wound toward its conclusion—Liverpool utterly in control, Cardiff offering nothing, the result never in doubt—the atmosphere in the Boot Room built toward its emotional crescendo.
The euphoria of a winning streak filled every corner of the pub—the clink of glasses, the flash of red shirts, the chorus of joyful voices weaving together into sothing electric.
For Liverpool supporters—particularly those old enough to rember the 1980s dominance, old enough to have suffered through the barren years since—this night represented more than a 5-0 victory over struggling opposition.
This was validation.
This was the response to decades of waiting, the answer to thousands of prayers offered to football gods who'd seed deaf to Liverpool's pleas.
This was championship dreams crystallizing from desperate hope into genuine possibility.
When the final whistle blew—PHEEEP! PHEEEP! PHEEEEEP!—the Boot Room Tavern's celebration reached its absolute zenith.
People embraced strangers like long-lost family, united by shared colors and shared suffering and now shared joy.
High-fives echoed from every corner, hands connecting with satisfying smacks, grins splitting faces.
So people were crying from overwhelming emotion, from relief, from joy.
The Premier League title—that elusive, cursed trophy that had haunted Liverpool's existence for two decades had never, NEVER been this close.
Now it felt inevitable. Now it felt like destiny.
And all of it—ALL OF IT—traced back to one player:
That 19-year-old genius forward.
That kid nad Julien De Rocca who was rewriting Premier League history with every match, one unstoppable goal at a ti.
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