Both teams emerged for warmups. Anfield was barely half-full, but the atmosphere was already building intensity.
Every time Julien touched the ball, a ripple of cheers spread through the early arrivals. Two friendlies, five goals, four assists—the Liverpool fans allowed themselves to hope. Could this 18-year-old carry the torch as Gerrard aged? Could he become the next king of Anfield?
Nobody knew. But they wanted to believe.
In the Sky Sports commentary box, Martin Tyler's voice set the scene: "We're watching the focal point of this summer's English transfer market—Julien De Rocca. Listen to those cheers from the Anfield during warmups—every one for this 18-year-old.
His pre-season performances were remarkable: five goals, four assists. Numbers that justify an £80 million fee. But we must be objective—those performances came against Greek and Scottish opposition. As many pundits have noted, Premier League defending and physicality represent an entirely different examination.
Today, he faces man-marking from Dutch international Erik Pieters. This is unquestionably the sternest test of his young career. An £80 million price tag is a millstone around any player's neck, but for a teenager? The entire country is watching to see if Liverpool's record investment will pay dividends.
The pressure is immense. But look at these supporters arriving early, waving their banners, eyes full of expectation. Just now, we saw him complete an exquisite flip-flap pass to find Gerrard twenty meters away. Now a beautiful stop-turn to beat his man—the technique is breathtaking, the composure beyond his years.
Warmups are ending. Julien is the last to leave the pitch. As he jogs toward the tunnel, watch this—he looks up at the Kop, smiles, and thumps the Liverpool crest on his chest with force. The stadium erupts. The air at Anfield is already boiling.
Everyone is waiting for one answer: can this heavily-burdened teenager prove he deserves to wear that red shirt?"
Stoke City Dressing Room
Mark Hughes was still hammering home his tactical instructions. "Defense! Engrain it in your minds—we defend first! Then we hit them on the break. Be decisive. No hesitation."
His Stoke players listened intently. They wanted to make a statement in this opener as well.
Stoke City—nicknamed "The Potters" after the region's famous pottery industry were a quintessentially working-class English club, their identity was forged from their community's industrial heritage.
This season, Welsh manager Mark Hughes had taken charge with clear objectives: not just improvement, but laying foundations for sustained success. Last season had been a disappointment—an unbeaten ten-game start gave way to a catastrophic collapse. They finished 13th, just six points clear of relegation, costing Tony Pulis his job.
The 49-year-old Hughes moved quickly in the transfer market, signaling Stoke's intent to evolve beyond their reputation for physical, agricultural football.
In defense, they'd signed Dutch international left-back Erik Pieters from PSV Eindhoven for €3.6 million. Pieters' primary assignment today: neutralize Liverpool's most dangerous new weapon—Julien De Rocca.
Midfield remained largely unchanged: Glenn Whelan, Steven N'Zonzi, and Charlie Adam providing the steel. Up front, with target man Peter Crouch potentially leaving for Queens Park Rangers, Hughes was pursuing former Manchester City striker Roque Santa Cruz and Hannover 96's Mladen Jozepović. Neither deal was complete yet, so Crouch would start.
At the pre-match press conference, when asked about facing Liverpool's record signing, Hughes had been restrained: "We're fully aware of the threat he poses. His pre-season form demonstrated why his price tag is so high—explosive pace, technical quality, composure in tight spaces.
"However," Hughes had continued, voice hardening, "we're not unprepared. Erik Pieters is an experienced defender with excellent positioning. Our entire defensive structure will work jointly to pressure him. Anfield's atmosphere will lift him, but it will also motivate us. We respect him, but we won't fear him. Our objective is to make his Premier League education memorable."
Now, Hughes wanted to deliver on that promise. He wanted to teach Julien what the Premier League really meant.
After his final tactical points, Hughes gathered the team for a united war cry. Then they marched toward the tunnel.
Julien's eyes swept across the Stoke players as both teams gathered. His gaze met Erik Pieters. The Dutchman's expression wasn't friendly.
Julien remained calm.
The tunnel air was cold, the concrete walls filtering the outside noise into a continuous low-frequency rumble—like the heartbeat of a sleeping giant.
Julien stood mid-formation, eyes fixed on the rectangular patch of light at the tunnel's end. The Kop's red tide was visible through that opening, You'll Never Walk Alone pouring down the tunnel like a tsunami.
His gaze lifted to the famous plaque above: "This Is Anfield." The metal surface reflected wavering red figures.
Gerrard turned and signaled the team forward.
Julien looked down at the Liverpool crest on his chest, fingers tracing the embroidered contours.
£80 million. Media skepticism. Opposition intent on physical intimidation—all of it suddenly felt distant. In its place came something older, heavier: Shankly's legacy. Istanbul's miracle. The Kop's expectations.
The tunnel lights reflected twin points of fire in his eyes.
As he passed through into the blinding stadium lights, he glanced back once at the shadowy tunnel—as if bidding farewell to who he'd been.
Then he turned and walked into the deafening red ocean.
"JULIEN!"
"JULIEN!"
Voices screamed his name from both sides of the tunnel entrance.
Julien walked straight toward the pitch. At the touchline, he tapped his foot against the grass then stepped onto the field. Fresh air mixed with the scent of cut grass flooded his nostrils. He inhaled deeply.
To become a legend, it starts tonight.
5:55 PM
As the players took the field, Anfield's volume rose exponentially. The Kop's deafening rendition of the anthem continued, while fans in other sections buzzed with conversation.
"Christ, did you see that flip-flap in warmups? I've been coming to Anfield for thirty years—never seen a kid with that technique! Reminded me of young Kenny. I hope he realizes: forget what the papers say. The Kop's got his back!"
"Remember what they wrote? 'Expensive gamble!' Well, let them watch him tear through their defense like he did to Benfica in Bastia! Steven! Get the ball to the lad! Let him feel Anfield's trust! We need him integrated fast—like Torres!"
"If he gets a goal or assist today, perfect debut. At least shut some mouths up."
"Tough ask, though. Look at their formation—four-three-three. They're set up to counter. We'll see how Julien handles it. Even geniuses need tempering. If he wants our full support, he needs to earn it with performances."
But the match's significance extended far beyond Anfield.
Bastia, Corsica
Across the Mediterranean in Corsica, the Bastia night was also Liverpool red. Every bar and living room television displayed the same image: Sky Sports' broadcast feed.
At Sunset Café, Modoso roared, "Everyone shut it! Our boy's coming out!"
When the cameras caught Julien warming up, the entire pub exploded in cheers.
"Look at his movement! Still so elegant!"
"God bless him. I said it when he left—Corsica is always his home."
"Don't get sentimental! He came from Bastia! Every goal he scores makes the world remember our name!"
"Whatever shirt he wears; he's always our Bastia boy."
Across Europe—Madrid, London, Paris, Monaco, scouts, coaches, and rival clubs were tuned in.
Every expectation, every doubt, was about to be answered.
In the stands, Pierre De Rocca and his wife Marine De Rocca stood among the Liverpool supporters, swept up in the atmosphere. Beside them, René could barely contain his excitement.
"Never thought we'd see this day," René murmured.
He wasn't just marveling at Julien becoming a Liverpool player—he was reflecting on their own journey.
The Player's Tribune was expanding rapidly, attracting major capital interest. With Julien's involvement and backing, the platform was now a certified unicorn startup. René had already begun aggressive hiring to scale operations. Everything was trending up.
Pierre added, "I hope Julien scores tonight."
"He will!" Pierre said with tender certainty. "I know he will."
6:00 PM
Both teams placed themselves in the center circle. Tyler's voice returned: "Historically, these sides have met 128 times. Liverpool holds the advantage: 64 wins, 35 draws, 29 losses. In league competition specifically: 55 wins, 32 draws, 29 losses.
However, their Premier League head-to-head has been far more balanced. In 12 meetings, Liverpool have won just four, lost three. League form shows two wins, five draws, three losses. The past two seasons have been winless—four matches, two draws, two defeats.
Last season, Liverpool drew 0-0 with Stoke at Anfield, extending their 54-year home unbeaten run against the Potters to 28 matches. But away at the Britannia Stadium, they lost 1-3.
Liverpool's last league victory over Stoke came in February 2011, a comfortable 2-0 win. Notably, Liverpool have won their opening fixture in each of the past four seasons.
For today's lineup: Luis Suárez begins his eight-match ban for biting.
Among the new signings, the heavily scrutinized Julien De Rocca starts, alongside fellow debutants Simon Mignolet, Kolo Touré, and Iago Aspas. Significant changes for Liverpool's first XI."
TWEET!
The referee's whistle pierced through the chorus of You'll Never Walk Alone.
The match was underway!
ROOOAAARRR!
Anfield's pent-up passion detonated.
From the opening seconds, Stoke confirmed Liverpool's worst fears. Their shape resembled a mobile concrete bunker, entrenched in their own half. The moment Liverpool gained possession, they retreated into a thirty-meter zone, compressing into two banks so tight there was barely space to send a pass between them.
Liverpool's players had anticipated this. Still, seeing it executed so ruthlessly was another matter.
In the seventh minute, Gerrard launched a perfectly slanted ball over the top. Julien timed his run to perfection, beating the offside trap with intelligent movement. But the instant he controlled the ball, Erik Pieters was on him—a wall of muscle squeezing his space to nothing. N'Zonzi sprinted across to double-team him.
Julien tried to turn. Pieters' knee pressed into his supporting leg, disrupting his balance with cynical expertise.
"Back!" Gerrard shouted from deep.
Julien managed to lay it off to the advancing Jordan Henderson, stumbling backward from the contact. The Kop erupted in furious boos, but the referee waved play on.
Liverpool maintained patient possession, probing for openings. Sturridge dropped deep to collect, then backheeled to Julien on the right flank. Again, N'Zonzi and Pieters converged like tanks, blocking all passing lanes.
But this time, Julien's touch was sharper. La Croqueta—drag-and-push in one motion, wrong-footing Pieters. Then he accelerated toward the byline.
ROOOAAARRR!
The Kop exploded. This was their first glimpse of Julien's signature ability.
"JULIEN! BEAT HIM!"
"GO ON, SON!"
Julien ignored the noise, eyes scanning the box as he drove the ball forward. But Ryan Shawcross had read the danger, stepping across to cut off the angle. The Stoke center-back used his large body to block the path, elbow subtly pressing into Julien's back, applying just enough pressure to unbalance him as N'Zonzi closed from behind.
Julien felt the trap tightening. He went down.
TWEET!
Finally, the referee blew for a foul. Shawcross threw his hands up in dramatic innocence, face the picture of wounded virtue.
BOOOOOOO!
The Kop let him have it. They also roared encouragement toward Julien, fists pumping.
In these early exchanges, even casual observers could sense the intensity. The atmosphere was electric, pulling everyone—players, staff, supporters into its current.
The broadcast cut to Brendan Rodgers on the touchline. The Northern Irishman stood with hands in trouser pockets, brow furrowed. He'd anticipated deep defending, but Stoke's execution exceeded expectations.
Tyler's voice turned grave: "This is the Premier League's welcome ceremony. Julien De Rocca is experiencing what every technical player must endure—survival in the muscle jungle."
But the Kop kept singing. Liverpool had a free kick.
8th Minute - The Breakthrough
Gerrard stood over the ball near the right touchline, twenty-five yards from goal. Julien situated himself on the edge of the box, near the penalty arc.
The referee's whistle sounded. The Kop's volume spiked higher.
"STEVEN! SHOOT!"
"SMASH IT!"
"YNWA!"
The noise was a physical force, a shockwave washing over the pitch.
Gerrard studied the box—Sturridge was sandwiched between Huth and Shawcross, no room to attack the ball.
The Kop's intensity grew.
TWEET!
Gerrard began his approach. But instead of shooting, he whipped a curling delivery toward the back post, looking for Kolo Touré's late run.
Shawcross read it. He backpedaled two steps, rose highest above the crowd, and powered a clearing header out toward the edge of the area.
As every eye tracked the descending ball, Julien had already reacted. He burst forward two strides, attacking the dropping sphere.
Pieters scrambled to close him down, but he was a half-second too slow—
The ball was still falling. Julien's body was already set. Arms spread for balance, left leg whipping through like a cracking whip.
No first touch. No hesitation. Pure instinct and muscle memory—
CRACK!
The sound was monstrous, a gunshot echoing through Anfield. The ball exploded off Julien's boot, a missile tearing through the air with violent spin, arrowing toward the top right corner.
Stoke keeper Asmir Begović launched himself desperately. Too slow. The angle was too critical.
The ball cannoned into the net where crossbar met post, the force was nearly ripping the netting from its moorings.
1-0.
Goal.
Eight minutes. Not even ten minutes, and Liverpool had the lead!
For one second, Anfield fell into absolute silence.
Then it detonated like a bomb.
BOOOOOOOOM!
The eruption was gigantic. Especially in front of the Kop—they'd seen every detail. The technique. The power. The precision.
A volley. Pure, world-class striking.
Fans in the front rows hammered the advertising boards. Beer cups flew into the air like confetti, golden liquid arcing through the floodlights.
Everyone was screaming themselves to hoarse.
And there, before that boiling red ocean, Julien De Rocca slowly spread his arms wide.
He tilted his head back, letting the lights wash over his sweat-dampened face. The Kop's roar surrounded him like a warm embrace. The 18-year-old stood like a conquering king, calmly accepting the adoration of his subjects.
His eyes held no wild celebration—only sacred focus.
As if to say: This is just the beginning.
Gerrard was first to reach him, leaping onto his back with full weight, screaming into his ear, "You fucking did it, kid!"
Sturridge laughed and ruffled his hair violently. Henderson sprinted thirty meters to join the pile. The entire Liverpool bench erupted—players jumping like children, staff embracing. Rodgers clenched his fist, then covered his face as if unable to believe what he'd witnessed.
So, Julien really is this good?
The manager's mind flashed back to their first conversation. Those words he'd said now felt embarrassing. When Julien had insisted, he wasn't afraid of competition, Rodgers had been skeptical.
But this finishing ability? Any team in the world would build around it. This kid could be a world-class number nine.
Nearby, Mark Hughes stood in stony silence, jaw clenched.
He'd never imagined conceding inside ten minutes. This wasn't remotely close to his game plan. The Welsh manager stared at Julien, surrounded by teammates, serenaded by 50,000 voices chanting his name.
His expression was complicated. Resentful respect mixed with frustration.
He'd wanted to teach Julien a lesson about the Premier League. Instead, the teenager had schooled them in clinical finishing.
Sky Sports Commentary Box
Martin Tyler's voice trembled with excitement, nearly cracking: "GOOOOOAL! Julien De Rocca! Good Lord! I've been commentating football for forty years—I have never seen a more perfect Premier League debut goal!
Look at that strike! A volley! The ball was like a heat-seeking missile, arrowing into the postage stamp! Begović had no chance! This is £80 million worth of talent! This is why Liverpool gambled everything!
Notice this crucial detail—he doesn't adjust his positioning before striking! Pure muscle memory! Superhuman ball-striking ability!
Stoke's defending had been exemplary. Double-teams, physical contact, compressed spaces. But genius always finds a way to break the deadlock!
What's most frightening? He's more mature than his Bastia days. In Corsica, he might need three chances to produce a goal like this. Now? One opportunity. One shot. One goal.
Yes! This is Julien's first shot of the match!
Look at the Kop losing their minds! They're going to tear the roof off!
This is the answer Anfield's been waiting for—a superstar who can ignite the entire stadium with pure, unadulterated talent!
What did Gerrard just say to him? 'Welcome to the Premier League'? No! This isn't a newcomer's performance! This is a king's arrival!
The other nineteen Premier League clubs better take note: Liverpool's new era might have just been inaugurated by an 18-year-old!
This goal will be replayed all season—it's a guaranteed contender for Goal of the Season!
Julien De Rocca! Remember that name!
We might be witnessing the most electrifying Premier League debut in history unfolding at Anfield!"
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