June 22nd
During the off-season, most football fans could only follow transfer news and endure the agonizing wait for the new campaign to begin. Without matches to watch, without the weekly rhythm of anticipation and release, the suffering was real.
Forums filled with speculation. Pubs argued over rumors. Days dragged.
But today was different.
The air at Anfield Stadium turned electric as approximately twenty thousand supporters flooded through the entrances, their voices echoing off the concrete concourses, their footsteps creating a constant thunder. They came to witness their club's first signing of the summer: Julien De Rocca's official unveiling.
A dedicated presentation for a single player spoke volumes about the expectations placed on Julien's shoulders.
The stands filled gradually, a rising tide of red shirts and scarves, the hum of conversation was building like a gathering storm.
Families with young children in oversized kits. Groups of young men already singing. Elderly supporters who'd seen Shankly's teams, who remembered when Liverpool ruled Europe. All of them here for a glimpse of what might be their future.
2:30 PM.
The ceremony began.
No announcer's voice. No preliminary fanfare. Just the giant screens around the stadium suddenly blazing to life, displaying a single sentence:
"I came to Liverpool to win trophies."
A united gasp swept through the stands. The screens transitioned smoothly to footage from Julien's post-signing interview, his face filling the screens.
On screen, Julien spoke with confidence: "I chose Liverpool because this club's history and ambition captured me completely. Anfield is a stage every player dreams of standing on. The Kop's roar is the most powerful force in world football."
He leaned forward slightly in his chair. "I understand the pressure on my shoulders. But pressure only makes me stronger. I'm not here to participate or to make up the numbers. I'm here to conquer. Together with my new teammates, we'll bring championship trophies back to this great club."
His expression softened slightly. "I can't wait to play in front of you, to repay your faith with goals and victories. You'll Never Walk Alone!"
BOOM!
Twenty thousand faces erupted simultaneously in delighted surprise. Some clapped so hard their palms turned red; the sound was rolling around the stadium like thunder. Others blew piercing whistles that cut through the air. Most simply exploded into unreserved cheers and laughter.
For this young man arriving with a record fee and massive expectations, they were willing to offer their most fervent hope.
He'd said the right things. He'd looked them in the eye.
Now they wanted to believe.
The massive screen went black for a second, twenty thousand people were holding their breath.
Then it blazed to life as the footage began rapidly cutting through Julien's peak moments at Bastia:
He surged from midfield like a blue lightning bolt, weaving past three defenders with consecutive feints that left them grasping at air. When the first defender lunged, Julien's drop of the shoulder was so quick the man went sprawling.
The second tried to hold him physically, but Julien shrugged him off, holding his own despite giving away twenty pounds. The third never had a chance. Then, from just outside the box, he unleashed a thunderous strike that rocketed into the top left corner with such strength the net bulged almost horizontal before snapping back!
"Woah!"
Gasps rippled through the stands, shock transforming into louder exclamations of awe.
A father lifted his son higher on his shoulders for a better view.
The Europa League final: trapped between two markers, no space, no time, he executed a Marseille roulette so elegant it resembled a ballet movement—the ball seemingly glued to his boot as he spun 360 degrees, leaving both defenders lunging at empty space.
Then, without breaking stride, he sent a perfect through-ball that split the entire defensive line like a knife, threading the needle between four players, setting up his teammate for a tap-in.
"Beautiful!"
Fans shouted, the technical brilliance raising goosebumps on arms despite the warm afternoon.
Every frame—every dribble, every tackle, every shot—was a carefully curated work of art, fusing power, technique, speed, and passion. The editing was immaculate, building momentum.
For Liverpool supporters accustomed to traditional English football of directness, physicality, passion—this continental, technical display was a visual feast. Pure quality.
The video's pace accelerated alongside the soaring music, pushing the atmosphere toward its crescendo!
Finally, all footage froze on Julien's face mid-celebration, then cut to complete darkness.
The screens went black, leaving only heavy breathing echoing around the stadium.
The silence was suffocating, electric. You could hear a pin drop.
Then, a simple, massive slogan in cold metallic white letters crashed down like a judge's gavel at the center of the screen:
"THE PRINCE OF EUROPE,"
The text hung there, paused briefly, like a drawn bow accumulating all its tension and anticipation.
Then the second line struck like a sword thrust:
"THE KING OF KOP?"
BOOM!
The entire stadium detonated.
The question mark didn't create doubt—it was a challenge, a declaration of war, a provocation that instantly ignited every person's expectations and fervor to their absolute peak!
In that moment, every eye locked onto the tunnel entrance.
And there he stood.
Julien De Rocca.
In the suffocating silence that followed the roar, a low, gravelly voice began singing a cappella through the speakers. The opening lines of You'll Never Walk Alone, unaccompanied, raw, heavy with weight and emotion.
From deep in the tunnel's shadow, Julien's silhouette emerged slowly.
He didn't run or wave or perform. Step by step, he moved steadily into the single beam of white light that cut through the tunnel's darkness.
He wore Liverpool's home kit, the famous red seeming to glow under the spotlight. The club crest on his chest caught the light, reflecting bright red and gold under the spotlight.
He stopped at the threshold between shadow and light, eyes narrowing slightly as he faced the stands. For a moment he just stood there, taking it in, letting it wash over him.
Twenty thousand faces merged into a vast, surging sea of red. The roar hit him like a physical wall.
He drew a deep breath of air mixed with fresh-cut grass, beer fumes drifting from the concourses, and the fervent body heat of twenty thousand people, pulling it all deep into his lungs, holding it, tasting it.
"YNWA! YNWA! YNWA!"
The chant from the stands found unified rhythm, spreading like wildfire through the sections. The ground itself trembled—you could feel it through your feet, through your bones. The old stadium seemed alive.
The supporters roared with everything they had, voices were already going hoarse, not caring.
Julien smiled. He spread his arms wide toward all sides of the stadium—the first time he'd made this gesture at Anfield.
But it wouldn't be the last.
He walked forward to the center circle, where club legend Ian Rush waited with an enormous red number 10 shirt draped over his arms.
The shirt felt heavy in Julien's hands when Rush passed it to him—heavier than it should be.
Julien raised it high with both hands, letting it unfurl like a banner.
The number 10 gleamed white against the red.
The roar intensified, somehow finding another level.
Rush passed him the microphone, leaning in close to be heard over the noise. "Julien, how does it feel?"
Julien gripped the mic, his knuckles whitening slightly from the pressure. The foam cover compressed under his fingers. He surveyed the surging red sea below, his gaze sweeping across every section, expectant faces, taking his time.
When he finally spoke, his voice carried through the speakers clear and strong:
"The weight of your emotion is heavier than I imagined."
He paused, as if weighing both the shirt in his hands and the expectations on his shoulders, feeling their heft.
"I've heard Shankly's stories. I felt Gerrard's loyalty. And I understand what the Kop's roar means." His gaze sharpened. "But I'm not here to become the next anyone. I'm here to write my own story—our story."
He pressed the shirt gently against his chest, the Liverpool crest directly over his heartbeat, holding it there for a moment.
His voice rose suddenly, clear and resolute, penetrating every corner of the stadium like a battle cry: "I came here to win trophies with you—one after another, we'll bring them all back home!"
As his words landed, he raised both arms again, unfurling the red number 10 like a battle standard, holding it for every section to see.
"YNWA!!"
The roar nearly lifted the roof. The sound was overwhelming. In that moment, the supporters desperately wanted everything Julien said to be true.
Liverpool had known heartbreak—God knows they'd known heartbreak.
But they'd also known glory.
And they knew resilience better than anyone.
Julien's speech was brief. He followed staff members around the pitch in a lap of honor.
The final moment arrived.
Staff members rolled a small training goal into position beneath the Kop.
Julien received a match ball from one of the kit men—not a training ball but a proper match ball. He bounced it once in his hands, feeling the weight.
No fancy tricks. He simply flicked it up with his hands, let it drop to his foot, controlled it with a single touch, then took two quick steps and swung his right leg through.
The motion was crisp and decisive, exactly as he'd done countless times at Bastia, exactly as he'd practiced ten thousand times since he was a child. His technique was perfect—knee over the ball, ankle locked, following through with his entire leg.
BANG!
The contact sounded like a gunshot in the stadium. The ball rocketed precisely into the top left corner, the trajectory was flat and vicious, barely rising before smashing into the net with enough force to make the entire goal shudder!
"JULIENOO!"
The Kop responded instantly with earth-shaking, unified thunder!
Julien stood at the center of that storm as sunlight finally tore completely through the clouds, gilding his entire body in gold.
He spread his arms wide, tilted his head back, as if absorbing every cheer, every expectation, even every doubt, into his body.
A new era, heavy, thrilling, and trembling with possibility had officially begun.
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