On the touchline, Brendan Rodgers applauded enthusiastically. In the directors' box, David Dein and the Saudi group led by Abdullah were on their feet. Everyone recognized they were witnessing something extraordinary.
"This player is genuinely special," they murmured to each other, shaking their heads in wonder.
Rodgers felt a strange mixture of vindication and disbelief. Julien hadn't been part of his original plans—the board had essentially overridden his transfer strategy. Yet this unexpected gift was rewriting everything he thought possible.
Maradona? Messi? No—this was Julien De Rocca.
A taller, faster, perhaps even more complete attacking weapon for Liverpool.
His mind raced through possibilities. Julien could play on the left flank too. His only limitations were relatively weak in physical duels, not a threat in the air like Cristiano Ronaldo. Otherwise, he could function anywhere across the front line.
But Rodgers wasn't worried. He had Sturridge and Suárez to provide that physical presence and aerial threat. With Julien feeding them, creating space, dismantling defenses...
With Julien in the team, surely Suárez wouldn't agitate for a transfer now. Not when they had money, a genuine superstar, and a pathway to glory. Why would Luis want to leave this?
Meanwhile, David Dein's thoughts drifted back to North London. He remembered bringing Arsène Wenger to England, signing Patrick Vieira and Thierry Henry, constructing the Invincibles. That had been the intoxicating rush of building something legendary, laying a dynasty's foundation.
Here on Merseyside, that sensation coursed through him again—stronger, more overwhelming.
Julien wasn't merely a prolific scorer or explosive talent. He was a tactical force multiplier. His presence elevated Gerrard's distribution, Sturridge's movement, Henderson's forward runs—every attacking player became more dangerous.
"Title contenders?"
Dein's lips curved into a subtle smile.
With Suárez suspended and last season's inconsistency, pundits had written Liverpool off as top-four hopefuls at best. But Dein's ambitions reached far higher.
The 75th minute arrived. The fourth official raised the electronic board—bright red number 10 was glowing under the Anfield floodlights.
Rodgers' protective substitution, removing his sensational performer.
Applause erupted spontaneously, spreading through the stadium like wildfire. Then it intensified—rhythmic, thunderous, wave after wave crashing down from every section of the ground.
Julien saw the board. He walked toward the touchline, touching the Liverpool crest on his chest with emotion, then raised his hand toward the stands.
That simple gesture sent the noise level into the skies.
Every Liverpool player on the pitch embraced him or offered high-fives as he made his way off. When he reached the touchline for the final time, exchanging a clasp with substitute Philippe Coutinho, manager Brendan Rodgers wrapped him in a massive bear hug.
"You exceeded everyone's expectations," Rodgers said, joy radiating from his face.
Julien nodded with a small, satisfied smile.
The remaining minutes held no drama. The 5-0 scoreline stood like an insurmountable wall. Stoke City's players went through the motions mechanically, their spirit was utterly broken. Manager Mark Hughes stood motionless on the touchline, hands buried in his pockets, face like thunder.
All hope had died.
Anfield, conversely, existed in a state of sustained euphoria. The "5" on the scoreboard glowed like a badge of honor. Songs flowed from every section, "You'll Never Walk Alone" rising again and again in powerful waves.
Television cameras couldn't stay away from Julien, even seated on the bench with a towel around his shoulders. Close-ups captured him laughing with teammates, looking relaxed and content.
Martin Tyler's voice accompanied the images: "The match approaches its conclusion, but Anfield's passion shows no signs of diminishing. The cameras keep finding today's absolute protagonist—Julien De Rocca.
Let me say it one more time: this was a perfect Premier League debut.
Perfect to the point of seeming almost fictional.
Four goals, one assist—direct involvement in all five Liverpool goals. In the entire history of the Premier League and the old First Division before it, we've never witnessed such a dominant debut performance.
For Liverpool, this represents a dreamlike start to the campaign. But for other title-chasing clubs, a serious challenge has emerged: When Liverpool possess a 'Conqueror' capable of single-handedly deciding matches, are you prepared?"
PHWEEEEET!
The final whistle pierced the atmosphere.
Martin Tyler's voice rose: "Full time! Liverpool 5, Stoke City 0!
"But this day doesn't belong to a routine victory—it belongs to one name alone: Julien, The Conqueror! Good night from Anfield!"
Few supporters left immediately after the whistle. They remained standing, facing the pitch like pilgrims at a sacred site where they'd just witnessed the birth of a legend.
The noise didn't fade—it transformed into something more sustained, more rhythmic, more powerful.
"LI-VER-POOL! LI-VER-POOL!"
The chant shook the very foundations of the stadium.
The Kop—Anfield's beating heart became a surging red sea of waving scarves. Every face radiated near-delirious joy and pride. Supporters embraced strangers, pounded each other's backs, sharing this moment of euphoria.
The players didn't immediately head for the tunnel. After celebrating among themselves, they formed a line and walked together toward the Kop, bowing deeply, applauding the supporters who'd roared them on.
This was Anfield tradition, but today's tribute carried extra meaning, extra emotion.
When Julien appeared in that line, the decibel level reached its absolute peak.
"JULIEN! JULIEN! JULIEN!"
Pure, primal, overwhelming. The sound was a physical force, a tidal wave of adoration.
Julien clapped vigorously, looking up at that vast red wall of supporters who'd claimed him as their hero. His eyes burned with intensity. He was no longer the newcomer needing to prove himself—he was their champion.
He raised his hand, pointed directly at the Kop, then brought it down forcefully against the crest over his heart.
The response was apocalyptic.
"You'll Never Walk Alone" rose again, more powerful than the pre-match rendition, more emotionally charged, carrying generations of history and belief.
This wasn't just a song—it was a declaration of faith, a testament to Liverpool's unbreakable spirit.
The anthem echoed around the stands, drifting across the Merseyside night, announcing that the sleeping giant's ambitions had awakened.
Floodlights mixed with darkness, casting shadows across the pitch. For everyone present, this wasn't merely the end of a match—this was the beginning of a story they would tell for decades.
A story that started with: "I was there."
They had witnessed history.
Even after the players disappeared into the tunnel, songs and cheers continued for long minutes. Nobody wanted this perfect night to end.
Anfield—this cathedral of football had been set ablaze tonight.
And the man who lit the fire was an 18-year-old Frenchman named Julien De Rocca.
Post-Match Press Conferences
Stoke City's manager faced the media like a condemned man walking to the gallows. When reporters inevitably mentioned his pre-match promise to "teach De Rocca a lesson," Hughes inhaled deeply, his voice was tight with suppressed frustration.
"Congratulations to Liverpool. They played an exceptional match today. We were comprehensively beaten—there's no argument about that.
Regarding De Rocca... yes, I made those comments before the match. Clearly, the lesson was delivered to us—to me and my players.
You have to acknowledge reality: when you face a player who scores four goals and provides that kind of assist in ninety minutes, all your pre-match planning becomes meaningless.
We tried to contain him. He was simply operating at a different level.
After today, nobody will question whether eighty million euros represents value. Liverpool have acquired a player capable of deciding championship races.
That's the reality we're facing."
When pressed about regretting his tactical approach, Hughes bristled: "When one of your players suffers a broken arm trying to defend him, and another gets turned inside-out like a training cone, what tactical adjustments are supposed to work?
Sometimes you must simply admit you've faced an extraordinary talent who can demolish everything you've carefully prepared. This isn't an excuse—we played terribly. But De Rocca... he magnifies every mistake tenfold. That's what elite players do."
In stark contrast to Hughes' defeated demeanor, Rodgers entered the press room with satisfaction, though he worked to maintain composure and perspective.
When asked if this meant Liverpool were title contenders, he immediately pumped the brakes:
"No, no, no. We must stay grounded and realistic.
Championships aren't decided by one match, no matter how spectacular. This is merely the first game of a thirty-eight-match marathon.
We've shown excellent form and tremendous potential, but we need to replicate this performance week after week with the same hunger and focus.
This is a beginning. A very good beginning. Nothing more."
Regarding Julien's performance, Rodgers couldn't suppress his smile: "What can I say about Julien that you didn't already witness? Phenomenal doesn't cover it.
He integrated perfectly into our system and showed outstanding chemistry with his teammates. He's a very, very special player. We're delighted he chose Liverpool."
Then came the sure question: "Brendan, regarding Ryan Shawcross's broken arm—some people believe Julien's shot was intentional. What's your response?"
Rodgers' expression hardened immediately. He leaned forward, his voice firm and unwavering:
"Regarding Ryan's injury, on behalf of the club I wish him a speedy recovery. Nobody wants to see players hurt.
But saying Julien acted intentionally? That's completely baseless and frankly insulting to his professionalism.
In that moment, Julien was doing what any striker does—shooting with full commitment toward goal. That's instinct. Players in those situations think about one thing: beating the goalkeeper. They're not calculating how to injure opponents. It's impossible.
This was an unfortunate accident. Nothing more.
If you knew Julien, you'd understand he's a young man with pure passion for football. He came here to play, not to hurt anyone.
Describing this accident as 'intentional' is irresponsible speculation. I completely reject it.
This discussion ends here. We should be talking about the football, not these unfortunate incidents."
After Rodgers handled several more routine questions, a journalist directed a sharp inquiry at captain Steven Gerrard, who'd joined the press conference.
"Steven, Julien created history today, but he refused all pitch-side interviews and isn't here now. We've noticed he rarely engages with media, maintaining almost mysterious distance. Is this a club protection strategy, or is he naturally unwilling to interact with the public? Does the club worry this might affect his relationship with supporters and the league?"
All attention shifted to Gerrard. Rodgers deliberately stepped back, giving his captain the floor.
Gerrard's expression remained composed, confident. He took the microphone and looked directly at the questioner with a small smile.
"First, I'm pleased you're asking about football rather than baseless speculation." He was clearly referencing the earlier Shawcross question, immediately establishing that such conjecture was off-limits.
Then he continued: "Regarding why Julien isn't here—let me put it this way: right now, he's probably in the treatment room working on recovery, or already in the video analysis suite with our performance team reviewing match details. That's who he is.
I understand you media need stories, need quotes. But some players? Their voice on the pitch is already loud enough. Louder than anything they could say in this room.
I think those seventy-five minutes today spoke more clearly than sitting here ever could. A million times more clearly.
He's not someone who craves spotlights. So what? We have lads who enjoy being active on social media—that's fine. But Julien came to Liverpool for one reason: to play football. To win matches. To achieve something special with this team.
His entire focus is on improving, on helping us succeed. Isn't that what matters most?
Fans don't care how many interviews he gives. They care whether he delivers on matchday—whether he brings them joy, pride, and victories. Today? He delivered perfection.
You heard the Kop chanting his name. That's the interaction and recognition that counts.
We're not forcing him into uncomfortable situations. The club, myself as captain, and every teammate will protect him. We'll let him focus on what he does best—football itself. That's our responsibility to him and to this team.
As for the league and 'external interaction'..." Gerrard's smile widened, "I suspect after today, they'll have plenty of time to get acquainted with him. Every week. Once a week, for ninety minutes at a time. That'll be more direct than any press conference."
Gerrard had made his position crystal clear through daily training, pre-season, and now this match: Julien was Liverpool's future cornerstone. He wouldn't give these sensation-hungry journalists any opening to twist or sensationalize the young player's image.
He understood their game perfectly. They wanted to excavate Julien's mysterious background, sensationalize his troubled youth, bait him into controversial statements. They didn't care if it disrupted a genius's development—they only cared about headline sales.
This was English media at its worst.
As a Liverpool-born player who'd lived through the Hillsborough disaster, Gerrard harbored deep contempt for outlets like The Sun and their ilk. He fully supported keeping Julien distant from that toxic ecosystem.
But they were persistent parasites, impossible to completely shake off.
Of course, not all media were equally terrible.
Sky Sports, for instance, published a relatively fair headline immediately after the broadcast concluded:
"Julien De Rocca: Making €80 Million Look Like Pocket Change!"
[If anyone questioned Liverpool paying eighty million euros for an 18-year-old before kickoff, those doubts were obliterated by ninety minutes of football—drowned out by Anfield's thunderous chants of "JULIEN! JULIEN! JULIEN!"
This debut performance demands inclusion in Premier League history.
French winger Julien De Rocca, wearing Liverpool's iconic number 10 shirt for his first competitive appearance, delivered a stat line that defies belief: four goals, one assist. He single-handedly shredded Stoke City's defensive structure.
What level of performance are we discussing?
Social media comparisons to Maradona and Messi have already begun—not simplistic parallels, but recognition of that rare quality: the ability to transform a team's entire character through individual brilliance, to drive an entire stadium into frenzy.
Yet Julien is distinctly different. He possesses physical attributes better suited to modern football—as if Maradona or Messi's artistry was injected into a larger, more explosive body.
Consider his pre-Premier League trajectory: leading Bastia from Ligue 2 through Ligue 1 to an improbable championship, even claiming the Europa League trophy. Now he appears to be importing that miracle script to Merseyside.
Tonight at Anfield, only one protagonist existed. When Julien was substituted, the entire stadium rose as one, scarves waving, songs echoing to the heavens. This wasn't merely celebrating victory—this was witnessing the birth of a new hero.
Eighty million euros? After this phenomenon of a debut, it doesn't look like an exorbitant transfer fee—it looks like an investment in a future dynasty.]
Behind all Liverpool's citywide celebration, Julien finally returned to his Carlton apartment sanctuary, finding precious silence.
At Melwood training ground earlier, he'd celebrated properly with his teammates. This time felt different from his arrival—no polite distance, just genuine acceptance. Their eyes held respect, even unspoken acknowledgment that this French teenager would become the team's absolute centerpiece.
That contract, far exceeding everyone else's wages no longer sparked jealousy. Four goals and an assist had justified every pound.
Someone had joked: "I reckon Julien's levels above Rooney, and he's on the same thirty thousand weekly!"
The comment drew knowing laughter and agreement.
When he finally had a moment alone, Julien checked his victory points. The match had added 20 points.
Excellent.
Clearly higher-intensity competition yielded better rewards. Compared to Ligue 1's three or four points per match, the Premier League is much better for racking up points!
Just as Julien was about to rest, an unexpected phone call came in.
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