Emperor of Football: Julien De Rocca

Chapter 672 - 672: Chapter-671 The Match Start

Time flew by.To the roar and thunder of the crowd at the Emirates, the players from both sides finished their warm-ups and retreated to the dressing rooms to make their final preparations.

Liverpool's away dressing room.

Klopp delivered his last instructions; his voice was firm. "I'll say this one more time: the side standing across from us tonight is fighting us for the title. They are not the same team we dismantled ten days ago. That 5–0 belongs to the past. It cannot be your reason to relax, and it cannot cloud your judgment."

His gaze swept across every pair of eyes in the room.

"Arsenal will never accept losing twice on their own ground. They've been seething with a desire for revenge, they will throw everything at us and make our lives hell. Forget the scoreline. Forget what happened before. Treat this match as the most important fixture of the season with full concentration on every pass, every defensive duel, every challenge.

Only by giving a hundred percent will we get the result we want. Every single game is the same. Don't let yourselves be seduced by all this talk in the media about us being title favourites. Until we're lifting that trophy, we have no right to celebrate."

The players all nodded.

Klopp looked around at them, and his tone softened slightly. "They have home advantage. They have the crowd. But I'm not worried. Go out there and show them what you do on the training ground."

Time was called.

The dressing room door swung open.

The players walked toward the tunnel, and the moment they stepped into it, the roar of the Emirates surged over them, wrapping around both groups of players as they made their way out. The occasional glances exchanged between opponents in the tunnel were sharp and serious.

Up in the commentary box, the broadcast was already underway.

"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to the Emirates. The FA Cup fifth round showpiece is about to begin—Arsenal at home against Liverpool. Ten days ago, Liverpool tore the Gunners apart 5–0 at Anfield, a result that shocked everyone, it was Arsenal's heaviest defeat at Anfield in nearly fifty years. Now back on home soil, the Gunners are desperate for revenge."

The commentator ran through the starting line-ups.

"Both teams have made changes from that league fixture. For the visitors, Liverpool: Mignolet in goal; a back four of Robertson, Agger, Van Dijk and Piszczek—Robertson earns a rare cup start on the left, and the young Scotsman will be one to watch; in midfield, a trident of Gerrard the captain, De Bruyne, and Julien; up front, the three S's—Suárez, Sturridge, and Sterling. Klopp has shown no interest in being conservative tonight—the attacking intent is dialled all the way up.

For Arsenal: Fabiański starts in goal in place of Szczęsny; Jenkinson, Mertesacker, Koscielny and Monreal across the back—there's been some talk in the media about a training-ground altercation involving Mertesacker; whether that has affected his focus tonight remains to be seen; Arteta and Flamini sit in midfield alongside Chamberlain, Podolski, and Ozil; Yaya Sanogo leads the line in attack.

Compared to the Anfield humiliation, the Gunners have made pointed changes in goal and up front, hoping to turn the tide."

By the time the introductions were complete, the referee raised his hand in the tunnel.

Both sets of players walked out onto the pitch.

Boom!

Boom—Boom!

The Emirates erupted. Songs and battle cries tore through the night sky. The players lined up, shook hands, posed for the team photograph, then fanned out to their positions.

Six o'clock in the evening. The sun had dipped toward the horizon, and the floodlights blazed over the pitch.

Peep!!

The referee's whistle cut through everything. The match was on.

From the moment play began, the cameras found both managers on the touchline.

"Klopp looks composed—composed and satisfied. His transformation of this Liverpool side has been an extraordinary success. You could argue he is the finest manager to have taken charge at Anfield since Benítez—and there are those who believe he might yet eclipse even Benítez, delivering the league title that has eluded Liverpool throughout the entire Premier League era.

Wenger, on the other hand, looks heavier than usual. The 5–0 humiliation at Anfield, the toothless draw against Manchester United at home, and the familiar February collapse that haunts this club every year—it all sits on his shoulders. Whether this evening brings him any relief, we'll see."

The cameras cut back to the pitch, and with both sides settled into their shapes, the tactical picture became immediately clear.

Arsenal, when they had the ball, showed no inclination to attack. They were content to circulate in midfield, Arteta and Flamini exchanged short passes, probing, waiting.

The plan appeared to be to drain Liverpool's energy through patient possession and absorb their pressing momentum. Neither Jenkinson nor Monreal pushed forward; both stayed deep, the entire structure was compact and compressed.

Everything about it screamed caution in a attempt to neutralize the Liverpool counter-threat.

Liverpool, away from home, showed no such restraint.

From the first whistle, they came out with extreme aggression, pressing in from high up the pitch.

The midfield line of Gerrard, De Bruyne, and Julien pushed up sharply, extending their press deep into Arsenal's half, well inside the final thirty meters.

Robertson and Piszczek on the flanks advanced boldly too, almost level with the front three, forming one relentless attacking block that squeezed and suffocated Arsenal's time on the ball.

Liverpool's coordination in the press was seamless; whenever one player moved to engage, others immediately covered the angles, creating territorial numerical superiority and repeatedly intercepted Arsenal's attempts to play through the lines.

Arsenal simply could not find their rhythm going forward.

Ozil came in for particular attention from De Bruyne who tracked his every move shadowing his passing lanes with persistence.

Arsenal's response was to single out Julien for the same treatment—Flamini pressed him relentlessly, barely a yard away at all times, while Arteta immediately covered the moment Julien received the ball, creating a double-mark that cut off his connections to the attacking line.

But Julien made adjustments. Rather than forcing the issue, he dropped deeper to collect the ball farther from pressure, drawing his markers away with him and, in doing so, shifting Arsenal's defensive centre of gravity back toward their own goal.

That repositioning opened up space for Liverpool's front three.

And the three S's were terrifying.

Sterling used his pace to attack Jenkinson repeatedly down the right, reaching the byline again and again to put in crosses; Sturridge darted and spun inside the penalty area, making constant runs in search of a shooting opportunity; Suárez haunted through the gap between Mertesacker and Koscielny, reading the game with that instinct, twice arriving at the near post only narrowly to fail to apply the finish.

In the tenth minute, Liverpool had the ball.

Julien received from Gerrard on the drop, shrugged free of Flamini, and played a diagonal pass into the channel. Sterling burst in down the right flank to reach the box, then cut a low ball across the face of goal.

Koscielny got a toe to it and deflected it away, but Suárez was first to the rebound, his shot grazed the post and went wide.

A gasp erupted, then silence was all in the Arsenal end. Wenger paced back and forth on the touchline, gesturing frantically to his defenders, his expression was tight with anxiety.

Liverpool's high press only intensified as the minutes ticked by.

Arsenal's passing tempo was shattered. Errors multiplied. The Gunners looked lost on the pitch, resorting repeatedly to long punts to escape the press only for Van Dijk and the Liverpool back four to swallow them up with ease and recycle possession.

By the fifteenth minute, Arsenal had been penned entirely into their own half. Going forward, they couldn't construct a single real sequence. Defending, they were chasing shadows, scrambling to deal with a relentless barrage from all three of Liverpool's forwards.

The Emirates was beginning to go quiet.

In the stands, a creeping despair took hold.

"It's painfully clear," the commentator said, "that Arsenal have not escaped the shadow of that 5–0 defeat. Playing at home, they have set up with a conservatism completely uncharacteristic of this club. The intention was to use possession as a shield but passive possession has simply given Liverpool all the room they need to press with intensity, and the Reds have taken full advantage.

You have to credit Klopp here. He has read this Arsenal side perfectly identified their low confidence, their unwillingness to push men forward and he has weaponized his high press to shred their system. Almost every Liverpool advance creates danger. That Arsenal back line looks increasingly fragile, and one moment of carelessness could easily—"

Minute nineteen.

Julien received in central midfield, looked up toward the front line, and feinted as though to drive forward.

Flamini and Arteta both homed in, closing tight from either side, intending to pinch the ball from him. Julien didn't panic. He held the ball under pressure and pushed forward not to break through, but to lock both men onto him, to claim their complete attention.

The effect was instant. A wide gap opened in Arsenal's midfield.

De Bruyne saw it. Without hesitation, he burst forward from deep, driving into the space through Arsenal's centre.

Then Julien did it—the fake drive became a real pass.

He slid the ball wide left to Robertson who had overlapped into space.

Arsenal began to reorganize their shape and Robertson crossed immediately.

In the box, Suárez and Sturridge made intersecting runs to drag defenders out of position. Sturridge came off second, controlling the ball behind Suárez.

Mertesacker pressed tight against him but Sturridge didn't try to spin and shoot. He laid it off, first time, right into the path of De Bruyne who had run completely free.

The Arsenal defence couldn't recover in time. They could only watch.

De Bruyne was on the edge of the area now. He had all the time he needed. Mertesacker lunged in desperation—

But it was too late.

De Bruyne planted his right foot and hit it.

Thud!

The ball screamed toward the bottom-left corner with savage power and vicious spin. Fabiański flung himself across the goal, his fingertips brushed the ball but there was no way to stop it. It struck the back of the net.

0–1!

Liverpool had broken the deadlock away from home.

The Liverpool players erupted. De Bruyne sprinted toward the corner, arms wide, and Julien was first to reach him as he threw his arms around him. Sturridge, Gerrard, the rest of the squad piled in from every direction.

On the away bench, Klopp pumped his fist and let out a shout of relief and joy.

The Emirates fell silent.

Across the Arsenal end, the faces of the home fans had caved in with a dread they recognized too well. Everyone in the stadium understood: that goal hadn't been a moment of fortune. It had been inevitable.

Wenger stood rigid on the touchline, arms folded across his chest, staring out at the pitch with hollow eyes.

The Arsenal players trudged back to the centre circle, heads down. The blow had landed hard. In a night that was already going wrong, conceding now felt like confirmation of something none of them wanted to face.

"My God!" the commentator exclaimed. "Extraordinary! Liverpool are simply unstoppable right now! The quality in this team is spilling off the screen—Julien's decoy run, De Bruyne's forward surge, Sturridge's perfectly timed lay-off, every single piece clicked together in perfect sequence.

This squad is exceptional. In terms of the balance between attack and defence, between dynamism and craft, there is not a team in the Premier League that can match them right now.

This is Klopp's brand of football at its absolute peak."

The commentator's words were exactly what the Liverpool fans felt.

Back in Liverpool, inside the Boot Room pub, the night had already turned into a carnival. Fans lifted their glasses in every direction, howling, stamping their feet.

"That's our Reds!" a man shouted, slapping the table. "Nobody in the league can handle that attack! That Julien—his decoy run just now, pinning both of them down and tearing that gap wide open was absolutely masterclass!"

"De Bruyne's strike was also quick, clean, he gave no chance for Fabiański. Our midfield creativity is on another level!"

"This squad is peak—peak. The three S's up front can run at you or shoot from anywhere. Julien, De Bruyne, Gerrard in midfield can go both ways. Van Dijk's a rock at the back. Robertson's bombing forward from left-back. There is no depth like this anywhere in England."

"Klopp knows exactly what he's got and exactly how to use it. This high press against Arsenal feels like the system was built for this squad specifically!"

"We've been waiting so long for a side like this that nobody can work out how to stop!"

"Look at Arsenal's back four—they can't breathe. Another goal is only a matter of when, not if."

Every one of them was swimming in the joy of a lead taken on the road.

The contrast with the Emirates could not have been starker.

Arsenal's home supporters sat rooted to their seats. One fan let his head drop slowly forward and released a long, low sigh, the resignation was plain in his eyes. "So, this is Liverpool's attack at full force. We can't even get a hand out to push them back…"

The Gunners' fans had no choice but to accept it: their club was being outclassed, outrun, and outthought by a side that was simply better.

The title race? What did Arsenal have to take on this Liverpool?

And then, the thought that made it worse, that made it truly bleak.

The age of this Liverpool squad.

They were so young.

Almost all of them were in their early twenties. Julien was nineteen. Frickin Nineteen. Which meant that if Liverpool held this squad together, they could dominate English football for years perhaps even a decade.

That was the part that was hardest to stomach.

The celebrations died down. The whistle blew.

Peep!

Play resumed but Arsenal's players could not recover the composure they'd had before the goal. Even steadying themselves felt beyond them now.

From kick-off, Arsenal moved with a gloomy shuffle—passes were slow and hesitant, runs turned half-hearted and confused. The goal had broken something in them.

Arteta, under pressure from Sterling in the centre, miscued a clearance and fed the ball straight to Gerrard in a near-catastrophic gift. Up front, Sanogo stood isolated and invisible, cut off from support as his teammates grew too fearful to push up, leaving him to drift alone at the tip of a team that had forgotten how to attack.

Liverpool, meanwhile, refused to coast. Feeding off the momentum of the first goal, they threw another wave of attacks at Arsenal, then another. The two wide channels became the mechanism of demolition.

On the left, Robertson was relentless like a machine in continuous motion, charging at Monreal again and again with pace and drive, forcing Koscielny to keep abandoning his central position to come across and help.

On the right, Sterling and Piszczek combined in a dazzling one-two exchange, Sterling's quick-fire changes of direction and sudden acceleration reduced Jenkinson to a stumbling, off-balance mess.

Arsenal's fullbacks were being torn to pieces.

Mertesacker, slow to turn, was repeatedly caught in behind. Inside the penalty area, clearances went astray and defensive assignments were missed one after another. It was a shambles at the back—kept afloat only by a string of urgent saves from Fabiański.

The ball barely left Arsenal's half. Liverpool owned the pitch. The Gunners rarely even crossed the halfway line.

The mood inside the Emirates sank into something close to grief.

Twenty-eighth minute. Gerrard picked the ball up in midfield and played it wide right with a precise, raking pass, finding Sterling in his stride on the overlap.

Facing Jenkinson, Sterling shaped to deliver an early cross in a subtle dropping of the right shoulder that convinced Jenkinson to shift his weight and extend a blocking leg.

At that exact moment, Sterling cut inside.

The movement was quick and sharp, the footwork remained hypnotic. Against Sterling, Jenkinson might as well have been a cone. He cut into the right side of the penalty area, and Mertesacker came scrambling back in an attempt to close the shooting angle.

But Sterling didn't shoot.

He pulled the ball back in a low, firm push along the ground into the centre of the box.

In the area, Suárez and Sturridge had made overlapping decoy runs, dragging most of the defenders with them. The centre had emptied.

Julien had long since pulled clear of Flamini, reading the trajectory of the pass before the ball was played. He ran onto it without breaking his run, loaded his right leg with every ounce of force he had, and drove it.

Thud!

The ball shrieked through the air on a flat trajectory straight at goal, traveling so fast that Fabiański had barely begun to react before it hit the net.

0–2.

Liverpool's second goal away from home.

The manner of it left Arsenal fans hollowed out.

The right flank peeled apart with ease, the centre was unmarked, the finish looked impossible to stop as the entire back four had been made to look like cardboard.

The commentary booth erupted again.

"Another one! Arsenal simply cannot stop them! Liverpool's wide threat and their finishing are at an altogether different level tonight. The Gunners are being suffocated. If this continues, their mental resilience could snap entirely, this might yet become a repeat of the Anfield collapse."

The Liverpool players celebrated with wildness.

Julien moved toward the traveling fans, spread his arms wide, and turned to be met by Sterling and the rest, who crashed into him in a laughing, jostling heap.

The players were grinning. The Liverpool fans were grinning.

Two matches against Arsenal, back-to-back.

And everyone now understood what it meant.

This was the beginning of Liverpool's era.

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