The opening eleven minutes of the second half belonged entirely to Liverpool.
They dictated the tempo, pressing us deep into our own territory, squeezing the pitch until there was barely room to breathe, forcing us to clear our lines under heavy, suffocating pressure.
And then, abruptly, the grip loosened. In the fifty-sixth minute, Liverpool collectively paused to rest on the pitch.
It was a microscopic shift in intensity, a momentary lapse in their relentless pressing machine, but from the touchline, the visual evidence was glaring.
Jordan Henderson broke his usual driving stride, slowing to a heavy walk for three distinct steps in the center of the park.
James Milner, usually an engine of perpetual motion, dropped his hands squarely onto his hips to drag oxygen into his lungs. Even the towering wall of noise cascading down from the Anfield stands dipped by half a level, matching the sudden lethargy on the turf. Mateo Kovačić sensed the vacuum immediately.
