The camera cut to a close-up of Julien on the bench.
Martin Tyler's voice dropped to a more thoughtful tone. "Look at that shot. The director knows exactly what he's doing. Right now, every Liverpool fan watching must be wondering the same thing: what would this match look like if Julien were out there?"
The goal itself wasn't down to a particularly vicious strike from Ki Sung-yueng. What made it damning was what happened after Mignolet's initial save. Not a single Liverpool player reacted quickly enough in the box to clear the danger, allowing Giacherini to tap into an empty net with embarrassing ease.
The defensive breakdown exposed a more serious underlying problem. The backline was too disorganized, and scattered. On paper, they had bodies back there. But once opponents breached the midfield, they found acres of space to work with.
Liverpool had dominated possession in the first thirty minutes with sixty-nine percent of the ball, looking comfortable on the surface. Yet genuinely threatening attacks could be counted on one hand.
The root cause?
It was that same lack of cohesion, that looseness in their structure.
Sturridge's run moments earlier had been brilliant, showcasing his pace and technique. But what came next?
He'd looked for the shot himself, completely blind to Suárez making a perfectly timed run into space through the middle.
Sterling was even worse—three times he'd cut inside, and all three times he had tunnel vision, determined to take the ball all the way to the byline. He never once scanned for teammates, and every attempt ended either with a wayward pass or him getting swarmed by defenders.
This was the difference without Julien on the pitch.
When Julien played, he dropped deep to collect possession. His mere presence attracted defensive attention, which in turn created space for Suárez to exploit. He could also act as a pivot just outside the box, linking play and bringing others into the attack.
But now, Liverpool's forward line was a collection of individuals, each playing their own isolated game.
The broadcast quickly cut back to the match as Liverpool players prepared to restart.
Tyler continued his analysis.
"I mentioned earlier that Julien might challenge for a top-ten Ballon d'Or finish, and that wasn't just about his goal-scoring numbers. It's about his ability to link play, to make his teammates better.
Don't be fooled by his goal tally into thinking he's just a pure finisher. That's not who he is at all. He transforms a team's attack from disjointed to fluid. That's what truly elite players do—they elevate everyone around them. Right now, that's precisely what Liverpool are missing."
Tyler paused as Liverpool recycled possession in midfield.
"Sunderland's goal wasn't a fluke, really. They've set up to defend in numbers, pack the box, and force Liverpool to break them down through individual quality. The problem is, Liverpool keep trying to unlock them one-on-one, and it's simply not working."
He let out a slow sigh.
"We're only thirty-five minutes in, down 0-1. Rodgers needs to find an answer to Sunderland's low block. I'm confident that Ball, unless he's completely lost his mind, will keep this defensive shape locked in for the full ninety minutes.
Sunderland desperately need a result to turn their season around. And if that result comes against the league leaders?
The psychological boost would be enormous."
The Boot Room Pub
Back in the Boot Room, the television had just finished replaying Sunderland's goal.
The usual noise of clinking beer glasses faded to near silence. Only the ceiling fan continued its squeaking above them.
Ted's voice carried weary frustration.
"Look at this. What are we even watching out there? Take Julien off the pitch and the front line falls apart like a house of cards. We've waited years for someone like him, someone who could finally give us a genuine shot at the top four.
Remember what we were before this season? We'd turn up against the big teams, give them a proper fight, then drop points to relegation fodder. Inconsistent doesn't even begin to cover it—we were practically a charity service, robbing the rich to feed the poor."
He shook his head, eyes never leaving the screen. "Finally, this season, we've got hope again. Real hope. But the moment Julien sits on the bench, we're right back where we started. Can't score. Can't defend. It's like watching a cruel joke play out in real time."
Mick slammed back a gulp of beer, wiping foam from his upper lip.
"Exactly! And here's the thing—I support resting Julien. Of course I do. The lad's eighteen years old, not some bloody terminator. He's already carrying that adductor issue from his France days. Rotation makes sense. It's necessary, even."
He gestured insistently at the screen.
"But look at what we're seeing. Without him, we can't win. What kind of situation is that? An eighteen-year-old kid shouldn't be the difference between three points and none. We can't keep squeezing every ounce out of him just to scrape results.
This is only domestic competition. What happens next year if we qualify for the Champions League? The fixture congestion will be insane. Are we going to run him into the ground? Expect him to start every match, play every minute, carry the team on his back week after week?"
Mick's voice rose with genuine concern.
"His body will break down. It's inevitable. Or are we supposed to say, 'Cheers for getting us here, Julien, but we'll skip the Champions League to keep you fresh'? It's madness. Complete madness."
Ted exhaled heavily, dragging a hand down his face.
His gaze settled on the broadcast image of Julien sitting calmly on the bench, and worry creased his face.
"That's what terrifies me. The thought that we can't function without him. The thought that all this pressure, all these expectations, might crush him before he's even twenty. The club paid eighty million euros plus three hundred thousand a week. That's a statement of belief in his talent, sure. But belief needs to be backed up by a proper system, a framework that supports him."
His voice dropped lower, becoming more bitter. "Instead, what've we got? No system in sight. Just a team that collapses the moment he's not on the pitch. That's not sustainable. That's not a plan. That's a disaster waiting to happen."
"Rodgers!" someone shouted from across the pub, the word was dripping with disgust.
"End of last season, we were playing some decent football. I actually thought he might build something special. But this season?" The speaker gestured angrily at the television.
"It's all Julien. Every bit of it. Pure individual brilliance holding the whole operation together. You want to talk about transfers?
Fine. We need reinforcements. But even if we bring in quality players, can Rodgers actually integrate them? Can he use them properly? Look at the signings we've already made, how many have genuinely fit into any kind of coherent system?"
The frustration was intense now, spreading through the pub like wildfire.
"Now Julien's on the bench and every tactical flaw is laid bare for everyone to see. The midfield can't progress the ball. The wingers can't penetrate. Everything relies on the forwards improvising and hoping for the best.
Keep this up and we'll be lucky to hold onto a top-four spot, never mind challenging for the title."
Someone else chimed in, sounding more restrained but equally concerned.
"Sometimes I wonder if we need a different manager. Someone who can mold this squad into a functioning unit, not just rely on Julien to bail us out every week. Someone with a tactical system that amplifies his strengths instead of making him do everything himself. He shouldn't have to dribble through three defenders every time we want to create a chance.
That's not football. That's desperation."
Ted didn't respond immediately. He just stared at the screen as Liverpool's latest attack broke down, Suárez shaking his head in exasperation outside the box.
Mick spoke softly, to himself.
"We don't want Rodgers out just for the sake of it. We want the team to succeed. We want Julien to have proper support, reliable teammates who can share the burden.
We want Liverpool to feel like Liverpool again—not a one-man show, no matter how brilliant that one man is. Even if we win the league this way, it'll feel hollow. Incomplete. You know what I mean?"
Someone nodded from the corner. "Exactly. We're Julien supporters, absolutely. But we're Liverpool fans first and foremost. We want to watch him shine, but we also want to watch the team shine with him. Together. As a unit."
The television continued its broadcast, but Liverpool's attacks remained predictably chaotic, going nowhere.
Occasionally, someone would mutter, "Bring on Julien," not loudly, but with enough feeling that it pricked at everyone's mind like a needle.
"Hope Rodgers sorts this out at halftime and gets him on early in the second half," Ted muttered. "Leave it much longer and these three points are gone. But then again, if he does bring him on, it just proves the point, doesn't it? We're completely dependent on an eighteen-year-old. That hurts to watch."
Ted and Mick fell silent again, eyes fixed on the screen.
George had been busy all evening, not really participating in the conversation.
His eyes swept across the crowd, and he let out a sarcastic laugh. "Feels familiar, doesn't it?"
It did and painfully so.
A few seasons ago, this was exactly how they'd watched matches filled with dread, bracing for disappointment.
Back then, Liverpool had been everyone's favorite opponent.
Three points served up on a silver platter.
The debate continued around them, voices were overlapping. Some called for a managerial change. Others insisted the priority was new signings. Many simply prayed for Julien to come on and rescue them, as he'd done so many times before.
The conversations rose and fell like waves, filled by the occasional groan or curse at the television.
Then came the shrill blast of the referee's whistle.
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