"This is absolutely the most critical decision Brendan Rodgers has made all match! Think about it—Liverpool have been hammering away at Sunderland's penalty area like it's target practice, yet they haven't managed a single chance that could penetrate this packed defense. And now, their strongest signing of the season is finally about to step onto the pitch!"
The broadcast camera swept across the Liverpool supporters' section in the stands. What had been a subdued sea of red suddenly erupted into life.
"JULIEN!"
The chant rolled through the Stadium of Light like a tidal wave gathering momentum.
Martin Tyler's voice rose with the crowd's energy, feeding off their anticipation. "Sunderland's team bus has been welded shut in front of their penalty area since the second half kicked off. Lee Cattermole and Ki Sung-yueng have turned the central channel into an impenetrable wall. Luis Suárez is being smothered by two defenders who won't give him room to breathe.
"But Julien is different!
"Let's not forget the Merseyside derby—how he carved through United's defensive lines from midfield, how he threaded that perfect through ball while three players swarmed him! His dribbling, his link-up play, his instinct inside the box, that's exactly what Liverpool are missing right now..."
On the screen, Julien embraced Raheem Sterling before his boot tip nudged the touchline. The moment he stepped onto the pitch, the roar inside the pub nearly lifted the roof off its hinges.
Someone roared over the chaos, "About bloody time! Rodgers has been dragging his feet—wait any longer and those three points would've slipped away completely!"
Another voice chimed in with concern through it, "Reckon he's got the legs left? That Merseyside derby took everything out of him. Hope he's not running on fumes..."
"Running on fumes or not, he's got to deliver!" The man beside him didn't take his eyes off the screen, watching Julien jog toward the right flank.
His voice carried pure expectation. "Look at how Sunderland have parked that bus, he's the only one who can tear through their defense. Remember that winner against Aston Villa? Still gives me goosebumps thinking about it!"
As the match continued, the noise in the pub gradually subsided. Every pair of eyes locked onto that young figure moving across the screen.
Julien had entered the match.
Liverpool's hope seemed to return to the pitch with him.
However, after Julien's introduction, the Stadium of Light's defensive line became an impenetrable net with no gaps to exploit.
The moment he received Gerrard's pass on the right wing, James Colback and Ki Sung-yueng closed in on him like predators. Ki in particular pressed his elbow into Julien's lower back, applying constant physical pressure to disrupt his balance.
Behind them, the winger tracked back rapidly to cover.
Julien shielded the ball, then could only knock it back to Kolo Touré.
This was Sunderland's tactical adjustment to Julien's arrival: flooding the right flank with defensive bodies.
For five solid minutes, he touched the ball only three times. Each possession brought two or three defenders swarming, eliminating all space. Even someone with Julien's talent struggled to find opportunities in such suffocating conditions.
This kind of defensive bunker was every team's nightmare.
The cheers in the Boot Room pub gradually faded to anxious murmurs.
Mick shifted nervously in his seat. "Bloody hell, Sunderland are marking him to death! Might as well have five players shadowing him!"
Ted frowned, eyes fixed on the screen as Julien dropped deeper to receive the ball. "Give him time. He's finding his rhythm. After that brutal shift in the derby, he needs a moment to catch his breath when he comes on. What do you think he is, some kind of machine?"
Just as the words left Ted's mouth, the situation on the pitch shifted.
Gerrard played the ball out to the right flank again, but this time he made a forward run himself. Ki Sung-yueng's attention wavered for just a heartbeat.
That heartbeat was all Julien needed.
Without hesitation, he met the incoming ball with a feint of his left foot, drawing Colback's weight to that side. Then his right foot kissed the ball with the inside of his boot, before his left toe pushed it forward, two touches were executed with the speed of a summer breeze.
A Marseille turn!
Colback tried to recover, but his momentum kept him and he stumbled slightly. He could only watch helplessly as Julien glided past him down the touchline at full sprint.
By the time Julien reached the byline, Sunderland's center-back Wes Brown had already shifted across to cover. But Julien didn't slow down. His right foot drove the ball hard along the grass toward the six-yard box.
There, Suárez was locked in combat with the other center-back, John O'Shea. Fighting through O'Shea's physical challenge, Suárez leaned forward and stabbed his foot toward the approaching ball.
Every eye in the stadium followed the ball's trajectory.
Sunderland goalkeeper Keiren Westwood had already committed, diving across his line.
But the ball never found the back of the net. Suárez's toe caught the bottom half of the ball instead of its sweet spot, sending it ballooning upward. It grazed the top of the crossbar before sailing into the sky above.
He'd blazed it over!
The collective gasp swept through both sets of supporters.
The moment left Sunderland fans clutching their chests in relief, their applause was mixing with nervous laughter.
In the away section, Liverpool supporters had already begun their celebrations, only to clutch their heads in disbelief when they saw where Suárez's effort had gone.
On the pitch, Julien didn't show too much disappointment. He waved at Suárez, gesturing that it was fine, no worries.
Suárez scratched his head, slapped his thigh in frustration, then jogged back toward the halfway line to prepare for the next attack.
On the touchline, Rodgers's expression remained unchanged, it was still tense, and calculating.
The broadcast replays ran Julien's dribbling sequence and cross over and over again.
Martin Tyler's voice carried genuine admiration. "What a shame, but you can't deny it, Julien changed the dynamic the moment he stepped on.
Liverpool's first-half attack resembled headless chickens, everyone operating in isolation without any clear combinations. Yet Julien needed just one dribble and one delivery to create the clearest chance of the entire match.
That's his value right there. He always finds those microscopic cracks in a packed defense."
Sunderland had set up their defensive fortress with even their striker dropping deep, but one Marseille turn and one pinpoint cross from Julien ripped their right flank wide open.
We've been saying it all season—without Julien, Liverpool lose their attacking nucleus. Now we're seeing the proof. Even though that chance didn't result in a goal, it's already demonstrated just how desperately this team needs him.
And remember, he's only eighteen years old!
Fresh off playing the full ninety minutes in that high-intensity derby, he comes off the bench and immediately finds the match rhythm. Sunderland's players clearly weren't prepared for his directness. Colback just got turned inside out, completely unable to match Julien's pace.
Sunderland better stay on high alert now..."
Watching the broadcast, David Dein kept his brow furrowed throughout. Only when the camera found Julien did a faint smile appeared across his face.
Soon enough, Liverpool regained possession and launched another wave of pressure.
But Ball responded quickly with his own adjustments, withdrawing striker Jozy Altidore and midfielder Sebastian Larsson from the pitch.
In their places came two defenders, Carlos Cuellar and Valentin Roberge.
Ball had made his intentions crystal clear: defend to the death.
The substitutions made Liverpool's attacking space even more claustrophobic. Even when Julien got on the ball and tried to drive forward, progress became nearly impossible. Three or four defenders shadowed his every movement.
Meanwhile, Liverpool's entire shape pushed higher and higher up the pitch. Their back line had crossed the halfway line, camping in Sunderland's half.
Ball's substitutions were like welding the final steel plate onto Sunderland's defensive fortress. Cuellar slotted immediately into the center-back position while Roberge hugged the touchline to provide additional wide cover. What had been a defense with occasional hairline cracks suddenly transformed into a hermetically sealed defensive block.
Liverpool's possession statistics climbed higher and higher, but most of it meant absolutely nothing.
The Liverpool players circulated the ball around Sunderland's penalty area—left wing to right wing, central midfield back to the defenders but the ball never penetrated the danger zone. Even when Suárez dropped deep to collect possession, two defenders stuck to him like shadows.
Daniel Sturridge attempted a long-range effort from outside the box. The ball had barely left the ground before a Sunderland center-back threw his body in front of it.
Time ticked away relentlessly as Liverpool's attacks grew increasingly frantic and impatient.
A Liverpool throw-in was taken quickly. Gerard tried to whip a cross into the box, but Cuellar rose highest to head it clear.
On the touchline, Rodgers paced nonstop, gesturing wildly at his players to push even higher. The anxiety in his eyes was impossible to conceal.
Meanwhile, Ball stood at the edge of his technical area, roaring: "HOLD THE LINE!" at his players.
This match had become simple for Sunderland: protect the 1-0 lead until the final whistle, no matter what.
The minutes slipped away through a succession of players going down, balls rolling out of play, and the goalkeeper taking an eternity over every goal kick.
A minor scuffle even broke out when Liverpool players accused Sunderland of time-wasting, though the referee quickly intervened.
The team that's behind must keep their composure above all else, losing their heads only plays into the opposition's hands.
Then came the 87th minute.
By this point in the match, exhaustion showed on every player's face, visible even from the stands.
But Julien kept searching for that one opening. No matter how many defenders they threw at him, there would always be one sliver of space, one split-second opportunity.
He received Kolo Touré's pass on the right flank. Before Roberge could close him down, Julien's left foot pulled the ball inside, his body was cutting toward the central channel.
Ki Sung-yueng had been tracking him, but his tank was running on fumes. His legs responded a half-second slower than his brain commanded.
As Ki lunged toward him, Julien suddenly flicked the ball with the outside of his right boot, his body shape was suggesting he'd accelerate into the right side of the penalty area.
Ki instinctively stuck out a leg to block the path, but Julien instantly reversed the movement, using his left foot to drag the ball back in front of his body. He spun like a top, leaving Ki grasping at air.
Just as Julien was about to burst clear, Ki operating on pure defensive instinct stretched out his leg one more time to intercept.
But his body couldn't keep pace with his intentions. His studs arrived a fraction too late, catching Julien's ankle instead of the ball.
Julien immediately curled up and went down, clutching his ankle.
TWEET!
The referee's whistle shrieked through the stadium. He pointed to the edge of the penalty area. Free kick.
He wagged his finger at Ki without reaching for a card, though the warning was crystal clear.
Liverpool players swarmed the area immediately. Suárez extended a hand to pull Julien to his feet, patting him on the shoulder.
Gerard strode decisively toward the free-kick spot, bending down to measure the distance with his feet.
Sunderland players surrounded the referee, arguing that Julien had dived, but the Ref waved them away and gestured for them to organize their defensive wall.
Every eye in the stadium focused on that patch of grass just outside the penalty arc.
In the away section, Liverpool fans raised their scarves high, screaming: "GET ONE IN!"
Sunderland fans responded with a chorus of boos mixed with desperate chants of: "HOLD STRONG!"
On the touchline, Rodgers stopped his pacing, his body was leaning forward in anticipation.
Ball rushed to the edge of his technical area, shouting instructions about positioning.
At the free-kick spot, Julien and Gerard stood side by side, one on the left, one on the right of the ball.
Julien also possessed good free-kick ability. After his shooting enhancement and with his shooting attribute now reaching ninety, his technique had entered the elite tier. That applied to set pieces as well.
Gerard and Julien exchanged a brief glance. No words were said between them, just a slight nod of mutual understanding.
Everything they needed to communicate existed in that moment of silent acknowledgment.
Gerard had already begun treating Julien as Liverpool's next captain. In fact, he'd been somewhat displeased with Rodgers's decision to suddenly drop Julien from the starting eleven.
Now, in this moment, he hoped Julien would respond with a goal.
This represented Liverpool's final realistic chance to salvage something from this match while trailing.
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