After Coutinho's spectacular strike found the net, he sped away from the goal, arms spread wide like an aircraft banking into a turn, his face was split by a wide grin.
But instead of racing toward the corner flag or the Kop End—the traditional destinations for goal celebrations, he changed direction mid-stride, seeking out the architect of the mont.
De Bruyne.
He was still standing roughly where he'd delivered the pass, watching the celebration unfold. He wasn't the type to sprint fifty yards celebrating an assist.
But Coutinho wasn't having it and crashed into him with enthusiastic force, wrapping both arms around De Bruyne's shoulders in an embrace that nearly knocked them both off balance.
Within seconds, teammates sward around them—Sterling arriving with a flying leap onto the pile, Luis Alberto adding his weight, even Aspas was jogging over from his position up front to join the celebration.
De Bruyne's face relaxed into an easy smile. He raised his hand and patted Coutinho firmly on the back. His first competitive appearance in Liverpool red, and he'd already created a goal with the kind of pass that would feature in highlight reels.
It was a Perfect start.
On the touchline, Klopp pumped his fist with the force of a man releasing tension. His expression showed relief mixed with vindication—this signing was already paying dividends.
He turned to assistant coach Željko Buvač standing beside him, leaning in close so his voice wouldn't carry to the nearby fans or traveling dia.
"Kevin's performance has been exceptional," Klopp said in low tones. "Far exceeded even optimistic expectations. The ball control, the vision, the composure—it's all there."
Buvač nodded ardently, his eyes were never leaving De Bruyne's figure on the pitch. "With Kevin controlling the midfield like this, we finally don't have to rely on Steven for every single important match. For the rest of this fixture congestion, we can let Steven rest more strategically, save his best form and energy for the crucial Premier League matches."
Klopp nodded repeatedly. De Bruyne's arrival had undoubtedly given the team's midfield rotation the depth it desperately needed. No longer would they be forced to play Gerrard into the ground, risking injury and burnout, simply because no adequate replacent existed.
Gerrard, De Bruyne, Henderson, Kanté, Lucas Leiva—each brought different qualities, different tactical profiles. More than sufficient to handle the demands of competing across multiple competitions simultaneously. The squad was deeper now, more capable of sustaining excellence over a grueling schedule.
Klopp showed a small smile.
Soon the match resud its rhythm, and Liverpool's attacking montum showed absolutely no signs of slowing. If anything, the goal had energized them further.
Oldham remained pinned deep in their own half, their defensive shape was compressed into an increasingly desperate rectangle. They were nearly powerless to respond with any attacking threat of their own, barely managing to string three passes together before Liverpool's pressing forced another turnover.
The three new signings' performances grew increasingly impressive as they settled into the match rhythm and began anticipating their teammates' movents more accurately.
Piszczek's work down the right flank beca more assured with each passing minute. He repeatedly used his fast pace to shake off opposing defenders on recovery runs, then delivered crosses with varying trajectories—so whipped in low and hard across the six-yard box, others floated toward the back post with more arc.
His defensive positioning was equally impressive, reading passes before they happened and intercepting with clean efficiency. His coordination with Sterling on that wing grew more fluid as the match progressed.
De Bruyne commanded the midfield, his passes were dissecting Oldham's defensive structure precisely. Through constant through balls that split defensive lines and sideways passes that shifted the point of attack, he manipulated the opposing defensive shape, pulling players out of position and creating space for teammates to exploit.
Oldham's midfielders looked exhausted from chasing shadows—they'd close down De Bruyne only to watch him slip the ball away to an unmarked teammate; they'd drop deep to cover passing lanes only to see him switch the play to the opposite flank.
Van Dijk, sowhat ironically, still had precious little defensive work to do. The opposition's sporadic counterattacks couldn't even breach Liverpool's midfield screen. He could only sit comfortably in his position, maintaining his defensive line, occasionally participating in passing sequences when Liverpool built attacks from the back.
For a player signed specifically to shore up defensive vulnerabilities, the lack of genuine tests was quite funny. But his positioning remained disciplined.
Ti flowed on amid Anfield's constant background roar.
Soon, in the twenty-ninth minute, Liverpool struck again.
This attack also originated from the right side—Piszczek's territory.
After receiving a simple square pass from Lucas Leiva in midfield, Piszczek imdiately shifted gears, accelerating into the space ahead of him like a sprinter.
Oldham's left-back recognized the danger too late. By the ti he'd processed what was happening and begun his recovery run, Piszczek had already built a yard of separation. His pace in full flight was devastating.
Facing the opposing left-back's desperate defensive positioning, Piszczek chose not to try forcing his way past the defender down the touchline—the percentage play would have been low, likely resulting in the ball going out for a throw-in or being blocked for a corner.
Instead, he checked his run fractionally, creating just enough space to deliver a precise cutback pass. The ball rolled backward toward the edge of the penalty area, finding Luis Alberto's feet in space roughly eighteen yards from goal.
Luis didn't need a second invitation. One quick touch to set the ball on his preferred foot, a glance up to confirm the goalkeeper's positioning, and then he struck it cleanly with his instep.
The ball nestled there at the bottom left corner where the side netting t the goal line.
2-0!
Anfield erupted in enthusiastic cheers. Piszczek's assist had the fans particularly excited—both new signings with goal contributions already.
Luis Alberto celebrated with Spanish flair, sliding on his knees toward the corner flag before being mobbed by teammates. But the loudest chants from the Kop were for the man who'd created the chance:
"PISZCZEK! PISZCZEK! PISZCZEK!"
Piszczek acknowledged the appreciation with a raised hand before jogging back toward his position with a smile.
In the thirty-fifth minute, Liverpool earned a free kick in dangerous territory—just left of the penalty area arc, perhaps twenty-three yards from goal. It was positioned perfectly in De Bruyne's favored shooting zone.
He stood before the ball with calm focus. He slowly backed up several steps, counting them out precisely creating the distance he needed for his approach. His eyes locked on the far top corner of the goal, already visualizing the ball's trajectory before he'd even struck it.
As the referee's whistle blew, De Bruyne began his run-up. His approach was smooth, balanced, building montum without rushing. His non-kicking foot planted precisely beside the ball, his body shape was leaning slightly back to generate lift.
Then his right foot swept through, striking the ball with the sweet spot where laces t leather, imparting vicious spin.
The ball took off like it had been launched from a catapult, spinning wickedly as it arced toward the top right corner. The trajectory was absolutely perfect.
Oldham's goalkeeper Dean Brill threw himself desperately in a full-stretch dive, his body was fully extended, fingertips were reaching toward the flight path with everything he had.
But even as he launched himself, he knew he had no chance.
The ball struck the outside of the crossbar with a clang that echoed around the stadium.
Then it flew out, bouncing away to safety.
The entire Anfield crowd gasped then burst into thunderous applause.
"So close!" the comntator shouted, his voice was high with excitent. "Nearly went in! Would have been absolutely brilliant! The quality of that free kick was exceptional—the angle, power, and spin were all absolutely perfect. Just inches away from being one of the great free kicks! Such a pity! If that had nestled in the top corner, it would've been an absolute worldie of a free kick! De Bruyne's technique is incredibly refined!"
Fans throughout the stands buzzed with discussion, the near-miss was sohow generating as much excitent as the actual goals had.
"This winter transfer window has been absolutely brilliant!" one fan said to his neighbor, gesturing energetically. "De Bruyne and Piszczek are both so capable, so clearly Premier League quality—spending a hundred million was totally worth it!"
"Ha, yeah, absolutely impressive!" his companion agreed, shaking his head in wonder. "And we haven't even seen them in a proper league match yet. Wait until they're playing against Arsenal or Chelsea—that's when we'll really see what they can do."
In the private box reserved for VIPs and club executives, David Dein watched the match with a satisfied smile.
He calculated silently: 'De Bruyne filled the creative midfield void that had plagued Liverpool for years. Van Dijk addressed the defensive vulnerabilities that had cost them crucial points. Piszczek provided the balanced full-back play on the right that allowed more aggressive tactical approaches.
All three signings had shown imdiate impact, slotting into their roles with minimal adjustnt period. The integration was going better than even optimistic projections had showed.
Now the team just needed one more piece—a reliable, quality left-back to replace the aging and increasingly unreliable options currently occupying that position. Once they'd shored up that final weakness, Liverpool's starting lineup would be finally complete. Every position filled with Premier League-quality players, proper depth behind them.
And then? Then their chances of actually challenging for the Premier League title this season would be much stronger.
The Premier League title.
Actually winning the damn thing. That was the objective—the only objective that mattered this season.
On the pitch, Liverpool didn't slacken their attacking intensity despite De Bruyne's near-miss. If anything, they seed energized by how close they'd co, looking determined to add another goal before halfti.
In the forty-second minute, De Bruyne collecting the ball in central midfield, surrounded by Oldham players desperate to prevent another devastating through ball. But this ti, rather than trying to thread a pass between defenders, he played it simpler in a diagonal ball toward the left channel where Coutinho was making a run.
Coutinho received it just outside the penalty area, took one touch to control, then imdiately faced defensive pressure from two Oldham players joining on him. Most players would have tried to force a shot from that position, or played safe by recycling possession back.
Coutinho did neither.
Instead, he used his exceptional close control and quick feet to pull wide, drawing both defenders with him and creating space. As they committed to closing him down, he slipped a pass into that newly-created space—finding Aspas arriving with a late run into the box.
Aspas forward didn't have much ti or space, but he didn't need much. One touch to take the ball slightly ahead of him, creating the angle he needed, then a quick push-shot with his right foot.
It was a simple, effective finish that squeezed under the goalkeeper's armpit as Brill dove slightly too late. The ball rolled into the net.
3-0!
Aspas's face showed visible relief. He didn't run to the corner flag. He didn't perform any celebration routine. He simply dropped to his knees on the grass with hands covering his face.
In fact, Iago Aspas had barely featured for Liverpool since his arrival from Celta Vigo. The transfer had seed promising on paper—a talented Spanish forward with La Liga experience, technically gifted, capable of playing across the front line.
But the reality had been harsh. Brendan Rodgers had tried him several tis during the autumn, found him unable to integrate into Liverpool's playing style, and eventually stopped selecting him. The Premier League's pace and physicality seed to overwhelm him. His touch which were so consistent in Spain beca uncertain. His positioning that was before natural looked confused.
After watching him struggle in training sessions, Klopp had initially chosen not to use him either.
Many dia outlets were already reporting that Aspas would likely return to La Liga during the sumr transfer window—his style simply didn't suit the Premier League's demands, and Liverpool would cut their losses on what had been an unsuccessful signing.
For this match against a League One opponent, Klopp's good-natured personality had led him to give Aspas a start.
And now, finally, he'd delivered.
His teammates all understood Aspas's situation—how he'd struggled, how the dia had written him off, how his confidence had been destroyed by months of failure. They rushed over imdiately, lifting him to his feet, embracing him with warmth and solidarity.
After this goal went in, Oldham's players visibly deflated. The gap in quality was simply too vast—even against Liverpool's rotated squad, they were being completely outplayed.
What made it worse was recognizing that this rotated Liverpool lineup wasn't even particularly weakened. Coutinho, De Bruyne, Piszczek, Sterling, Luis Alberto—these were all quality players who would start regularly for most Premier League clubs.
The depth Liverpool now possessed was genuinely intimidating.
Not long after Aspas's goal, the referee checked his watch and blew his whistle for halfti.
Liverpool led Oldham 3-0 going into the break.
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