"At least we equalized in the first half," Jeremy Ling gasped for breath, his chest heaving violently as he slumped onto the bench in the dressing room.
Because of Manchester United's three-defensive-midfielder system, the number of attacking players committed forward was limited, forcing the front line to rely heavily on individual skill to compensate.
Against weaker teams on ordinary days, he could simply force his way through.
But Virgil van Dijk, Joël Matip, and Fabinho each possessed an elite level of defensive ability.
Therefore, throughout the grueling first half, the clear opportunities he created were limited, and those he could actually seize were even fewer.
No wonder he was exhausted to this extent.
And Van Dijk and the others weren't faring much better.
Before the match, Jurgen Klopp had repeatedly emphasized that as long as they contained Jeremy Ling, Manchester United wouldn't be able to stir up trouble.
In fact, that's exactly what they tried to do—they just didn't entirely succeed.
"I hate forwards who are physically strong, technically skilled, and also have brains!" Matip complained helplessly to his teammates in the away dressing room.
If they hadn't been caught exploiting the weakness of their single defensive midfielder, their defensive strength wouldn't have been divided, and Ling wouldn't have had the space to score that incredible long-range shot.
Van Dijk nodded in silent agreent, wiping sweat from his forehead.
He could be considered Ling's rival in England, having witnessed the youngster's growth firsthand.
Initially, Ling's playing style was still sowhat immature, often relying purely on sheer pace and skill to force breakthroughs.
If he had continued like that, he would have been easier to handle.
But the problem was that Ling now played with elite intelligence.
Van Dijk stared at the tactical whiteboard and inexplicably had a sobering thought.
If he wanted to genuinely challenge for the Ballon d'Or as a center-back, Jeremy Ling would be the biggest obstacle standing in his way!
'I'll mark him tighter in the second half,' Van Dijk resolved.
He wasn't discouraged or disheartened, instead, his fighting spirit grew even stronger.
As the saying goes, a great opponent can ignite your competitive drive and ambition, pushing you to constantly strive to improve.
That was exactly how Van Dijk felt at that mont.
Beside him, Roberto Firmino felt a twinge of envy.
The dia often called the Brazilian an "unconventional center-forward," pioneering a new style of play for the position.
In the 2016-17 season, he averaged a remarkable 1.74 tackles per ga, earning him the nickna "Shield Forward."
In the 2017-18 season, he delivered the most key passes in the team, earning the nickna "Lubricant."
But did he secretly want to dribble past three players and nutg the goalkeeper like a traditional striker? Of course he did.
He just couldn't.
Every center-forward in football shares the sa dream: to constantly put the ball into the back of the net.
'A special role, a special style of play, and yet I can't even make it into the national team regularly,' Firmino sighed inwardly.
Ling had no idea his opponents were having so many internal monologues.
In the ho dressing room, he walked over and hugged Mourinho, exchanging high-fives, then asked with a wide grin.
"Boss, how was that long-range shot of mine just now? Did it scare you?"
Looking at the mud on his captain's body and the grass clippings in his hair, Mourinho couldn't help but feel emotional.
'What a fine player—what coach wouldn't love him?' He couldn't help but recall his ti as a young translator at Barcelona, watching Ronaldo Fenôno play alongside Pep Guardiola.
Ling gave him a feeling that seed even stronger, though perhaps there was so subjective bias involved.
"Actually, I had already anticipated it, but it was still absolutely perfect!" Mourinho patted his shoulder warmly.
"Of course, Marcus's decoy pass was also brilliant."
Rashford rubbed his head and chuckled.
He recently had a distinct feeling that his abilities were improving rapidly.
The reason behind it? It was probably the intense competition within the team, which unconsciously drove him to train harder.
Several tis when Lingard invited him to hang out at a club recently, he had firmly refused.
After all, with an exceptionally talented peer around, any player with a bit of ambition would naturally push themselves harder to keep up.
Beside him, Harry Maguire was also grinning foolishly, only to hear Mourinho suddenly snap.
"Harry! How many tis have I told you? Your footwork is too slow against wingers—use your massive body to block the angle! How could you let Salah get past you so easily for the goal?"
Instantly, Maguire put on a masterclass in apologetic facial expressions, lowering his big head and mumbling.
"Boss, my mistake. It won't happen again."
This was his little trick for dealing with Mourinho's wrath.
Regardless of whether you were actually at fault tactically, just admit it first.
As long as your apology was sincere enough, the boss usually wouldn't press the issue.
Sure enough.
"Get so rest. Riyad, you go warm up," Mourinho waved his hand helplessly.
The staff had already prepared the nutrition supplies. Ling casually grabbed two bananas, peeled them, and started eating.
There wasn't much talk about tactical adjustnts.
Mainly because Ling had adjusted the press well on the field himself, leaving Mourinho with little to criticize. Instead, he decided to serve everyone a bowl of motivational soup.
"Right now, everyone at Manchester City, from top to bottom, is probably watching this match. They're definitely hoping we draw today, so they can co out as the ultimate winners of the weekend," Mourinho began, his voice echoing in the silent room.
"But the more the enemy wants sothing, the more we must deny them!"
"I don't know if any of you have experienced this feeling—trailing in points in a title race, staring at the TV, desperately hoping your bitter opponents lose a crucial match." Mourinho unbuttoned his suit jacket and casually sat on the massage table.
Then, as if reminiscing about his early days at Porto and Chelsea, he suddenly smiled and continued, "I've experienced it many, many tis. That feeling of having your fate resting in soone else's hands... it's like drowning when you can't swim, hoping soone else will throw you a rope."
"All I'm trying to say is, don't wait until May to regret it. In the second half, show your determination and hunger for glory!"
Ling leaned against his locker, his emotions stirred up.
Say what you will about old Mourinho, but he's really good at firing people up.
Especially after refining his approach—no longer using an arrogant, preachy tone but placing himself on equal footing with the players' struggles.
Ling quietly noted the details in his mind, thinking they might co in handy soday.
The rest of the players were also riled up, their eyes practically glowing red!
...
The fifteen-minute break passed quickly. Both teams returned to the green pitch, and at the referee's whistle, the second half began.
Martin Tyler: "Neither team has made any substitutions at the break. Looks like Klopp and Mourinho are saving sothing big!"
Gary Neville: "Liverpool's attack imdiately after kickoff is sharp—they are bypassing the midfield transitions entirely and using their wing speed to directly exploit the space behind Manchester United's defense!"
Martin Tyler: "Manchester United's response is also appropriate, imdiately compressing their overall formation backward to deny that space."
The back-and-forth, fast-paced transitions soon had both teams fully imrsed in the grueling ga.
51st minute.
Fabinho drove forward with the ball at speed.
Pogba stretched his long leg to tackle but missed the ball entirely. In a mont of frustration, the Frenchman shoved the Brazilian forcefully from behind.
Undoubtedly a yellow card offense!
The referee kept his pre-match promise to maintain order, being even stricter than in the first half, even as he endured a torrent of boos from the Stretford End.
Gary Neville: "Actually, this strict approach from the referee won't help him control the match. Instead, it will only escalate the intensity and frustration."
Martin Tyler: "Because neither team's players are willing to back down an inch in a derby, their challenges are bound to beco more aggressive. A red card today would be entirely normal."
Having played in so many fierce derbies himself, Gary Neville understood all too well the mindset of the players on the pitch.
As if to validate his words, just minutes later, Ander Herrera was scythed down aggressively by Georginio Wijnaldum.
The Spaniard's ankle imdiately swelled into a large, painful lump.
After a brief examination by the dical team, it was clear that although the injury wasn't season-ending, he couldn't continue playing.
Conflict between the two teams inevitably erupted again—shoving, insults, chest-bumping... Even substitutes, coaching staff, and dical personnel got involved in the touchline scuffle.
So frenzied Manchester United fans even climbed over the barriers and ran onto the pitch, trying to throw a punch at Wijnaldum, only to be tackled halfway by quick-acting security personnel.
Both Mourinho and Klopp, known for their fiery tempers, pointed fingers at each other from their technical areas, shouting accusations wildly.
With the intervention of riot police and stadium staff, the match finally resud after a tense seven-minute delay.
Mourinho was forced to substitute Herrera.
Before sending Scott McTominay on, he grabbed the young midfielder by the shirt. "Scott! You're not the best technical player in the world, and you may never beco Manchester United's captain, but—"
"But I've always believed that your desire for victory is no less than Ling's. Go out there and prove to the world that you, too, are a pride of Old Trafford! Win your battles!"
McTominay took a deep breath and glanced at Ling standing at the forefront of the formation.
His once-close academy companion had grown rapidly, gradually widening the gap in skill between them, but Scott felt no humiliation or jealousy.
Instead, he had always looked up to Jeremy as a role model, pushing himself to strive harder.
"Don't worry, boss!" McTominay patted his chest and stepped onto the sacred turf that ant so much to him.
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