At The Boot Room Pub
Ted slammed his palm against the table the instant Anichebe's shot caromed off the post, the sound of impact was coinciding with the gasp that had just subsided.
"What the hell was Henderson thinking with that pass? Julien fought through two defenders who were practically pulling his legs off to create that chance, and Henderson repays him by lazily playing an obvious ball straight to Suárez without even checking where West Brom's defensive midfielder was positioned! That's not passing—that's gift-wrapping a counter-attack!"
The other regulars voiced agreement in various forms of exasperation.
"Henderson's not the only problem! What was Agger doing on that sequence? Anelka's thirty-four years old. He controls the ball, turns, plays the pass and Agger just watches it all happen like he's a spectator! If Carragher was still playing, he'd have anticipated that move, intercepted the ball, and launched it back into midfield before Anelka even completed his turn!"
"The defense is like tissue paper! The high press accomplished nothing, and when they had to recover defensively, they moved like they were taking a leisurely stroll! Keep playing like this and the post can save you once, but it won't save you twice!"
Ted hammered the table again for emphasis, his frustration was rising with each replay.
Someone else added,
"You're all missing the bigger picture. This isn't about individual player errors—it's systematic failure! When Julien was breaking down the right flank, nobody from midfield moved to provide a passing option. They all just stood there.
Sturridge on the left didn't track back either. The moment West Brom won the ball, they could bypass the entire midfield with one pass. This is a tactical flaw! If Rodgers keeps setting up this way, the woodwork might bail them out today, but eventually they will concede. It's inevitable!"
Ted shook his head with a mixture of anger and sadness.
"Remember when we had proper defenders? When Carragher and Hyypiä anchored the back line, opposition forwards never got that kind of comfortable space to operate.
Sakho was chasing Anichebe from behind like he was scared to engage physically. Is that really a Liverpool center-back? And Rodgers' three-at-the-back system is genuinely baffling, there's too much space between the defenders!"
As the pub's patrons continued their lively post-mortem, the television showed another West Brom counter-attack developing. This time the ball found Anelka at the top of the area. After a brief touch to set himself, he decided to try his luck with a shot.
The ball sailed harmlessly into the stands.
"Christ!" came the collective exclamation from around the pub.
Martin Tyler's commentary filled the space, "Good heavens, here we go again! Liverpool's attack just broke down on the left flank, and West Brom need only one simple horizontal pass to exploit the massive gap in midfield. That's the third time in ten minutes this has happened!
Liverpool's three-center-back system should theoretically provide better defensive coverage, but it's actually become West Brom's primary avenue of attack. The wing-backs are pushing too far forward and can't recover in time when possession changes hands.
Anelka is thirty-four years old, and he's being allowed to receive the ball, turn, and pick out passes from the edge of the penalty area with nobody pressuring him! This isn't a player quality issue, it's a tactical positioning disaster!
Watch how Rodgers intended the three center-backs to compress central spaces, but West Brom are simply exploiting the wide areas where massive gaps keep appearing. When Julien was trying to break through on the right, Henderson had to drop deep to cover, which removed him as a midfield passing option.
The moment Liverpool lose possession, West Brom play direct balls into the space behind the defense. Now the left side is wide open again, and Anichebe has acres of room to operate
This is tactically naive from Liverpool, and West Brom are ruthlessly exposing the flaws."
Julien stood on the right flank, observing the tactical dysfunction unfolding before him, and felt a wave of helplessness. He couldn't personally dismantle packed defenses every single time Liverpool attacked, that approach was inefficient, unsustainable, and frankly exhausting.
One man couldn't compensate for systemic problems indefinitely.
In that moment, he understood why certain players developed hostile relationships with specific managers. Football tactics mattered. They weren't abstract concepts debated in pubs, they were the difference between functional teams and dysfunctional ones, between players thriving and players drowning.
The match continued its grinding rhythm.
Sturridge and Suárez tried to interchange positions, trying to drag West Brom's defensive structure out of shape through movement and rotation. The effect was negligible at best. West Brom's defensive shape remained solid and organized, neutralizing Liverpool's predictable patterns.
At least Liverpool were playing at Anfield, which meant they maintained territorial control and possession dominance through sheer pressure and crowd support. They weren't being completely overrun by counter-attacks, which preserved some dignity.
But the home supporters couldn't possibly be satisfied with this tepid performance. Quality of football mattered, not just possession statistics.
From certain sections of the stands, whistles began to emerge which was not directed at the opposition, but at their own team. The jeers were scattered but unmistakable carrying a message of deep dissatisfaction.
Rodgers noticed, naturally. His eyes found one particular sign in the crowd that read: "Brendan Rodgers, You'll Be Gone Tomorrow!"
The words were stark, unambiguous, cruel in their directness.
He forced himself to look away, to pretend he hadn't seen it.
This was part of the journey toward becoming a great manager—enduring pressure, absorbing criticism, maintaining focus despite external noise.
He needed to withstand this kind of environment. Ferguson had faced similar scrutiny throughout his career. Even in retirement, media reports were linking him with the Australia national team job ahead of next year's World Cup.
The speculation never truly stopped for managers at the highest level.
Rodgers maintained confidence in his own abilities but not everyone shared that conviction.
At The Executive Box
Dein, Abdullah, and the newly appointed Staveley watched from the directors' area as another Liverpool attack fizzled into nothing.
The atmosphere in the box had grown notably tense.
Abdullah turned to Dein after the latest failed sequence, his expression was hardening. "This is not the Liverpool I want to see."
Dein nodded grimly, his face also looked set in stone.
Abdullah continued. "Myself, and every football fan in Saudi Arabia who follows this club, expect to see passionate football. We want relentless attacking, players willing to take risks and drive forward even if it means making mistakes.
What we're watching now is the opposite: players hesitating three seconds before every pass, attacks dependent entirely on one individual's brilliance rather than collective movement!"
Dein sighed deeply. "Rodgers' tactical approach clearly has issues, but—"
"There are no 'buts,'" Abdullah interrupted, his gaze was sweeping across the pitch below. "We invested heavily to acquire this club not to provide someone a learning environment, but to deliver victories and the kind of football that makes supporters leap from their seats in excitement!
Fans want to see Liverpool play like they did in Shankly's era—dominating opponents, dictating terms, controlling matches. Not this... not watching one player's talent keep us alive on life support.
Julien is extraordinary, but can he single-handedly win every match through individual brilliance? He needs support! We need to provide him with support!"
Abdullah's tone softened slightly. "I'll say it again: everyone at this club is expendable except Julien. We shouldn't waste everyone's time worrying about contract termination fees."
Dein nodded his understanding. "Right, I know what needs to be done. I'll communicate with the coaching staff—"
Abdullah raised his hand, cutting him off mid-sentence. "If we continue playing this way, the gap to the league leaders will only widen. I don't want communication. I want change. Do you understand?
Whether it's tactics or anything else, this team must rediscover attacking passion. They must rediscover what it means to be Liverpool!
That's non-negotiable."
Dein exhaled quietly, thinking: Brendan, Brendan... this was your final opportunity to prove yourself, and you've squandered it.
His expression remained blank, but internally the decision had been made. Saudi ownership had unlimited financial resources, but their patience was absolutely finite. They demanded results, visible progress and tangible improvement.
If Rodgers couldn't deliver those outcomes, then money would facilitate his departure. His current contract paid only £3 million annually which was pocket change for Saudi investors, barely worth mentioning in their larger financial portfolio.
In the 28th Minute, Anfield's scattered jeers hadn't fully dissipated when a gasp suddenly erupted from the crowd.
A West Brom clearance had just dropped outside the penalty area toward the central zone. Julien read the ball's trajectory instantly, cutting diagonally from the right flank to meet it before Sessègnon could establish defensive position. He killed the ball perfectly with his chest, bringing it under immediate control.
West Brom's defensive reorganization was impressively quick.
Ridgewell closed from the side-back position immediately, while Sessègnon recovered to pressure from behind. The two formed a front-and-back trap, denying Julien even half a yard of turning space.
Sessègnon pressed against Julien's back and extended his leg to poke the ball away. But Julien had anticipated the challenge. He dragged the ball back with his sole while simultaneously twisting his torso sharply to the left, evading Sessègnon's tackle. Ridgewell seized that momentary opening to lunge for the ball from the opposite angle.
Julien's ankle flicked in with cobra-strike speed, flicking the ball through the narrow gap between both defenders. In the same motion, he used his rotational momentum to dart past Sessègnon's right shoulder, the entire sequence was executed with breathtaking efficiency.
The one-two dribble sent ripples of excitement through Anfield. This was the football they'd come to see: technical brilliance, audacious skill, individual magic that excelled tactical limitations.
Within seconds, Julien had advanced into the penalty area's inside channel. Center-back McAuley immediately abandoned Suárez to slide across and block the shooting angle. His positioning was textbook perfect, sealing off the near post and forcing Julien toward a narrowing window of opportunity.
But Julien didn't decelerate. Instead, as he reached the penalty area line, he pushed the ball toward the outside and leaned his body to the right, feinting a far-post finish.
McAuley instinctively extended his leg to block that angle and Julien exploited that commitment immediately. His ankle reversed direction, pulling the ball back across his body while his torso snapped upright again.
In the instant when McAuley's weight was caught on the wrong foot, Julien's right boot delicately flicked the ball up.
He was still trying to dribble! Even this deep in the penalty area, surrounded by defenders, he refused to take the simple option!
The ball lifted over McAuley's outstretched leg as Julien burst into the six-yard box.
Anfield exploded into pandemonium. Every supporter who'd been sitting slumped in frustration launched upright, their previous discontent was evaporating instantly. All attention focused on Julien's movement, the entire stadium was holding its breath.
McAuley clearly hadn't anticipated Julien would attempt another dribble in such tight quarters.
Inside the penalty area, defenders had to be cautious about physical challenges as any significant contact risked conceding a penalty. He could only try to use his body to crowd Julien's space, to physically impose himself without committing a foul.
Simultaneously, goalkeeper Ben Foster rushed off his line, trying to narrow the angle and crowd out Julien's options.
But in the next instant, Julien delicately lifted the ball once more. It traveled in a gentle arc, skimming just beneath Foster's knee as the goalkeeper committed to his challenge.
A nutmeg through the keeper's legs.
The ball traced a path along the inside of the left post and nestled into the net.
Swish.
Goal!
The contact between Julien and Foster sent both men tumbling to the turf as the ball crossed the line, but that collision was drowned out by the volcanic eruption of noise from the stands.
The roar that detonated from Anfield was like the Mersey River at high tide crashing against the seawall, so powerful it made the stadium seats vibrate!
"JULIEN!"
"JULIEN!!"
The Kop exploded first, as always.
Fans wrapped in red scarves launched themselves from their seats. Some cupped their hands around their mouths and screamed until the veins stood out on their necks. Others hurled their scarves to sky, letting those red banners flutter like flags caught in a hurricane of jubilation.
In the front rows, a young boy wearing Julien's number 10 shirt was hoisted onto his father's shoulders, his small hands were waving frantically as he added his piping voice to the adult thunder surrounding him.
That childish "Julien!" somehow cut through the chaos asounding perfectly clear and pure.
Bill gripped the barrier for support, his rheumy eyes were suddenly bright with emotion. He didn't jump and shout like the younger supporters around him—instead he simply pounded the railing rhythmically, muttering "Good lad, good lad!" over and over.
His knuckles turned red from the repeated impacts, but he didn't notice or care. The frustration that had accumulated during West Brom's counter-attacks dissolved completely in this moment of liberating release.
The scattered jeers from minutes earlier had been obliterated, replaced by unified chanting of: "Julien! Julien!"
Tens of thousands of voices braided together into a single overwhelming force, pouring from the stands and enveloping the young player who'd just picked himself up off the turf.
It felt like being wrapped in armor forged from pure sound and emotion.
Julien's stride wasn't hurried as he rose, but it carried an undeniable confidence, an almost reckless self-assurance. He bypassed his teammates rushing to embrace him, walked past the devastated Foster still processing what had happened, and stopped deliberately in front of the advertising boards facing the Kop.
No elaborate celebration, no dramatic gestures. He simply raised both arms slowly, elbows slightly bent, palms open as though preparing to gather all of Anfield's adulation into his embrace.
The wind caught his red sleeves and lifted them slightly. He tilted his chin up, and his eyes blazed with an intensity that seemed to capture sunlight itself despite the overcast conditions.
This was the unfiltered arrogance of young genius—the refusal to diminish his own brilliance, to apologize for being exceptional.
This goal celebration needed no restraint or false modesty. Arms spread wide, accepting the worship, letting everyone witness this moment of pure, unapologetic confidence.
I belong here. This is my stage. These cheers are mine by right.
That single thought dominated Julien's consciousness in this instant of triumph.
His teammates mobbed him moments later, joining the celebration with unrestrained joy.
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