These skirmishes were merely kindling for the fire that truly ignited in the seventy-third minute.
Nani stretched for the ball from Lucas's blind side, trying to intercept a pass intended for Sakho. He missed the ball totally and instead stamped down on Skrtel's heel.
Skrtel spun around immediately, shoving Nani's shoulder with both hands, "You trying to injure someone, you prick?!"
Nani's temper flared and in response, he thrusted a finger toward Skrtel's face, "I was going for the ball! Stop being so dramatic!"
He stepped forward half a pace, his finger was also nearly poking Skrtel in the mouth. Their faces were inches apart, breathing hot fury at each other, veins were standing out on both necks like cords.
Rooney was first to intervene, and grabbed Nani's shoulder to pull him back, "Don't do it, don't—"
But Kolo Touré arrived from the other side, stepping in front of Rooney with a hand against his chest: "Easy, easy now." Though his words sounded conciliatory, he pushed Rooney firmly back.
Kagawa circled around to Nani's side. Henderson and Suárez covered Skrtel from behind. Julien jogged in from the left wing, taking up position beside Suárez.
Players from both sides merged into a tense cluster, their voices were rising, fingers were pointing.
The boos and cheers from the stands merged into an indistinguishable noisy sound.
It looked ready to spill over into a full brawl.
Clattenburg forced his way through the scrum, his left hand was pressing against Nani's chest, his right was pushing Skrtel away.
His whistle shrieked above the chaos.
"Everyone back! Now!"
His eyes swept both sets of players with unmistakable authority. Then he pointed at Nani and produced a yellow card from his pocket, holding it high.
He turned immediately to Skrtel, thrusting a finger toward him while delivering a stern lecture about controlling his emotions.
Another yellow card followed, raised with the same decisive authority.
Nani glared at the card but said nothing more.
Skrtel took a step back. Touré patted his back, signaling him to let it go.
Clattenburg waved both sets of players away, then bent to retrieve the ball and tossed it to Gerrard, blowing his whistle to resume play.
But the tension on the pitch remained suffocating.
United's passes became more hurried, and more desperate. Every time Büttner engaged with Julien, there was an edge of violence in his challenges. But Julien played with infuriating intelligence, refusing to get dragged into physical battles.
It left Büttner feeling like he was punching at shadows and it was driving him mad.
Madrid
In his living room in Madrid, Zinedine Zidane sat with his gaze fixed intently on the television screen.
The noise of Old Trafford came through the speakers, but his attention never wavered from that figure in white.
Zidane found himself smiling, not just at Julien's hat-trick, but at the maturity he displayed in every moment.
That exchange with Büttner moments ago wasn't the rash action of a teenager. It was calculated and appeared seasoned beyond his years.
When his shirt was pulled, Julien didn't complain or argue. Instead, he waited for his moment and used subtle, nearly invisible movements to turn the tables, all while ensuring the referee saw only what he wanted him to see.
Zidane exhaled softly. "What eighteen-year-old forward plays with that kind of composure?"
He'd spent enough time in Real Madrid's youth academy to understand young players closely. They were almost uniformly impulsive, their emotions were worn on their sleeves ready to boil over at the slightest provocation.
That temperament made them easy prey for experienced defenders. A few well-timed niggles, some tactical shirt-pulling, a whispered insult and suddenly the talented youngster was seeing red, their game would come falling apart.
But Julien? He was ice.
Zidane's thoughts drifted to a conversation he'd had with Florentino Pérez just two days ago. Their club president had mentioned Gareth Bale's injury troubles: "The forward line needs reinforcement. I still think Julien would be an excellent addition."
Bale had featured in Madrid's recent matches against Villarreal and Galatasaray, finally making appearances after his record-breaking summer transfer.
The Bernabéu had been buzzing with anticipation for his home debut last Sunday. Carlo Ancelotti had even named him in the starting eleven, but during the pre-match warm-up, Bale felt discomfort in his left leg and was withdrawn at the last moment with Isco taking his place.
The diagnosis came back: approximately two weeks out.
The Welsh winger's injury record was already becoming a concern.
At the time, Zidane hadn't given his opinion. Now, watching Julien's performance unfold on screen, his conviction solidified.
Julien belongs at Liverpool.
If he transferred to Madrid, where would that leave Cristiano Ronaldo's central role? Ronaldo was the undisputed central point of that attack, the system was designed completely around maximizing his output.
Julien wasn't the type of player who thrived in a supporting capacity. Players like him were born to be the tactical nucleus of their teams, not to fight for scraps of possession and space.
Zidane remembered his own years at the Bernabéu. Even as a central midfielder, he'd needed significant freedom and touches on the ball to truly express himself. Without that liberty, his talents would have been wasted.
For a wide forward like Julien, being starved of the ball would be even more damaging. No matter how extraordinary his gifts were, they'd be diminished by half if he couldn't get on the ball consistently.
And then there was the French national team to consider.
Julien was France's captain despite his youth. As a fellow French legend, how could Zidane allow his successor to play second fiddle at club level? Real Madrid's prestige was grand, but that couldn't justify asking Julien to subordinate his development to someone else's success.
At Liverpool, he could be the man. He could grow, accumulate experience, and cultivate the leadership qualities that would define his legacy. That was infinitely more valuable than fighting for playing time at a superclub where egos and hierarchies could stifle a young player's evolution.
"He should stay at Liverpool," Zidane murmured to himself, his voice was now carrying absolute certainty. "Build his game there, be the main man. That's worth far more than being a luxury squad option at a glamour club."
His concern for Julien wasn't about seeing him join a superclub, it was about seeing him become a legend in his own right.
And Liverpool, right now, was the perfect stage for that transformation.
While Zidane's thoughts turned in Madrid, the situation at Old Trafford was reaching a critical juncture.
In the sixty-third minute, Gerrard received a pass from Sakho at the edge of the center circle and attempted to turn and initiate an attack. Rooney closed him down immediately while still carrying frustration from the earlier confrontation. His challenge was aggressive, his knee made deliberate contact with Gerrard's standing leg.
Gerrard tried to spin left to escape the pressure, but Rooney's center of gravity was perfectly positioned. As their bodies collided, Gerrard's intended pass to Henderson went astray, the ball was rolling harmlessly toward Nani on United's left flank instead.
Lucas Leiva should have been there to cut off the passing lane, but the Brazilian midfielder failed to read the danger quickly enough.
Nani collected the loose ball and drove forward past the halfway line.
Liverpool's defensive line immediately compressed. Sakho tucked inside, José Enrique tracked back frantically, but Nani didn't try to force the game himself. Instead, he used the outside of his right boot to slide a pass into the path of the overlapping Rafael.
The Brazilian right-back charged down the touchline and whipped in a dangerous cross from a tight angle near the byline. The ball curved viciously toward the six-yard box with wicked backspin.
Javier Hernández, Chicharito ghosted away from Liverpool's defensive line and threw himself at the ball with a diving header. The movement was instinctive, perfectly timed, and Old Trafford's roar built toward a crescendo as the ball arrowed toward the bottom left corner.
Just as it seemed destined to nestle in the net, a figure launched himself horizontally across the goal line.
Simon Mignolet.
The twenty-four-year-old Belgian goalkeeper had joined Liverpool from Sunderland this summer, replacing the departed Pepe Reina as the new number one. His early performances in the Premier League had been somewhat uneven with occasional misjudgments in his positioning and timing had drawn criticism from pundits.
But today, in the cauldron of the Manchester derby, he was producing a performance that would define his career.
His left leg drove off the turf, propelling his body through the air like a coiled spring releasing. His right arm extended to its absolute limit, fingers were spread wide.
His fingertips kissed the ball.
That touch which was barely perceptible, a fraction of an inch was enough. The ball deflected back into the penalty area instead of crossing the line.
Kolo Touré reacted first, charging forward to hammer the loose ball toward the touchline. Liverpool's defense had survived by the narrowest of margins.
Mignolet lay sprawled on the grass, using his right hand to push himself upright. The Liverpool fans' section, silent with dread just moments before erupted in relieved celebration.
Nobody had expected the goalkeeper still finding his feet in English football to produce such a crucial intervention at such a pivotal moment.
But Brendan Rodgers standing on the touchline, didn't allow himself to relax. His arms were folded tightly across his chest, brow was furrowed in concentration.
Gerrard's turnover. Lucas's failure to cover. Those two errors were like thorns lodged in his mind.
Ever since Xabi Alonso's departure, Liverpool's defensive midfield had been a persistent vulnerability. Lucas could win tackles, but his coverage and positional awareness left much to be desired. The gaps kept appearing, and opposing teams kept exploiting them.
Rodgers's eyes drifted toward the substitutes' bench.
His decision was now formed.
A few minutes later, the fourth official raised his board.
"Look at this! Liverpool are making a change! N'Golo Kanté! Now this is a fascinating decision! Rodgers is throwing on the young midfielder he brought in from Ligue 1 this summer and he's doing it in a derby match of this magnitude!"
The commentator's voice carried obvious surprise mixed with intrigue.
The camera cut to Kanté as he finished adjusting his shin guards. The twenty-two-year-old Frenchman's expression showed no trace of nerves but only quiet, focused determination.
"For those unfamiliar with Kanté," the commentator continued, rapidly consulting his notes,
"this young defensive midfielder put up phenomenal numbers last season in Ligue 1: five-point-three tackles per game, three-point-eight interceptions, and his distance covered consistently ranked among the league leaders. The scouting report literally describes him as 'a vacuum cleaner covering every blade of grass in midfield.' His entire purpose is to eliminate defensive space.
That last United counter-attack happened precisely because Lucas couldn't get across to close down Nani, allowing him to advance comfortably into Liverpool's half.
If not for Mignolet's heroics, Liverpool's lead would already be gone. Kanté's introduction is designed to plug that hole in midfield. His coverage will allow Gerrard to stay higher up the pitch and contribute more in the attacking phase, which in turn should provide better service to Julien and Suárez.
United's counter-pressing is intensifying—Rooney's hounding, Hernández's movement, they're all targeting Liverpool's midfield vulnerabilities. Kanté's coming on to be that mobile shield.
Let's see if this young man from France can establish himself as Liverpool's new defensive anchor, the foundation that allows De Rocca and Suárez to flourish further forward..."
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