Time has a way of slipping through your fingers like sand, doesn't it? One moment you're looking ahead to the weekend's fixture, and suddenly you're standing in the tunnel waiting for kickoff.
October 5th. The clock reads 2:00 PM.
Premier League, Matchweek Seven.
Liverpool Football Club plays host to Crystal Palace at Anfield.
The famous old stadium sits beneath a sky the color of wet concrete, as if the heavens themselves are pressing down on the red-brick stands.
The clouds form an unbroken ceiling of leaden grey stretching from horizon to horizon with not a single crack for sunlight to slip through. Fine rain drifts down in that particularly Merseyside way—not quite mist, not quite drizzle, but something in between that hangs in the air and coats everything it touches with a sheen of dampness.
The wind comes rolling in off the Mersey River, carrying with it that distinctive wet-cold that only Liverpool seems to produce, the kind that finds its way past your collar and down your spine no matter how tightly you pull your coat around yourself.
You can feel the moisture in every breath, taste the river on the air.
But if you think this miserable October weather is going to dampen the spirits of the Anfield faithful, you don't know Liverpool supporters.
The roar begins building in the Kop even before the teams emerge from the tunnel. It starts as a low rumble, like distant thunder, then grows and grows until it becomes something physical, something you can feel in your chest cavity.
When "You'll Never Walk Alone" erupts from fifty thousand throats simultaneously, the sound is so overwhelming it drowns out the wind, transforms the falling rain into something almost sacred, turns a grey and dreary afternoon into a moment of transcendence.
There's no conductor directing this choir, no one keeping time or maintaining pitch. They don't need one. This melody runs in the blood of every person wearing red in this stadium, passed down through generations like genetic memory.
Fathers taught it to sons, mothers to daughters, and now it echoes off the Anfield Road Stand and the Main Stand and comes back amplified, a wall of sound that must surely be audible all the way across the city.
This isn't just a song.
This is identity made audible.
This is Liverpool.
The referee glances at his watch, brings the whistle to his lips, and at precisely 2:00 PM, sends Liverpool and Crystal Palace into battle.
Within seconds, you can see Crystal Palace's tactical setup—manager Ian Holloway has set his team up in a compact 4-5-1 formation that immediately drops into a 4-5-1 defensive shell.
Every Palace player retreats into their own half as soon as Liverpool gain possession, forming banks of four and five that compress the space between the penalty area and the halfway line. It's classic survival football
To be fair, Liverpool's fans hadn't lost much sleep over this fixture in the buildup.
The pre-match consensus around the pubs and on the message boards had been pretty clear: three points, comfortably taken, job done. After all, Crystal Palace had spent most of the season so far looking completely out of their depth at this level.
As a newly-promoted side, they simply didn't possess the quality or the experience to genuinely threaten the established Premier League sides. Through the opening six weeks of the campaign, they'd been rooted in the relegation zone, scrapping desperately for every point, knowing that survival would require something approaching a miracle given their current trajectory.
The Eagles' story actually had some romance to it, if you looked at it from a certain angle.
Last season, they'd fought their way through the Championship playoff system, the most nerve-shredding route back to the top flight imaginable. The final against Watford at Wembley had gone to extra time before Palace finally secured promotion for the first time since their relegation in 2005. Eight years in the wilderness, and finally, they were back among England's elite.
But the injury curse had struck before they'd even kicked a ball in anger this season. Glenn Murray, their top scorer and the focal point of their attack, had gone down with a serious knee injury during the summer. The medical staff's prognosis was grim: months on the sidelines, possibly longer.
His absence ripped the heart out of Palace's attacking plans.
Simultaneously, young winger Wilfried Zaha's loan spell came to an end and he returned to Manchester United, having tormented Championship defenses for a full season. Losing him was like losing a cheat code.
Suddenly, Palace's attacking options looked embarrassingly thin—a newly-promoted side can't afford to lose its two most potent weapons before the season even starts.
The club management had tried to address the problem in the transfer market. The summer signing of French winger Yannick Bolasie from Bristol City was supposed to provide some of the pace and trickery that Zaha had offered.
Bolasie had shown flashes of real quality in the opening weeks, no question about that. But he wasn't quite at Zaha's level.
After eight years away from the big time, Palace's return to the Premier League had seen co-chairmen Steve Parish and Martin Long open the chequebooks and shatter every transfer record in the club's history.
Yet in post-match interviews and fan forums, Parish kept repeating the same message: the rebuild was far from complete. More investment would almost certainly be needed when the January transfer window opened.
Looking at their current predicament, one win from seven matches, leaking goals, barely creating chances, that assessment seemed less like prudent planning and more like desperate understatement.
Palace would need massive investment in the winter just to give themselves a fighting chance of staying up.
Through six league matches and one League Cup tie, their record made grim reading: one win, six losses.
That solitary victory? Against Sunderland, themselves winless this season. They'd beaten the Black Cats and no one else.
A soft touch. A team there for the taking.
However, after two consecutive matches against relegation-threatened opposition, the previous weekend's disappointing draw was still fresh in memory—the pressure at Anfield had begun to rise.
That performance against Sunderland had reminded everyone of Liverpool's most frustrating tendency: their inexplicable ability to drop points against sides they should routinely dismantle.
But this time, there was a crucial difference that gave the Kop hope.
Julien was back in the starting eleven.
Under that grey sky, with rain still misting across the pitch, the roar from Anfield erupted within minutes of kickoff.
From the opening whistle, Liverpool's attacks crashed against Palace's defensive banks like waves against sea walls. Even with Palace's players compressed into a compact block in front of their box, forming the classic relegation-battler's iron curtain, Liverpool's passing tempo simply overwhelmed them.
The ball moved too quickly, the combinations too sharp, the movement were too fluid for Palace's defenders to track.
In the 12th minute, Julien received possession on the right flank.
Two Palace defenders converged on him immediately, attempting to squeeze him into a corner.
With the slightest flick of his ankle, Julien opened up the angle, then sent a diagonal pass through the microscopic gap between two white-shirted defenders.
The ball skimmed along the wet turf with perfect weight. Suárez timed his run to perfection, arriving onto the pass in full stride and side-footing it into the far corner past the helpless goalkeeper.
The moment the net bulged, Anfield exploded.
The sound could probably be heard across the Mersey in Birkenhead.
Scarves flew into the air like red-and-white confetti. Strangers embraced strangers. Grown men jumped like children.
That's what Julien brings! That's the difference when he starts!
The Liverpool fans felt their anxiety dissolve. This was more like it.
Just eight minutes later, Julien decided to take matters into his own hands.
Gerrard won possession in midfield with a crunching tackle and immediately fed Julien, who set off on a purposeful dribble toward the heart of Palace's defence.
A Palace midfielder lunged in with a desperate sliding challenge, but Julien shifted the ball with a smart touch, leaving the defender grasping at air.
As Julien approached the edge of the area, he didn't hesitate. His right foot connected with the ball cleanly, and it rocketed through the drizzle, curling viciously before kissing the inside of the right post and nestling in the back of the net.
2-0!
When the stadium announcer's voice boomed "JULIENNNN!" across the PA system, the entire Kop rose as one in a wall of sound and movement that seemed to lift the roof clean off the stand.
Julien sprinted toward the corner flag, arms spread wide, and was immediately buried under a pile of delirious teammates. The rain fell harder now, but no one cared. Everyone was grinning like idiots, soaked through and loving every second.
For the remainder of the first half, Palace tried to muster some kind of response, but their attacking deficiencies were brutally exposed. Without Murray's presence as a target man, without Zaha's ability to beat defenders one-on-one, their forward forays sputtered out before reaching halfway.
Liverpool's backline, barely tested, dealt with everything Palace could throw at them with contemptuous ease.
The Kop's singing never stopped. They moved from one anthem to the next, occasionally whistling sarcastically when a Palace player miscontrolled the ball in the wet conditions.
When the half-time whistle blew, Palace's players and coaching staff trudged off the pitch with faces like thunder, knowing they were being taken apart.
Meanwhile, the Liverpool fans continued their songs, many were already debating how many more goals the second half would bring.
The second half kicked off with no let-up in Liverpool's intensity.
Palace emerged from the tunnel looking shell-shocked, like boxers who'd taken too many punches in the opening rounds. Their defensive shape remained intact, but the urgency had drained from their pressing, the belief was leaking out of them with every Liverpool pass.
In the 53rd minute, Julien collected Henderson's pass in the centre circle.
Without breaking stride, he played a perfectly weighted through ball that split Palace's defensive line like a knife through butter.
Suárez ghosted between the centre-backs, his movement was too intelligent for them to track, and found himself one-on-one with the goalkeeper. His finish was clinical, a composed side-footed effort that gave the keeper no chance.
3-0!
Suárez rolled away in celebration and made a beeline for Julien, slapping palms with his assister before ruffling his hair affectionately. His second of the afternoon, both served up on a silver platter.
Crystal Palace were disintegrating before everyone's eyes.
Their players' legs had gone heavy, movements were sluggish in the persistent rain. Defensive organization crumbled, leaving gaps large enough to drive a bus through.
Even their goalkeeper had started roaring frustrated instructions at teammates, though his words were swallowed by the Anfield's roar and did nothing to stem the red tide washing over them.
The 68th minute brought more misery for the visitors.
Julien once again became the catalyst for destruction.
Receiving the ball deep, he immediately sprung the counterattack, sliding a pass into Gerrard's path as his captain surged forward from midfield.
Julien then accelerated into space himself, dragging two defenders with him and opening up acres of room on the weak side.
Gerrard becoming a playmaker switched the ball across the pitch with precision. Sturridge collected it, cut inside onto his preferred left foot, and curled an unstoppable shot into the top corner.
4-0!
Anfield reached fever pitch.
The Kop had become a seething mass of humanity, fans were linking arms and bouncing in unison, scarves were held high creating a rippling red wall that swelled like an ocean wave.
Even the handful of Palace fans scattered in the away section could only shake their heads in resignation, knowing they were witnessing a masterclass they were powerless to stop.
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