The scoreboard flashed 4-2 in the ninetieth minute, and with it, the last remnants of hope drained from the hearts of Manchester United supporters throughout Old Trafford.
In that instant, even a draw became an impossible dream. The roar that had filled the stadium moments earlier died like a circuit suddenly cut, the sound collapsed into a void of stunned disbelief.
The West Stand fell silent first—the beating heart of United's most devoted fans was now frozen as if someone had pressed pause on their collective spirit.
Someone had been holding high up a "Glory Glory Man United" banner. Now those fingers slowly loosened their grip, the banner was sliding down against their arm until it pooled at their feet. No one bent to retrieve it. It lay there like a fallen flag on a lost battlefield.
A young fan who moments ago had been standing on his seat, bouncing and chanting Rooney's name, now hunched forward with both hands braced against his knees, head hanging low. His shoulders trembled with the effort of holding back emotion.
The 4-2 scoreline, Julien De Rocca's four-goal masterclass—it was the final straw that broke the frenzied hope he'd maintained throughout the match.
Beside him, an older fan let out a long, defeated sigh. He wasn't watching the pitch anymore. His gaze had drifted to the banners scattered across the stands, signs that had proclaimed unwavering faith now abandoned.
His expression was hollow, looking too exhausted even to furrow his brow in frustration. The fight had completely left him.
The South Stand began to empty. Fans rose from their seats and made their way toward the exits, but their movements lacked the hurried urgency that typically followed a painful defeat. Instead, they moved as if wading through water with legs heavy, each step like an effort against the weight of disappointment.
A father held his young son's hand as they climbed the stairs. The boy still clutched a small flag bearing De Gea's image, but he'd stopped waving it. His small voice broke the silence between them, "Dad, did we lose?"
The father said nothing. He simply pulled his son closer against his side and quickened their pace, their silhouettes were disappearing into the shadows of the tunnel exit, swallowed by the darkness that seemed to mirror the mood throughout the stadium.
More and more supporters stood, a tide of red was slowly flowing toward the exits. Empty seats began appearing across the stands like spreading ripples on water, patches of empty space were expanding out with each passing moment. Sections that had been packed with bodies just minutes earlier now showed gaps like a receding hairline—it was too painful to look at.
Some remained in their seats, but they'd stopped watching the match.
A middle-aged man sat with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, staring at Julien's figure on the pitch. His lips moved silently, forming words that might have been curses, but no sound emerged.
The anger had drained from his eyes, replaced by a profound, bone-deep exhaustion that went beyond mere disappointment.
Beside him, a female supporter pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. She wasn't crying, not quite but she seemed to be hiding something, and was struggling to maintain composure.
She turned her face away from the pitch, deliberately avoiding the sight of Julien being mobbed by his teammates in celebration. She couldn't bear to watch it, couldn't stomach another moment of Liverpool's joy at United's expense.
Occasionally, a shout of "Rubbish!" erupted from a corner of the stands, but the sound was quickly swallowed by the oppressive silence that had fallen over Old Trafford.
The stadium lights blazed with their usual intensity, lighting the half-empty stands, casting their harsh glow on the United supporters who remained whether sitting or standing highlighting the fatigue and despair etched into every face.
Outside, the Manchester night continued on, indifferent to the anguish within these walls, but inside Old Trafford, Julien's name seemed to hang in the air like an inescapable verdict.
In the directors' box, Sir Alex Ferguson sat motionless, his expression looked to be carved from stone.
Thoughts churned through his mind in an endless loop.
Throughout his managerial career, he'd witnessed countless talented youngsters emerge, players who'd shown flashes of brilliance that hinted at future greatness.
But a player like Julien—one who could come to Old Trafford and tear United's defense to shreds with four clinical finishes—Julien alone had achieved that feat.
No one else had done this to one of Ferguson's teams on this sacred ground.
The corner of his mouth twitched.
Around him, supporters were rising from their seats and heading for the exits. Ferguson tracked each departure.
A small boy in a red United shirt was being carried toward the exit in his father's arms, turning his head back toward the pitch one last time, confusion and bewilderment was clouding his young eyes as he tried to understand what had happened.
Ferguson watched the child retreating, and something in his expression softened fractionally, though he still didn't move from his seat.
Twenty-seven years he'd managed Manchester United. He'd experienced countless defeats, absorbed lessons from hundreds of losses. But this particular defeat carried a strange duality—it broke his heart to witness his team's collapse, yet he couldn't suppress a flicker of admiration for Julien's extraordinary talent.
The kid was something special and undeniably so.
Finally, Ferguson's gaze shifted to the Liverpool players celebrating on the pitch. He exhaled slowly a long breath that seemed to carry the weight of decades.
Then he simply sat there, watching, as the consequences of this night began to unfold around him.
On the pitch, Julien had barely finished spreading his arms in triumph when his teammates crashed into him.
Sturridge reached him first, launching himself onto Julien's back and wrapping both arms around him in a wild embrace.
"Are you fucking insane?!" he roared directly into Julien's ear. "You just dribbled from box to box! Four goals! JULIEN! Are you even human?!"
Gerrard arrived seconds later.
Their captain had been tracking back from the penalty area, and now he abandoned all pretense of his usual restrained composure.
He charged over and slapped Julien's back with both hands, hard enough to sting, his eyes were boring into Julien's with an intensity filled with disbelief. "Brilliant!" he roared. "That goal was fucking brilliant! You just killed the match! We've won!"
His face split into a grin as he pulled Julien's head down onto his shoulder, as if he needed physical confirmation that this moment was real, that what he'd just witnessed had actually happened on a football pitch.
Kanté who'd only been on the pitch for a short time had sprinted harder than anyone. He'd been fighting for every ball in midfield moments earlier, but now he barreled into the celebration from an angle, breathing hard, face flushed, grinning so wide his words came out broken: "Too... too fast... when you started running, I couldn't... couldn't even catch up..."
Julien wrapped him in a quick embrace, laughing as he did. One by one, he shared moments with each teammate—embraces, high-fives, head-bumps celebrating together the magnitude of what they'd just accomplished.
The Liverpool bench had fallen into beautiful chaos. Lucas had just finished toweling off when the goal went in, and he'd leaped to his feet immediately, charging onto the pitch toward the celebration.
Sterling, who'd been warming up along the touchline, sprinted directly toward Julien, shouting his name repeatedly, "Julien! Julien!" His voice cracked with excitement as he ran.
Even the typically stern assistant coach had broken character, running a few steps along the technical area before catching himself, standing there clapping and laughing, turning to embrace Brendan Rodgers in shared euphoria.
Every face radiated pure, uncontainable joy. The feeling was impossible to suppress, an emotion too powerful to keep inside.
They'd done it.
They'd actually done it.
Just over a month into the season, Liverpool had completed a double over Manchester United—home and away victories against their fiercest rivals.
The significance was almost too much to process in the moment.
In the commentary booth, the announcer's voice had reached a fever pitch that threatened to shatter: "IT'S IN! MY GOD, IT'S IN! NINETIETH MINUTE! 4-2! DE ROCCA! JULIEN DE ROCCA HAS COMPLETED HIS FOUR-GOAL HAUL!"
His voice cracked with the strain of his excitement, nearly breaking into falsetto.
"Did you see that?! From his own penalty area to United's box! This wasn't just any counterattack, this was an eighteen-year-old burning every last reserve of energy in his body for one final, decisive sprint!
Look at this run! Absolutely no hesitation, no wasted movement. The tempo was so blistering that United's midfield couldn't even react in time. And then facing De Gea one-on-one, that thunderous finish!
The composure he showed! Most players at this critical moment would panic—after all, one-on-ones are simultaneously the easiest and most nerve-wracking chances in football. You're expected to score, which makes the pressure immense.
But he chose the most emphatic possible method, drilling the ball into the back of the net with absolute conviction! This wasn't luck. This was pure quality. This was maturity and ruthlessness that an eighteen-year-old player simply shouldn't possess!
A FOUR-GOAL PERFORMANCE! Do you understand what this means?! Since the formation of the Premier League, no eighteen-year-old has ever scored four goals in a derby of this magnitude, away from home! Julien isn't just playing football today, he's rewriting history itself!
His first three goals were stunning enough, but this fourth goal—he insisted on capping his performance with a coast-to-coast run that announced to the world: I don't just score goals, I carry this team forward when they need me most!
How fierce was United's fightback? Wave after wave of attacks had Liverpool gasping for air! But Julien's goal snuffed out every spark of United's comeback in one devastating blow!
The 4-2 scoreline now isn't just a lead—it's the most savage possible response to United's desperate offensive surge! Listen to Old Trafford now. The stands that were shaking with noise just minutes ago are reduced to scattered sighs of despair. Meanwhile, the Liverpool away section's songs have drowned out everything else!
This is what a superstar does—one goal changes the entire atmosphere of a stadium! I'm still shaking! I genuinely cannot believe what I've just witnessed. This goal will become one of the defining moments of Julien De Rocca's career, one of those classic Derby Day moments that will be remembered and replayed for generations!
Two matches, seven goals! Julien's derby record now stands second only to George Wood in Liverpool's history, level with their current captain Steven Gerrard. Gerrard needed thirty derby appearances to reach seven goals. Julien has done it in TWO FRICKIN' MATCHES!
At eighteen years old, to have this kind of composure under pressure, this technical ability, this explosive power—his future is genuinely frightening to imagine!
This is Julien De Rocca.
Eighteen years old.
Liverpool's red legend, officially born tonight at Old Trafford..."
Jamie Carragher's voice joined the chorus sounding equally raw with emotion: "YES! YES! I've been clenching my fists so hard I thought I'd break bones! This kid just turned the entire match into his personal showcase with four magnificent goals!
That run—from our penalty area to theirs—he covered over seventy meters at full sprint! This is Liverpool's blessing! How many years have we waited for a striker with this kind of potential to emerge?!
Do you remember the last time a Liverpool player scored a hat-trick in this derby? It was him; it was Julien. And now he's raised the bar even higher—he's set a new standard with FOUR goals!
To maintain that sprint intensity in the ninetieth minute proves his fitness and concentration are miles beyond players his age. I'm trembling all over. As a Liverpool man, witnessing this moment tonight is more thrilling than any victory I experienced as a player.
Julien's name will be carved into the hearts of Liverpool supporters forever. They'll never forget what he's done tonight."
Carragher's words were sincere, it came from his own genuine feeling, and in the quiet of his own thoughts, he felt a pang of regret. He'd retired too early. If he'd known Liverpool would be this formidable this season, if he'd realized the defense genuinely needed reinforcements, he should have played one more year. Just one more season alongside this extraordinary team.
But that moment passed, and his attention returned to the television screen showing Julien's explosive finish, the celebration, the utter domination of an eighteen-year-old who'd just announced himself as one of football's most exciting new talent.
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