The twenty-fifth round of the Premier League.
Manchester United. Liverpool.
Anfield.
The air around the fixture was thicker than usual. Tension and tradition fused into something electric, humming across Merseyside like the calm before a street brawl.
The day before the match, United released the squad list.
And there it was.
Dybala — included.
For the coaching staff at Carrington, there was little debate. The decision had taken shape across training sessions, match footage reviews, and hushed discussions in Ferguson's office. Dybala had edged out Paul Pogba for the spot—not just for the matchday squad, but possibly something more.
To outsiders, that change in personnel felt minimal. Pogba hadn't been earning many minutes anyway. The media saw it as a routine youth battle.
But inside the dressing room, it was seismic.
One teenager's momentum had pushed another to the fringes.
In England, coverage was measured. "Dybala edges Pogba for midfield berth," read one Guardian headline.
No hysteria. Just curiosity.
But elsewhere, particularly in Spain, and across the Atlantic in markets where United's influence was rapidly growing, Dybala's inclusion lit up fan channels and online forums. Speculation grew. Would he play? Was it just a symbolic selection?
---
At Manchester Airport, as the team prepared to fly to Liverpool, Dybala kept his headphones slung around his neck, the chords dangling against his windbreaker. His mind was quiet, his body calm. But when the media spotted him entering the hotel later that afternoon, they pounced.
Reporters crowded outside the entrance, some pressing up against barriers, eager for a quote.
"Will you feature tomorrow?"
"Did Sir Alex give any hints about your role?"
"Dybala—are you ready for Anfield?"
He stopped just long enough to offer the standard reply, one he had rehearsed in front of the mirror.
"I'm here to follow the manager's plan. I trust the coaching staff."
He smiled, nodded respectfully, and moved on—his stride neither hurried nor boastful. He disappeared through the revolving glass door, the press left behind, murmuring theories to one another.
A Brazilian Country reporter—one of many who had crossed continents to follow the boy—shook his head.
"He's got something in mind," the reporter said, half to himself. "You can see it in his eyes."
"Start against Liverpool? Come on," someone replied. "This isn't the Europa League."
Another chuckled. "If he gets five minutes off the bench, it'll already be a miracle."
But even they looked uncertain as the elevator doors closed behind Dybala.
---
There was no tactical session that night. No on-pitch drills. Just a controlled evening routine—hydration, stretching, light cardio in the gym. Energy preservation, not expenditure.
At three in the afternoon the next day, after a quiet lunch, the team met briefly in the hotel conference suite. Calorie-packed meals lined the buffet: grilled salmon, pasta, protein shakes. Some players picked at fruit; others guzzled energy drinks without thinking.
Then came the ride to Anfield.
Dybala sat near the back of the coach, Carrick beside him, both staring out the window.
As they entered the city's core, the hostility arrived in waves.
Middle fingers.
Red scarves.
Spit on the windshield.
One man slammed a fist against the side of the bus as they turned into Anfield Road.
None of it surprised Dybala. He had read about this rivalry, watched old clips online, studied its origin. But experiencing it like this—feeling the contempt—it landed differently.
This wasn't just a football match.
This was civil war by other means.
---
Once inside Anfield, the mood flipped.
Silence.
Seriousness.
Sanctuary.
The dressing room, tucked beneath the main stand, was dim and tight. Decades of history lived in its walls. Ferguson entered first, flanked by assistant coaches. Behind him came the kit staff, laying out the match jerseys—deep red, nameplates crisp, club crest stitched like a badge of honor.
Players moved with silent precision. Some laced boots. Others folded tape around their wrists or rolled up socks mechanically. Conversations were minimal, each voice low, measured.
Then came the moment.
Sir Alex stood at the front of the room, a clipboard in hand.
He never posted lineups the night before.
That was his way.
He wanted tension sharp. Wanted players to be alert until the very last moment. To always wonder if today was the day.
He began with the goalkeepers.
"De Gea," he said.
Then the defenders.
"Rafael. Evans. Ferdinand. Evra."
Then midfield.
"Carrick."
There was a beat.
And then it came.
"Dybala."
A pause—not long, but noticeable.
Like a ripple in still water.
All eyes flicked toward the young man near the corner. Dybala looked straight ahead, hiding the sudden rush of electricity under his skin.
Starting.
The word thundered in his chest.
He inhaled, long and slow.
A current had rushed up his spine the moment he heard his name. Not fear—just power. Pressure. And readiness.
Rooney gave him a small nod from across the room.
Scholes said nothing but didn't look surprised.
No one spoke.
But it was clear: this wasn't a cameo.
Ferguson was trusting a teenager with one of the most volatile fixtures in English football.
---
The final team talk was short. Ferguson didn't believe in fireworks when the fire was already burning.
"Be sharp. Control the tempo. And for God's sake, stay compact."
Then he looked at Dybala.
No wink. No speech.
Just a single sentence.
"You've earned this. Now make it count."
---
As the team stepped into the Anfield tunnel, the noise above rumbled like a tidal wave overhead. Drums pounded. Flares spat smoke. Stewards barely held the crowd behind barriers.
Dybala looked up.
The "This Is Anfield" sign was inches from his head.
For a brief moment, he allowed himself a glance at it.
Then he looked away.
Not in fear.
But in defiance.
This wasn't the final destination.
It was just the first battle.
---