Halftime.
The Stadium of Light erupted in celebration. The Sunderland fans were on their feet, roaring their approval. They were still winning, still ahead of the league leaders on their own patch.
Rodgers' expression was dark. The moment the whistle sounded, he spun on his heel and marched down the tunnel, jaw clenched, refusing to look back.
Julien didn't follow the starting eleven into the dressing room. Instead, he stayed outside with the substitutes, continuing his warm-up routine.
From the away end, Liverpool fans began chanting desperately.
"Julien! Save us! We need you, Julien!"
He heard them. How could he not? But he kept his expression blank, focused on the simple passing drills he was running with Lucas and the others.
Football was a game of momentum, of rhythm. Teams retreated and attacked. That was the nature of it.
Players were human beings, not machines. They couldn't maintain peak performance indefinitely.
After the Manchester United derby where he'd played the full ninety minutes at maximum intensity, pushing his abilities to their absolute limit in those crucial final moments, his body needed recovery time. Genuine rest, not just a light jog and some stretching.
Honestly, even if he'd started today, there was no guarantee he could replicate that explosive, match-winning performance from Old Trafford. Back at Bastia, Coach Hadzibegic had been meticulous about rotation, carefully managing his minutes.
Towards the end of their Ligue 1 campaign, Julien had been rested for several matches completely, allowing the team to focus all their energy on the Europa League run.
He could play ninety minutes. His fitness allowed for that much. But asking him to perform at the highest level with only three days between matches? That was pushing it. Even he had limits.
Inside the Liverpool Dressing Room
The Liverpool dressing room felt suffocating, the air felt thick and heavy like waterlogged cotton.
Rodgers' voice carried the weight of his frustration.
"What the hell was that out there? I specifically emphasized midfield linkage before kickoff.
Where was it? Kanté wins the ball back—who's he supposed to find? Sterling cuts inside, what are his options? Did you all just forget everything we worked on?"
He yanked the tactics board closer, circling the central midfield area with angry red strokes. He poked at it twice for emphasis.
"Suárez drops deep to collect the ball, and there's nobody pushing forward behind him. Sturridge gets to the byline, whips in a cross, and the box is empty. Nobody attacking the six-yard box.
Sunderland just changed managers—their defense is still finding its feet, full of holes we should be exploiting. And yet we can't string together a single cohesive attacking move. Is this really the standard we're setting for ourselves?"
Gerrard lifted his head, ready to explain the issues they'd faced dealing with Sunderland's midfield pressure, but one look from Rodgers silenced him before he could speak.
"Second half, we stick to what we prepared. The game plan we discussed before kickoff. We're not out of this, we've got the quality to hurt them. But we haven't shown it. We haven't played with any intelligence, any structure. Keep performing like this, and we're leaving here empty-handed. Is that what you want?"
The players nodded, some more convincingly than others.
Rodgers launched into a detailed breakdown of tactical adjustments, particularly regarding positional play and movement patterns.
He showed a picture in his mind of how the game should flow, how players should rotate and create space. It was intricate, well-thought-out. He spoke with conviction, believing his system could unlock any defense if executed properly.
When he finished, he told the players to rest and rehydrate. Assistant coach Phil Thompson crept up to him, lowering his voice. "Julien's still out there warming up. If we can't break them down early in the second half, maybe bringing him on sooner rather than later could—"
Rodgers stayed silent for several seconds before shaking his head. "Not yet. We gave Julien this match off to rest properly. Load management matters. His fitness is crucial for the long term."
"But we're losing, and the attack is clearly struggling—"
Thompson tried to press the point. This wasn't just about Rodgers anymore. If they dropped points to a relegation candidate, it would reflect poorly on the entire coaching staff.
"I said not yet," Rodgers cut him off firmly. "We need to find our rhythm ourselves first. Execute the tactics we've prepared. We'll reassess around the seventy-fifth or eightieth minute if necessary."
He glanced back at the dressing room, taking in the dejected faces of his players, and exhaled quietly.
Meanwhile, in the Sunderland dressing room, manager Kevin Ball was pumping his players full of adrenaline.
He stood in the center of the room, his gaze was sweeping across every flushed, exhausted face.
His voice burned with intensity.
"That first half? That was magnificent. Absolutely magnificent. That's Liverpool out there—the hottest team in the Premier League right now. And you suffocated their attack. Completely shut them down.
Every tackle, every recovery run, every block, the fans in the stands were screaming your names. Did you hear them?
The Stadium of Light was shaking for you.
That's what Sunderland is supposed to look like.
That's the identity we need to reclaim!"
Someone in the corner shouted, "Yes!" with genuine pride.
Ball immediately raised his hand, cutting through the brief celebration.
"But don't get comfortable! Don't let your guard down for a second. You can feel good about what you've done, you should feel good. But you can't relax. Liverpool are going to come at us hard in the second half. They'll throw everything forward. And they've still got De Rocca sitting on that bench. You all know what he's capable of, don't you?"
The players nodded grimly. Julien was the most talked-about player in English football right now. They'd watched his highlights; seen the damage he could inflict. They knew exactly what threat he posed.
Ball's eyes burned into each of them.
"So, when you walk back out there, I want your chests out. I want your heads up. Show Liverpool that the Stadium of Light isn't a place they can just roll over. Let them hear how loud our fans can roar.
Forty-five more minutes. That's all I'm asking. Forty-five minutes of blood and sweat. Run until your legs give out. Fight for every single ball like it's the last one you'll ever touch.
Do that, and the three points are ours.
For yourselves.
For the fans.
For Sunderland.
Can you do that?"
"YES!" The response was deafening, almost violent in its conviction.
Five matches without a win had left them numb, beaten down. But this match had reignited something in them. They'd proven they could stand toe-to-toe with the league leaders. Liverpool weren't invincible after all.
This wasn't just about beating Liverpool anymore. It was about proving to the entire league that Sunderland still had fight in them. That their spirit, their backbone, had never left. It was simply waiting to be reawakened.
The halftime break passed quickly.
The whistle blew to start the second half, and Liverpool came out like a team possessed, pressing forward with brand new urgency.
Sunderland, however, had no intention of changing their approach. They dug in deeper, dropping even more men behind the ball.
Despite playing at home, they showed zero ambition to attack. Their entire focus was on maintaining their defensive block, flooding the area around their penalty box with bodies.
Even their striker dropped back to help defend.
Liverpool's attacking play did show marginal improvement, but breaking down Sunderland's resolute low block was proving nearly impossible.
Five defenders and three midfielders formed an impenetrable web, denying Liverpool any space to turn or adjust their positioning.
Liverpool had the ball. They just couldn't do anything meaningful with it.
In the fifty-fifth minute, Liverpool managed to construct something resembling a smooth move.
Gerrard sent a pass through the lines, Henderson collected it and immediately switched play to the flank. Enrique overlapped and delivered a cross toward the penalty spot. But before the ball even reached the danger area, Sunderland forward Steven Fletcher had already tracked back and rose to head it clear.
Three minutes later, Suárez picked up possession on the edge of the box, attempting to shift the ball onto his stronger foot for a shot. Instantly, two Sunderland defenders closed him down. The moment he shaped to shoot, defensive midfielder Lee Cattermole slid in and poked the ball away.
Time continued to drain away, and Liverpool's players grew increasingly desperate.
By the sixtieth minute, they'd completed eight consecutive passes but still couldn't penetrate Sunderland's backline. The ball circulated harmlessly between midfield and the flanks, going nowhere. Finally, Henderson just hit a hopeful long-range effort, more out of frustration than tactical intent.
It lacked any real quality.
Goalkeeper Vito Mannone gathered it comfortably.
After collecting the ball, Mannone deliberately held onto it for several extra seconds before releasing it, giving his teammates precious moments to recover.
Sunderland's approach might not have been pretty, but their commitment to defending was absolute, far more resolute than Liverpool's desire to break them down.
On the touchline, Rodgers paced back and forth, his shirt collar was unbuttoned, his tie was loosened.
His expression shifted gradually from focused to anxious to borderline desperate.
The Stadium of Light crowd sensed blood.
Their chants grew louder, sharper, each roar was feeling like a knife twisting into his ribs.
He couldn't help but glance toward the warm-up area.
Julien, Aspas, Lucas, and several others were going through their routine drills, staying ready.
Rodgers' mind raced. A thousand thoughts competed for attention.
What should I do?
He exhaled heavily, turning to Thompson and murmuring a few words.
Thompson's face lit up with evident relief.
He immediately jogged toward the warm-up zone, calling out for Aspas and Julien.
The broadcast cameras caught the moment instantly, zooming in on the two players.
"Julien!" Martin Tyler's voice lifted with anticipation. "Is he coming on? Finally, Rodgers is turning to his match-winner."
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