On the Pitch
When Shawcross's tackle sent Julien flying, particularly the exaggerated nature of Julien's fall—a unified gasp of horror rippled through Anfield.
Gerrard was first to the scene, using his chest to shove the protesting Shawcross backward.
"What the FUCK are you doing?!"
The Liverpool captain's temple veins bulged, his nose was nearly touching the defender's face.
Henderson rushed over and wrapped both arms around the enraged Gerrard, though his own eyes had turned red with rage.
Stoke players immediately swarmed in. N'Zonzi tried to separate the two captains but Aspas shoved him away forcefully.
Gerrard kept jabbing his finger at Shawcross, arm muscles trembling with restrained ferocity.
Shawcross's face showed remorse, but his shoulders lifted in a defensive shrug: "I didn't mean it, that was a normal defensive action, his foot went between my legs—"
The Kop erupted like a volcano.
"BUTCHER! GET OUT!" The roar was mixed with piercing whistles.
Some supporters tried climbing the advertising boards to get onto the pitch. Security wrestled them back.
The referee stood surrounded by Liverpool players, maintaining his yellow card decision. The judgment sent the entire stadium into absolute mayhem.
"BLIND BASTARD!"
The abuse detonated from the Kop, spreading like wildfire around the ground.
"How much did you get paid today, you fucking cheat?!"
"Crawl back to Manchester! United's lapdog!"
"You got shit in your eyes?!"
"This is a CRIME! Shawcross should be sent off!"
BOOOOOOO!
Wave after wave of jeers and swearwords expressed Liverpool supporters' rage.
But the referee, protecting his authority, would never reverse the decision. Even with VAR in future years, to maintain their egos, they'd still play the BLIND BASTARD when it suited them.
It wasn't just the stadium in uproar either.
Liverpool fans weren't even the angriest.
That distinction belonged to Bastia.
Along the entire pub street where Sunset Café was located, roars of fury echoed into the Mediterranean evening. Seabirds scattered from the beach, fleeing toward open water in startled flocks.
"Shawcross, that butcher! He should be banned FOR LIFE! If this happened in Bastia, I'd nail his leg bones to the fucking pier!"
"The Premier League is legalized thuggery! They can't stop talent so they destroy it!"
"This isn't football—it's attempted MURDER! The FA are accomplices! That referee should be on the gallows!"
"The English don't deserve to play football! They should stick to rugby!"
Back at Anfield, Julien was being examined by the physio. He checked his system panel—no injury notification appeared.
Relief came over him.
But the pain that had shot through his shin left him seething with rage.
Since stepping onto the professional stage, he'd never been a passive, turn-the-other-cheek player.
If someone went through him with a tackle, responding merely with goals on the scoresheet? In Julien's view, that was being soft.
When anyone tried that shit in Ligue 1, he stamped back!
There was an old saying he'd grown up with: hit back once, and they think twice.
If you didn't teach opponents a lesson, others would follow suit.
This time he'd been caught off-guard, suffering a nasty hit. But he wouldn't let it slide.
Three full minutes passed. The physio confirmed no damage and signaled to the bench.
Rodgers exhaled in relief.
Though he hated admitting it, the reality was undeniable—Julien was vital to Liverpool's ambitions.
He'd already been calling for Coutinho to warm up, preparing to substitute Julien off.
He still intended to make the change. Couldn't risk keeping him out there.
However...
Julien seemed to read his mind. When their eyes met, Julien shook his head.
Rodgers hesitated. Did that mean he wanted to continue?
As Julien got to his feet, Anfield rose with him in applause.
"Come on, Julien!"
"You've got this!"
Nearby supporters shouted encouragement. They worried that a challenge of that severity might affect his psychological state—some players, even after recovering physically, carried mental scars that never healed.
Julien waved toward them.
After the chaos settled, play resumed.
Rodgers's tactical adjustment was working beautifully.
When Liverpool deliberately left space open, Stoke took the bait and committed forward desperately.
Which left them catastrophically exposed to counter-attacks.
64th Minute
Lucas intercepted a loose pass and immediately found Henderson.
The English midfielder drove forward from central areas at pace.
Gerrard's intelligent movement dragged multiple defenders out of position, creating acres of space for Henderson to exploit. He carried the ball smoothly into the attacking third.
Soon enough, Stoke's defensive structure reorganized. Henderson immediately switched play to the right flank—in these moments, he trusted Julien's ability to create something from nothing.
Julien controlled the ball with the outside of his right boot, cushioning it past N'Zonzi with a deft touch.
He smoothly transitioned into his next movement, bringing the ball under close control, feinting to accelerate forward.
Pieters immediately tracked the run.
But then...
Julien suddenly decelerated, using the inside of his right foot to drag the ball laterally, cutting inside.
The rhythm change left Pieters's balance completely compromised.
N'Zonzi recovered to cover, but Julien produced a move that bordered on street football—his right foot stepped on the ball and rolled it backward, his body swaying left in deception, then in the split-second of hesitation, his left foot knocked it right.
This variation of the croqueta was executed in the tightest of spaces. N'Zonzi stood rooted to the spot, watching helplessly as Julien glided past his right shoulder.
Wilson and Shawcross both joined to block his path.
Behind him, Gerrard had found space, ready to receive.
But Julien didn't pass backward.
Instead, he continued cutting inside along the edge of the penalty area. Sturridge made an intelligent run, dragging a defender with him and opening up additional space.
Julien's vision took in the entire scene in an instant.
He took one more touch, pushing the ball forward.
Separating from Wilson—a window of opportunity opened!
This was the moment!
Julien's left foot coiled back, loaded with explosive power.
CRACK!
The ball rocketed toward goal with tremendous force. Directly in its trajectory stood Shawcross.
The center-back's defensive instincts made him step toward the shot to block it. But another instinct screamed danger!
He twisted his torso, trying to use his side rather than expose his vulnerable front.
THUMP!
The ball cannoned into his outstretched left arm. His arm was extended away from his body. The deflection sent the ball spinning off at an angle.
PHEEEEEP!
"AHHHHH!"
A scream and the whistle sounded simultaneously.
Shawcross collapsed instantly, writhing on the turf. The referee's arm shot toward the penalty spot—in turning, Shawcross hadn't tucked his arm in time, blocking the shot.
Shawcross pounded the ground with his other hand, face twisted in agony.
Stoke players mobbed the referee in protest. N'Zonzi grabbed fistfuls of his own shirt, screaming: "He deliberately hit him! That's violent conduct!"
But Julien simply shrugged, deadpan: "I was shooting. Not my fault he got in the way."
He turned coldly, not even glancing at the writhing Shawcross.
The stadium's giant screen began its brutal replay loop: first, Shawcross's studs-up lunge on Julien's ankle in the first half; now, him doubled over clutching his arm on the turf, body curled like a shrimp.
The director understood drama perfectly.
The savage comparation sent Anfield into even wilder ecstasy.
BOOOOOOO!
Waves of jeering whistles.
Mixed with furious chants.
"Serves you right, butcher! Didn't think karma would come this fast, did you?!"
"That's what you get for breaking legs! Now it's YOUR turn to suffer!"
"SHAWCROSS TO HELL! SHAWCROSS TO HELL!"
"MURDERER! MURDERER!"
The entire stadium was drowning in the supporters' fury.
On the touchline, Mark Hughes kicked a water bottle in impotent rage, screaming at the referee.
Whether it was Shawcross getting hit or the handball decision—both felt unbearable to him.
In his mind, JULIEN should be the one getting carded!
That was deliberate assault!
Rodgers wore a cold smile on the opposite touchline.
He kept shouting at his players to stay calm.
Shawcross's pain wasn't subsiding. His teammates frantically waved for the physio.
The medic jogged on, gave Shawcross's arm one exploratory squeeze—
The defender nearly rolled off the pitch in agony.
The physio understood immediately.
He urgently signaled for a substitution, then told Shawcross: "Your arm might be fractured. We need further examination."
After quick first aid, he called for a stretcher. This couldn't wait.
As Shawcross was lifted, he turned his head and caught sight of Julien in the distance. His jaw clenched so hard his teeth might crack.
Mark Hughes, still protesting to the referee, picked up a yellow card for his troubles.
He shook his head in disgust, then quickly sent on Muniesa, the young defender they'd bought from Barcelona's youth system that summer.
On Liverpool's side, Gerrard was the first-choice penalty taker. But this time, without hesitation, he handed the ball to Julien.
"This one's yours. You need this goal."
Julien nodded, accepting it. His gaze was steel.
Gerrard draped an arm over his shoulders, covering his mouth as he whispered: "Don't think about missing. Don't think about scoring. Just like in training—put it through the net."
"Got it."
When Julien carried the ball toward the penalty spot instead of Gerrard, surprise rippled through sections of the crowd.
But understanding followed quickly.
Martin Tyler's voice filled the broadcast: "Mark Hughes has been forced into a substitution, bringing on young center-back Muniesa, who they signed from Barcelona's academy this summer...
But the more surprising moment is happening with Liverpool. Gerrard has personally handed penalty-taking duties to Julien.
In my view, this isn't merely a tactical choice—this is a symbolic passing of the torch at Anfield.
We're witnessing the prologue to Liverpool's new era.
Perhaps Gerrard is using his own gesture to tell the world: this 18-year-old is ready to carry the banner of this great club.
During his time at Bastia, whether for club or country with France's youth teams, Julien was the undisputed penalty taker.
His style is distinctive with very little variation in rhythm, but the placement is absolutely lethal.
The Kop faithful can rest easy. They haven't just gained a genius forward—they've acquired an ice-cold penalty specialist. Julien's conversion rate is one hundred percent..."
Anfield felt like a powder keg moment from detonation. Every ounce of noise and attention focused on the French teenager in red, standing twelve yards from goal.
Julien placed the ball precisely on the spot, stepped back a few paces, and lifted his gaze calmly toward the net.
Stoke's goalkeeper Begović bounced exaggeratedly along his line, spreading his arms wide, trying to use dramatic movement to unsettle this young man who'd already destroyed them with a hat-trick—and who now stood there scorching fury.
PHEEEEEP!
The referee's whistle.
Julien drew a breath.
A short run-up. No hesitation. The inside of his right boot lashed through the ball's lower half with devastating conviction.
No chipped panenka. No carefully placed side-foot. This was speed, power, and absolute confidence fused into one explosive strike.
The ball flew like white lightning toward the top-left corner—the absolute dead zone.
Begović guessed correctly and flung himself desperately toward it, but the velocity and angle were too perfect.
His fingertips didn't even disturb the air.
The ball smashed into the net behind him, sending the netting wafting up.
"GOOOOOAL! The ballis IN!" Martin Tyler's voice erupted!
Begović crashed heavily onto the turf.
He didn't immediately rise. He simply turned his head, watching that ball still spinning in the net, his face a picture of helplessness and despair.
To watch the ball with longing—never had the phrase felt so cruelly literal.
ROOOOOAR!
All of Anfield detonated with Julien's thunderous finish!
4-0!
FOUR GOALS!
What debut could possibly compare?!
After scoring, Julien didn't spread his arms in his usual gliding celebration. The fire inside him demanded something more.
He spun and sprinted directly toward the corner flag beneath the Kop!
Amid the stadium-shaking roar, he charged to the flag. His hair, soaked with sweat, clung to his forehead.
He planted his left hand firmly on the white flagpole—as if bracing himself, or drawing strength from this sacred ground.
Then he thrust his right arm high into the air, extending four fingers proudly!
FOUR!
FOUR GOALS!
His Premier League debut and he'd answered every doubt with a clinical four-goal performance!
"JULIEN!"
"JULIEN!!!"
The Kop responded with rhythmic, earth-shaking chants that made the concrete foundations tremble.
The massive You'll Never Walk Alone banner rippled above him like a crimson tide.
In the frenzied mass of supporters, someone roared with every ounce of strength in their lungs: "CONQUEROR! CONQUEROR JULIEN!"
Conqueror Julien
The nickname spread through the stands like wildfire, leaping from section to section.
History's irony created a poetic echo in that moment—a thousand years ago, another conqueror from France, William, crossed the channel and was ultimately crowned King of England.
And tonight, another young Frenchman was using a performance of earth-shattering radiance—four goals filled with power, technique, and ruthless retaliation to announce the beginning of his own conquest of English football.
From this night at Anfield, it truly began.
Julien kept his head bowed, listening to his name reverberating through the air like thunder, his hand on the corner flag feeling the ground shake beneath him.
This wasn't celebration. This was a declaration.
Anfield, your king has arrived.
Julien maintained that pose for only seconds before the red tide swallowed him whole.
Sturridge arrived first, grinning from ear to ear with his trademark smile, chest-bumping Julien before wrapping him in a headlock. "Little man, that was FUCKING BEAUTIFUL!"
Henderson rushed in, hammering Julien's back with blows hard enough to knock the air from his lungs.
More teammates swarmed around them—Glen Johnson, Lucas, all of them shouting, everyone desperate to touch this young man who'd just produced the most magical debut imaginable.
On the periphery, captain Gerrard jogged over slowly, his face wearing a smile tinged with pride and something almost melancholy.
He didn't throw himself into the scrum like the others. Instead, he waited for the initial frenzy to subside before parting the sea of bodies and stepping forward.
Gerrard pulled Julien into an embrace, speaking directly into his ear: "Just like that. Keep playing like that! This place belongs to you now, kid!"
Julien's emotions surged almost uncontrollably.
He had to admit—Anfield's fifty thousand voices roaring in unison surpassed even the intensity of the Stade Armand Cesari.
He couldn't see the sky, only the faces of his teammates contorted with joy, feeling the force of their celebratory blows and the warmth of their embraces.
The cacophony of Anfield, his teammates' shouts, and those chants of "Conqueror" from the stands wove together into something transcendent.
As Julien walked back toward the center circle, he continued waving to the supporters.
Which triggered fresh waves of deafening cheers.
On the sideline, after his initial celebration, Rodgers found himself forced to completely reassess Julien as a player.
He realized his evaluation of the young Frenchman might have been primarily flawed—just like those media outlets that had questioned him.
He needed to reconsider Julien's role within his tactical system going forward.
Beside him, Mark Hughes looked utterly deflated.
This defeat was crushing—humiliating, even.
He could already imagine how the media would dissect Stoke City's failure tomorrow. Losing the match and losing face.
Though more likely, they wouldn't write about Stoke at all.
Because this was Anfield's night.
That French kid's night.
"Fuck," Hughes muttered under his breath.
Anfield had become a chorus of nothing but celebration.
In the Sky Sports commentary box, Martin Tyler continued after his initial explosion of analysis: "Listen to that sound! Anfield has descended into absolute chaos! The name Julien feels almost magical now, echoing from every corner of this historic stadium!
What we're witnessing—is this a dream debut? No, this has transcended dreams. This is a script that even Hollywood wouldn't dare write!
Has there ever been such a dominant, such an absolutely jaw-dropping first appearance in Premier League history?
I wouldn't presume to make that claim definitively, but in my decades-long broadcasting career, this is utterly unprecedented!
The €80 million transfer fee—at this moment, it no longer sounds like an astronomical sum. It sounds like a shrewd piece of business.
The champion's mentality that Bastia instilled in him has, in this moment, on one of England's most storied stages, achieved its most spectacular expression.
He was the conqueror of Ligue 2, Ligue 1, and the Europa League. Now he's become the conqueror of Anfield—indeed, the conqueror of the entire Premier League!
I keep hearing that unified chant from the stands—'Conqueror Julien.'
Yes, I love that nickname. It perfectly captures the essence of everything that's unfolded tonight.
Julien has, in an almost brutal fashion, carved his name into Premier League history.
This goal, this penalty, means far more than simply extending the scoreline.
It symbolizes the completion of a torch being passed.
Under Steven Gerrard's watchful gaze, with the Kop's deafening anthem providing the soundtrack, a new leader has claimed center stage in the most imperious manner imaginable.
This isn't a beginning—this is a proclamation!
Stoke City's players look shell-shocked. Mark Hughes stands on the touchline, face like stone.
They've had the misfortune tonight of becoming the opening chapter's backdrop in this epic saga, thoroughly dismantled by a French teenager's individual brilliance.
The match isn't over, but this day, this moment, will be remembered forever.
The Premier League has welcomed its newest superstar, and his arrival has been nothing short of earth-shattering.
Ladies and gentlemen!
Remember this night.
August 16th, 2013. At Anfield. Julien, the Conqueror officially descended upon the Premier League!"
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