The tunnel roared with sound.
Not from within—but from above. Beyond the concrete ceiling, Anfield was already erupting, the crowd a single living entity, howling at the enemy in red shirts and black shorts.
Manchester United.
And among them, Dybala.
He stood in the middle of the tunnel, flanked by giants. On one side, Wayne Rooney stretched in silence. On the other, Michael Carrick adjusted his shin pads.
The DJ's voice echoed across the stadium:
"Number twenty-one… Luuuucas Leiva!"
The home crowd cheered in waves.
Then came the other team.
"And now, the visitors… Manchester United."
Boooooo.
It was instant and thunderous. It shook the walls. It thumped in Dybala's chest.
Even though he was expecting it, the sheer force of hatred surprised him.
He instinctively looked up, toward the rectangle of light at the tunnel's exit. Beyond that, the pitch.
Beyond that, history.
"Let's go!" shouted Patrice Evra, leading the team out.
Behind Dybala, Rio Ferdinand clapped a hand firmly on his shoulder.
"Let it fuel you," he muttered.
Dybala stepped forward.
This was it.
His first steps into the Premier League.
His first steps at Anfield.
---
The broadcast camera panned across United's lineup, each face lit under the floodlights. When it reached Dybala, it lingered—longer than the others.
"Number 39, Alessandro Dybala… a youth academy product, making his Premier League debut today at just seventeen years old," boomed Andy Gray, live on Sky Sports. "In a Double Red. At Anfield. This is what football dreams—or nightmares—are made of."
The stadium boiled.
Boos. Banners. Middle fingers.
Liverpool fans didn't care who you were—if you wore the badge of Manchester United, you were the enemy.
Gary Lineker chuckled beside him. "Honestly, Andy, this might be the worst time for a league debut."
"True," Gray replied. "But if the lad survives this… he might just be the real thing."
---
Dybala didn't hear any of it.
Not clearly.
The noise blurred into white-hot static as he took his position on the pitch.
He exhaled, hard. The air was sharp with moisture, the turf below perfect and slick. Every bootstep felt heavy yet electric.
Across the world, millions watched.
But back home, in Spain and across fan communities tracking every breath of his career, he was the story.
The cameras lingered on his face.
Messages surged across phones and forums:
> "Vamos, Dybala!"
> "Just survive, hermano."
> "Let him feel the game. He'll find rhythm."
Every fan now wanted him to succeed—not because of the badge on his chest, but the blood in his veins.
---
The referee's whistle rang.
Kickoff.
Suárez rolled the ball back.
Liverpool began with a heavy press, immediately snapping into their high-intensity rhythm. The ball moved sharply down the left, where Stewart Downing shifted it inside and quickly reversed the play.
Their full-back, Enrique, surged forward and whipped in a dangerous ball.
Evans rose and met it with a clearing header.
The ball spun high into the air… and dropped at Dybala's feet.
His first touch.
He didn't hesitate.
His body twisted, and he launched the ball forward with his left foot, clearing space.
And then—contact.
A blur of red and white flew in.
Henderson.
His studs were late, and his hip was low. Dybala had leapt instinctively, but not fast enough.
Studs raked across his boot as he landed awkwardly.
CRACK.
A whistle.
Shrill. Urgent.
The referee was already charging in.
Evra and Ferdinand sprinted toward the spot, arms wide in protest.
The referee shoved them aside and pointed down.
Liverpool. Foul.
"Is he alright?" muttered Rafael, pulling Dybala up by the arm.
"Good," Dybala nodded, eyes fixed on Henderson, who simply glanced at him—expression unreadable—then turned and jogged away.
The message had been delivered.
Dybala understood.
This was not a youth match. Not the Europa League. There were no invitations here. No forgiveness. He had been welcomed to the Premier League in the traditional way.
With boots.
---
"Early statement from Henderson there," Gary Lineker noted. "Letting the young lad know he won't get much space today."
"Standard stuff," said Andy Gray. "That's the Premier League midfield. Quick. Physical. No second chances."
---
But it wasn't just the foul.
What struck Dybala most was the speed.
In the youth team, he'd have had three touches—control, assess, pass.
Even in Europe, there had been pockets of space to operate.
Here?
He had no time.
No room.
Every choice had to be instant.
Every instinct, precise.
This was the rhythm of the Premier League.
And Dybala could feel it coursing through the pitch. The tempo wasn't just faster—it was relentless, vibrating in his boots, forcing decisions in milliseconds.
He turned his head as the ball rolled back toward Carrick, and he spoke out loud without realizing it.
"This is it."
Carrick glanced at him.
Dybala's eyes flickered with light.
"This is the real game."
---