A hat-trick before halftime.
This kind of debut was enough to make all of Anfield roar for Julien, to chant his name until their throats went raw!
Those surging tides of red—wave upon wave of ecstatic supporters were the greatest testament to what they'd just witnessed.
In the heart of the Kop, dozens of middle-aged supporters linked arms and swayed like drunkards, roaring the club anthem so off-key it bordered on sacrilege. One portly gentleman's beer gut bulged from his torn shirt, spilling out shamelessly as he held up his phone with trembling hands, recording video of his own tear-streaked face. He needed to capture this day—not just in memory, but in permanent digital form.
At the base of the South Stand, a little girl wailed in terror at the deafening noise around her. Her father only laughed harder, rubbing his stubbled chin against her cheek: "Baby girl, we're witnessing history!"
Nearby, an elderly woman poured tea from her thermos with such shaking hands that she splashed the neck of the supporter in front of her. The man didn't even flinch.
Someone began hammering out a rhythm on the metal railings—clang, clang, clang—and within seconds the entire stand joined in, thousands of feet were stomping in perfect unison, making the concrete tremble.
Even the security personnel stationed at the tunnel entrances, normally stern-faced and strictly professional, were sneaking fist-bumps to celebrate. One young steward stood with his back to the pitch, shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter, stealing glances over his shoulder every few seconds as if he couldn't quite believe what he was seeing.
Down at the Boot Room pub, owner George was drenched in sweat, working the beer taps so frantically that foam sprayed everywhere. Patrons drained pints in single gulps. Others threw their drinks into the air in celebration, beer raining down until the floor turned sticky and treacherous.
All these scattered fragments of red passion—scattered across every corner of the stadium, the city, the world were being woven together through Julien's miraculous 39-minute hat-trick into the opening act of Liverpool's new era.
Online, the reaction was equally euphoric.
Not just Liverpool supporters either—French fans, Bastia fans, neutral English football fans, they were all losing their minds.
"Hahaha! You English bastards see that?! That's French youth development for you! You spend all day bragging that the Premier League is the best in the world, and then an 18-year-old French kid turns your defense into Swiss cheese!"
"Ligue 1 isn't a farmer's league! Look what our talent just did in your precious Premier League! A first-half hat-trick! Mark Hughes's face has gone green! Do the English media still dare question his transfer fee?"
"PSG, Real Madrid, Manchester City—all those clubs must be kicking themselves now. They let Liverpool steal an absolute bargain! €80 million? He'll be worth €180 million in three years! The way Julien plays—pure Ballon d'Or-level football—I can't even imagine how high his value will climb."
"I'm crying, Julien. Our boy, he's recreating everything he did in Corsica at Anfield! That croqueta was identical to the one from last season's Europa League final! My heart aches, but seeing the Kop explode for him like that... I can't help but feel proud.
The English finally know what treasure we lost! The club should frame a copy of Liverpool's transfer contract and hang it at the entrance to Bastia's youth academy—let every young player see it. From Bastia to Anfield, dreams really can come true!"
"What did I tell you?! WHAT DID I TELL YOU?! Eighty million? A bargain! A FUCKING BARGAIN! This is the chosen one Liverpool has been waiting for! I've never seen a debut like this—not from Fowler! Not from Owen! Not from Torres! Not even from Suárez! Gerrard gave him the free kick—that's RESPECT!"
"It's over. Liverpool have struck gold. This is scarier than when Ronaldo came to the Premier League! Someone wake up Sir Alex and get him back to manage, quick!"
"Calm down! It's only halftime! Stoke aren't exactly... Also, Mr. Pellegrini, can we buy a center-back in January?"
"The Premier League order just shifted. Liverpool with this kid aren't fighting for fourth anymore—they're challenging for the title! All 19 other teams will be holding emergency meetings tonight to figure out how to stop him!"
Liverpool's celebration lasted a bit longer this time. After all, it was a hat-trick.
As Julien jogged back toward the center circle, he waved toward the section where his father, mother and his family sat in the stands.
Pierre was shouting into the crowd, voice hoarse with pride: "That's my son!"
The Liverpool supporters around him broke into applause, several patting him on the back. "You've got a hell of a kid there, mate. Absolute quality."
On the pitch, the referee's whistle shrilled.
The final minutes of the half ticked away.
With a 3-0 cushion, Liverpool turned into possession football. Gerrard orchestrated from midfield with metronomic precision, recycling the ball through patient triangles that Stoke simply couldn't disrupt. Every time the visitors lost possession, they found themselves chasing shadows.
Right into stoppage time.
Gerrard unleashed a speculative long-range effort from the edge of the box—testing his range, feeling for the goal.
The shot also served as the curtain-closer on an extraordinary first half.
PHEEEEEP!
The whistle blew. Both sets of players trudged toward the tunnel.
The Liverpool fans roared and laughed. It had been so long since they'd experienced a match this intoxicating, this utterly dominant.
And this wasn't even full-strength Liverpool. Suárez was still serving his suspension.
Though that raised its own question, one murmured in pockets throughout the stadium: would Suárez even stay?
From a purely footballing perspective, he was exceptional—his finishing instincts were lethal, his ability to unlock defenses from the center-forward position invaluable. Imagine a front three of Sturridge, Suárez, and Julien.
With Gerrard pulling the strings behind them.
Unthinkable firepower.
But Suárez's ambitions extended beyond Anfield, everyone knew that. He'd stayed this season—but what about next season?
No one had an answer.
The roar of the crowd was muffled by the heavy dressing room door, reducing fifty thousand voices to a distant hum.
Brendan Rodgers stood before the tactical board, suit jacket draped over a chair, shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows, forearms tense. His expression was stone like.
"Listen up." He slapped the board, voice sharp as the Mersey wind in winter. "Three-nil is the most dangerous lead in the Premier League—more dangerous than a draw. Mark Hughes is in their dressing room right now smashing tactics boards over heads. They'll come out like starving wolves going for the throat."
His gaze locked onto Henderson. "Twenty-eighth minute, Jordan. That defensive sequence. You got sold by a feint, lost your balance—why didn't you recover immediately? Hmm?! Those few seconds of laziness gave them the passing lane for a through ball!"
SLAP!
Rodgers struck the board again. Several younger players flinched.
"And the thirty-fourth minute—where was our counter-press after losing possession? If they'd had better accuracy on that pass, Crouch would've been clean through!" He drew a thick red X across the tactical diagram. "These details are what separate victory from disaster."
Turning to Julien, his tone softened but remained sharp: "Julien, your off-ball movement covered twelve percent less distance than in preseason. Second half, I need you making more runs into this zone."
He circled an area on the right half-space. "Pieters and N'Zonzi are both on yellow cards. Every time you touch the ball, it's an opportunity."
Rodgers sketched several looping arrows on the board as he spoke.
Julien nodded silently.
Rodgers's marker squeaked across the whiteboard, drawing three bold arrows. "Three tactical adjustments for the second half. First—defensive shape becomes a 4-4-2 diamond midfield. Lucas drops deep for protection; Stevie pushes higher behind the strikers."
He circled the edge of the penalty area. "This zone must be locked down. Both of Stoke's first-half shots came from here—long-range efforts. We can't give them those sights again."
"Second—exploit the width. When their fullbacks tire, Aspas, you cut inside decisively. And Julien, when you receive on the right, Glen, you must overlap to provide the outlet."
"Third, and most critical—" He suddenly circled the halfway line in red marker. "First fifteen minutes, everyone drops into a thirty-meter defensive block. Let them think they have a chance to get back into this. That illusion will exhaust them. Of course, if they don't take the bait, we just keep resting our legs."
He tossed the marker down. "I know what you're thinking—'Boss is being too cautious.' But have last year's lessons not hurt enough? Two-goal leads evaporating in twenty minutes!"
Another sharp slap on the board. "Anfield can celebrate. But this dressing room must stay SHARP!"
"YES, BOSS!"
The response was unanimous.
Rodgers nodded curtly, told them to rest properly, then strode out. He needed a moment alone to think, to review the tactical patterns he'd observed.
One match couldn't decide everything, but it revealed much. He needed to extract every lesson from it.
Rodgers knew he wasn't some illustrious manager. Before Liverpool, he'd had only three years of first-team coaching experience. Every match was a classroom.
Gerrard twisted open a sports drink and sat down on the bench beside Julien.
"You know," he tapped the bottle lightly against Julien's wrist, "my Premier League debut was against Blackburn Rovers. Came on as a sub. Those old bastards nearly snapped my legs in half."
He took a long pull from the bottle, Adam's apple bobbing. "But you today—Christ, you made N'Zonzi look like he was dancing Swan Lake."
Julien glanced up and smiled faintly.
Sturridge walked past, jutting his chin toward Julien: "Oi, genius, next time you beat three defenders, remember to pass! I was growing mushrooms in the box waiting for service!"
Henderson laughed. "Maybe if you could actually finish, someone missed an absolute sitter earlier."
Sturridge shrugged exaggeratedly.
Gerrard bumped Julien's shoulder. "Listen, Anfield's seen plenty of talents. But very few make this place their own stage on day one. Second half, they'll be coming for your ankles with their studs. Stay smart. We're three up—comfortable. Football isn't just skill and strength; it's about using your head."
When a staff member knocked to signal it was time, Gerrard gave Julien's hair one final ruffle: "Shankly once said—first goal's for the fans, second's for the team, third..." He winked. "Third's for all the bastards waiting to see you fail."
Second Half
When the Liverpool players emerged from the tunnel again, they saw it written on every Stoke face—a desperate, do-or-die resolve.
As professionals, they understood exactly what Mark Hughes had been doing in that dressing room. The kind of tactical adjustments. The kind of verbal hairdryer.
Pieters stared at the approaching Julien hungrily.
But Julien seemed to reside in another world. He tilted his head back slightly, gaze drifting past the tense faces of his opponents toward the far end of the tunnel where the green pitch expanded into view.
Anfield's roar rushed toward him like a tidal wave, transforming in his ears into the most stirring war drums imaginable.
The stadium was boiling.
Julien's fingertips brushed lightly over the crest on his chest. His mind flashed to the English media's "flop" labels, to the skeptical eyes of journalists outside the training ground.
A smile curved his lips.
The road to conquering England would be paved with the most spectacular performances imaginable.
The moment Liverpool's players appeared at the tunnel mouth; the stadium ignited like someone had lit a fuse.
Chants erupted from every section.
And Julien heard his name rising above them all.
"JULIEN!"
"JULIEN!!!"
The sound crashed down from the Kop like an avalanche, fifty thousand voices were becoming a physical shockwave.
Supporters on north side of the tunnel stretched their arms desperately toward the pitch, scarves dropped down like red waterfalls.
Some screamed until their voices broke, only to be immediately swallowed by even louder roars.
Julien drew a deep breath. The scent of freshly cut grass mixed with the electric atmosphere of the stands, flooded his lungs.
He tapped the touchline twice with his boot, then strode back onto the pitch.
In the Sky Sports commentary box, Martin Tyler adjusted his headset, Anfield's thunderous singing was vibrating in the background:
"Welcome back to Anfield, where fifteen minutes ago we witnessed the most astonishing first-half debut in Premier League history—18-year-old Julien De Rocca completing a hat-trick in just 39 minutes, putting Liverpool 3-0 up against Stoke City.
But football matches are never decided at halftime.
We've seen Mark Hughes in the tunnel with an expression like thunder, pulling each defensive player aside for last-minute instructions—Stoke will emerge with a completely different mentality.
The key tactical subplot here: both Pieters and N'Zonzi are on yellow cards.
That means in the second half, when facing Julien's dribbling, they're caught in an impossible dilemma—aggressive challenges risk a red card, passive defending risks further humiliation.
Brendan Rodgers clearly recognizes this. We saw him having an extended conversation with Julien at the dressing room door. Liverpool will almost certainly continue attacking down the right flank, exploiting their opponents' psychological vulnerability.
Another question: how quickly will Stoke commit to all-out attack? We might see Shawcross pushed higher, perhaps even a switch to three at the back to load bodies forward.
Stoke recovered points seven times last season after halftime deficits—"
At that very moment, the Boot Room pub was filled with the smell of beer and fried fish, grease hanging in the air.
Old George polished glasses behind the bar, his ears tuned to the bubbling discussions around him.
The "3-0" scoreline on the television screen burned like fire in everyone's peripheral vision.
Sean slammed his wooden table so hard the glasses rattled: "Tyler's giving Stoke way too much credit! A comeback? If Stoke even manage a draw, I'll eat my shirt! Look at Pieters and N'Zonzi with those yellow cards—they're defending Julien like they're juggling live grenades!"
"Don't pop the champagne yet," someone warned, invoking Mark Hughes's name. "Hughes has trailed at halftime ten times in his career. He's clawed back to level terms in four of those matches."
Mick hoisted his pint glass and stood on the bench: "Sod the statistics! None of those comebacks were from three down! We've got Julien now, and their defenders Pieters and N'Zonzi are booked. Their bench doesn't have anyone remotely close to their quality. And if the starters can't stop Julien, what hope do the reserves have?"
Someone even started talking whether they could contend for the title this season, a domestic treble, at minimum one trophy.
And if they could win the Premier League title? Even better!
"Alright, alright, this match doesn't really matter anymore, but we need to stay grounded, lads!" someone in the corner shot back. "The title? We finished seventh last season! United might have Moyes now but they're still strong, City's squad depth could field two Premier League teams. The realistic target is fourth place—start the revival by securing Champions League football."
Laughter swelled through the pub.
Yeah.
Winning titles wasn't that simple. Liverpool had never even won a Premier League trophy. All English league titles they won were before the PL restructuring, the closest one being in 1990.
The television broadcast the restart.
The atmosphere relaxed somewhat.
Like Sean said—what did Stoke have to mount a comeback with?
However...
Minutes later, every eye in the Boot Room locked onto the screen as Martin Tyler's voice suddenly spiked: "Julien drives forward with the ball! Pieters backs off, not committing! Oh, my word—SHAWCROSS WITH A FLYING TACKLE!"
On screen, Julien crumpled to the turf, clumps sprayed into the air.
Tyler's commentary sharpened with outrage: "That is an absolutely DANGEROUS challenge! Shawcross's studs are completely exposed! This brings back memories of 2010, his horror tackle on Ramsey!"
The pub exploded.
Old George hurled his bar towel down: "That butcher again! He never had any intention of pulling out!"
The horrific image of Shawcross's leg-breaking tackle on Ramsey seemed to replay itself in front of everyone's eyes.
Tyler continued, voice filled with anger: "The referee's only showing YELLOW? This is unbelievable! Julien is twisting in agony on the ground—Shawcross's challenge absolutely merits a straight red card!"
"FIX!" Sean's fist crashed onto the table, beer foam erupting everywhere. "That bastard went to end his career! Is the referee's eyes in the back of his head?!"
Someone pressed a hand to their mouth anxiously: "Please don't let it be his knee, please don't be his knee—"
Before the sentence finished, the pub erupted in a chorus of "Disgraceful!" and "Animal!"
When the broadcast cut to Rodgers on the touchline, absolutely fuming with rage, the pub's fury reached its crescendo.
Old George declared furiously: "I'm writing to the Premier League referees' committee! Giving only a yellow for that kind of foul is encouraging violence!"
Tyler's voice came through heavy with concern: "Let's hope Julien doesn't become another Ramsey. These kinds of tackles have destroyed too many talents. The Premier League must do more to protect technical players..."
The pub fell into sudden silence, everyone's eyes glued to the screen.
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