Thump.
Sadio Mané met the rolling ball without breaking stride.
The ball rocketed off his instep, rising with terrifying velocity, and screamed past David De Gea's outstretched glove.
It nestled violently into the top corner.
"Mané! Mané fires into the top corner!"
"De Gea! He's not a god—he couldn't keep that out! Liverpool equalize!"
Jamie Carragher leaped up in the commentary booth, nearly knocking over his monitor.
"YES! GET IN!" he roared, abandoning all pretense of neutrality. He watched Mané slide on his knees in front of the away end, arms spread wide.
"This is the real Liverpool!" Carragher shouted, veins bulging in his neck. "They never give up! No matter the circumstances!"
He turned to Gary Neville, whose face had turned the color of sour milk.
"See? I told you a goal was only a matter of time. The comeback starts now, Gary! If they stick to this strategy, they'll score another one, two, maybe three! Your bus has broken down!"
"Now, look at Ling," Carragher gloated, pointing a finger at the screen. "The one you've pinned your hopes on—what has he done for twenty minutes? He's been in Alexander-Arnold's pocket!"
Neville, never one to back down from a scrap, snapped back.
"Shut up, Carra. The score is 1-1. Anyone would think you've won the bloody league!"
"I hope you won't cry when Ling scores later," Neville added, his voice dripping with venom. "Don't forget to put on the jersey I specially prepared for you! It'll match your face!"
....
The cheers at Old Trafford were momentarily silenced, replaced by the raucous noise from the Scoreboard End.
The traveling Liverpool fans were in ecstasy.
"WHO ARE YA! WHO ARE YA!"
"YOU'RE SHIT! AND YOU KNOW YOU ARE!"
They hadn't forgotten the humiliation at Anfield.
Now, they were giving it back with interest.
"Well done, lads!" a Scouser screamed, shaking his fist. "Silence this library! Manchester is full of shit!"
The United fans responded instantly. A sea of middle fingers rose from the Stretford End.
"FUCK OFF BACK TO LIVERPOOL!"
"YOU SCOUSE BASTARDS!"
The air turned toxic.
Riot police in the buffer zone lowered their visors, gripping their batons. The hatred in the North West Derby wasn't manufactured, it was primal.
On the pitch, the Liverpool players were huddled together. An equalizer just before halftime was a massive psychological boost.
"Mo," Emre Can grabbed Salah by the shoulder. "Has that Chinese kid caught up to your goal tally now?"
Salah nodded, wiping sweat from his brow. "Yeah. We're both at 28."
"Fuck him," Can spat. "Don't worry. We'll create chances for you. Today, you leave him in the dust. Bury him."
Meanwhile, Sadio Mané had run dangerously close to the United players during his celebration, puffing out his chest.
He was grinning—a malicious grin no less.
He hadn't forgotten the last derby. He hadn't forgotten Zlatan Ibrahimović putting him in a headlock. He hadn't forgotten the humiliation.
"Where is your Zlatan now?" Mané shouted toward the United defenders. "Come on! Who wants it?"
David Luiz, never one to shy away from confrontation, charged over. "What the hell do you think you're doing? Get back to your side, you clown!"
"Make me, Sideshow Bob!" Mané shot back.
Players from both sides swarmed in. Pushing, shoving, chest-bumping. It was chaos. The referee blew his whistle furiously, separating the brawling millionaires.
Ling watched Mané from a distance. His face was expressionless. He wasn't contemplating a cheap shot or a nasty tackle.
He wasn't Pepe.
He wasn't a thug.
'He wants a fight?' Ling thought coldly. 'I'll fight him with the ball.'
"Don't dwell on it!" Ashley Young's voice cut through the noise.
The veteran fullback grabbed Ling's arm. "Treat it as 0-0. Stick to the plan! Ling, don't drop back so deep anymore. Hold your position near the halfway line. Let me handle Salah. You destroy them."
Ashley Young.
People made memes about him—the bird poop incident, the diving.
But Mourinho loved him for a reason.
At 33, he was a warrior. He was keeping the best winger in the world quiet through sheer will and experience.
Antonio Valencia, the captain, clapped his hands. "Let's go! Wake up! This is our house!"
"LET'S GO!"
...
The match resumed and the tempo shifted.
United stopped bypassing the midfield. Paul Pogba took control. He was the engine, spraying short, sharp passes to regain rhythm.
42nd Minute
Pogba collected the ball deep. He looked up and saw Jesse Lingard finding a pocket of space. He zipped a pass into Lingard's feet.
"Here!" Ling shouted from the left touchline, raising his hand.
He had drifted wide, isolating himself against the Liverpool right side. He knew Klopp's instructions were to double-team him.
He didn't care.
Chamberlain. Alexander-Arnold.
Ling analyzed them as the ball traveled toward him.
Both were converted midfielders or wingers. They were athletic, fast, and aggressive. But defensively? They were naive.
Especially Trent. The kid had a wand of a right foot, but his defensive positioning was Championship level at best.
Lingard laid the ball off perfectly.
"Double him!" Chamberlain roared, his voice cracking. He charged forward like a bull.
"I got him!" Arnold shouted, closing the pincer movement from the side.
They sealed off the 90-degree angle. Ling was trapped against the touchline.
Most players would pass back. Most players would look for a foul.
Ling stood still and he looked frightened.
But inside, his mind was icy calm.
No matter how well-drilled a defense is, two players can never move in perfect synchronization. There is always a millisecond of delay.
A tiny window of opportunity.
Ling's heart raced, but his feet felt light.
Flick. Tap. Pull. Hook.
He had practiced these movements a thousand times in the rain at Carrington.
First Wave: Alexander-Arnold.
The young defender arrived first. He was eager. He lunged in, stretching his leg to poke the ball away.
Too early.
Ling didn't panic. With a delicate touch of his left foot, he flicked the ball sideways, tapping it onto his right foot. Arnold's boot hit nothing but grass.
Second Wave: Chamberlain.
Chamberlain arrived a split-second later, crashing in to clean up the loose ball.
Too aggressive.
As Chamberlain committed his weight, Ling dragged the ball back with the sole of his right foot, shifting it instantly to his left. Chamberlain flew past him like a runaway train.
Left to Right. Right to Left.
The movements were simple, fundamental. But executed at this speed, with this precision, they looked like magic.
It was a dance in a telephone booth.
Old Trafford fell into a deathly silence.
Seventy-five thousand people held their breath.
They watched the red shirt twist and turn, afraid that even a whisper would break the spell.
Alexander-Arnold scrambled to recover.
He felt the humiliation rising in his throat.
'No! Not again!'
Gritting his teeth, Trent threw his entire body weight forward.
He abandoned technique. He abandoned caution. He launched himself into a desperate, vicious slide tackle, aiming to take everything—the ball, the man, the dignity.
"You've used all your tricks!" Trent thought, his eyes wild. "I don't believe you can dodge this one!"