Gerrard stood in the corner flag area, rain was soaking through his hair and plastering his kit to his skin.
He wiped a hand across his face, water streamed between his fingers as his eyes scanned the congested penalty area. Bodies jostled for position, red and white shirts were creating a human maze in the six-yard box.
Whistle!
The referee's shrill signal cut through the downpour. Gerrard stepped back, planted his standing foot, and whipped his boot across the ball.
The corner arced beautifully through the rain, curving away from the near post defenders before dipping viciously toward the back stick—exactly as they'd drilled in training. The delivery was inch-perfect, avoiding the forest of legs at the front post while dropping into the danger zone where Skrtel had peeled away from his marker.
Inside the box, the Slovakian center-back tracked the ball's flight path, his body was coiling like a spring. Michael Dawson pressed tight against his back, trying to disrupt his jump, but Skrtel had timed his run perfectly. He exploded rising a clear half-body height above the Spurs defender.
His forehead connected with vicious intent, snapping the ball toward the bottom left corner.
The ball rocketed toward the target, skidding low through the spray. Lloris launched himself desperately, but he was beaten for pace and positioning.
Every Tottenham fan in the stadium sucked in their breath, hands already rising to their heads—
CLANG!
The sickening sound of ball meeting post echoed across White Hart Lane. The shot cannoned off the left standing and rebounded back into the penalty area, still very much alive.
Chaos erupted in an instant.
Red and white bodies converged on the loose ball, boots sliding on the treacherous surface as the rain-soaked turf betrayed their footing. Players scrambled and slipped, desperation was written across every face.
Sturridge lunged with an outstretched leg, trying to bundle it home, but a white shirt threw itself into the path, blocking with pure instinct rather than technique.
Suárez darted toward the rebound, but Dawson wrapped himself around him, grappling him like a wrestler.
Kyle Walker read the danger first. His eyes locked onto the bouncing ball, and he arrived a fraction ahead of the Liverpool attackers. His right boot swung frantically, launching the ball away from the danger zone.
But under pressure from the pressing red shirts, his clearance was panicked and rushed. The ball climbed vertically rather than gaining distance—barely clearing the eighteen-yard box before beginning its descent.
Every player's head tilted up, tracking the ball's trajectory against the grey sky.
Except Kanté.
He didn't watch the ball. His eyes scanned the positioning of every Tottenham player, every Liverpool teammate, calculating trajectories and angles in a split second. He spotted Julien in the perfect position, closest to where the ball would drop.
Without hesitation, Kanté shifted his body weight and sealed off Paulinho's approach, using his compact frame to create just enough obstruction. Paulinho's momentum slowed by crucial half-steps.
Julien was already moving.
When Gerrard's corner had curled into the box, he hadn't followed the crowd into the congested area. That decision now gave him precious space and time that others didn't have.
As the ball descended, Julien stepped forward with fluid certainty. His left foot—the outside of his boot—met the dropping ball with the delicate touch of a pianist striking keys. The ball stuck to his foot as if magnetized, cushioned perfectly despite the wet conditions.
Poetry in motion.
Paulinho had finally fought past Kanté's obstruction, but by the time he arrived, the moment had passed. He was a full step too late.
Julien pushed forward with the ball glued to his feet.
Paulinho stabbed out a leg, trying to win it back, but Julien had already anticipated the challenge. His shoulder dipped left, his whole body was seeming to commit to that direction. Paulinho's weight shifted instinctively to block the path, his hips were opening to cut off the angle.
Then Julien's right boot dragged the ball back the opposite way in one smooth motion.
The Brazilian grasped at empty air.
The feint and directional change were so seamlessly connected they looked like a single movement. The wet surface didn't slow Julien's feet—it made his shifts even more devastating, the ball was skidding faster across the slick grass.
ROAR!
Even some home fans couldn't suppress their appreciation, a collective gasp was rippling through White Hart Lane.
"Here we go!" the commentator was roaring. "We're seeing those beautiful feet again! Julien's dancing through the rain!"
With Paulinho eliminated from the equation, Julien drove directly at the heart of the Tottenham defense.
His touch was extremely quick, the ball was never straying more than inches from his feet despite his acceleration. Each step was perfectly captured, his body was balanced over the ball even as he ate up ground at frightening speed.
The Spurs defensive line reacted with panic.
Capoue, Dawson, and Walker joined from three angles, forming a triangular trap that squeezed the available space down to nothing. The penalty area became a suffocating cage, every passing lane seemed to be sealed off.
Faced with the collapsing wall of white shirts, Julien didn't force the issue. He made no heroic attempt to dribble through three defenders. His eyes had already processed every position, every angle, and available possibility.
He stroked a simple pass square to Gerrard, who had bombed forward from his corner-taking position and was now free just outside the area.
The instant the ball left his foot, Julien's body was already rotating, his momentum was reversing. He backpedaled two quick steps, creating separation from the play.
Sandro lunged at where Julien had been, but found only empty space.
The Tottenham players immediately turned their attention toward Gerrard, their defensive shape was shifting like a living organism. Two white shirts closed him down aggressively, terrified he'd whip in another dangerous cross.
But Gerrard wasn't looking at the box. He took one touch with his left foot, drawing the defenders toward him like moths to flame.
From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Julien, who had drifted back to the edge of the penalty area.
Julien had slipped his markers completely. Two full yards of space was opened up in front of him which was an eternity in football terms.
Gerrard didn't hesitate. The inside of his boot stroked the ball across the wet grass, sending it rolling back toward Julien's feet.
Julien was ready. He'd been ready before the pass even arrived.
As the ball approached, his body was already set in the perfect shooting position. Because he had his back to goal, the Tottenham defenders didn't immediately register the danger. Their positioning was even casual.
That split-second of hesitation would cost them.
Julien's left knee bent, lowering his center of gravity. His right foot hooked the ball back, and in the same motion, his entire body pivoted.
The dragback and turn were executed with surgical precision. By the time he completed the rotation, his body alignment was already perfect for the shot. His planted foot was positioned, his hips opened toward goal, his striking leg was already drawing back.
No pause. No adjustment. No wasted movement.
CRACK!
The sound of boot meeting ball cut through the rain like a thunderclap.
The ball exploded off his foot, carving a wicked arc through the air. It bent around the diving defenders, the wet ball was holding its curve beautifully as it sliced through the rain toward the far post.
Lloris flung himself across his goal, every muscle straining, fingers clawing at air. His fingertips brushed nothing but raindrops as the ball arrowed past him.
This time, there would be no post to save Tottenham.
SWISH!
The ball kissed the inside of the far post before bulging the net.
4th minute.
0-1.
Liverpool take the lead at White Hart Lane.
For a second, the stadium fell into stunned silence, as if 36,000 people had simultaneously forgotten how to breathe.
Then the away section erupted.
The Liverpool fans went absolutely berserk, their roar was cutting through the rain like a physical force. Arms windmilled through the downpour, scarves twirled above heads, bodies bounced and crashed together in delirious celebration.
"JULIEN!"
"JULIEN!!"
"JULIEN!!!"
The chant built like a tidal wave.
Julien spread his arms wide and sprinted along the edge of the penalty area, rain was streaming down his face, unable to wash away the blazing joy in his eyes. He had conquered White Hart Lane's rain-soaked battlefield with pure talent.
When he reached the Liverpool fans' section, he slowed to a stop. His head tilted back, letting the cold rain patter against his face. His arms remained outstretched, a grin of pure elation was spreading across his face.
This was his moment. This was what he lived for.
Another goal.
This is what the Premier League's top scorer does.
The Tottenham fans didn't whistle or jeer. They couldn't—not really. They'd researched this kid before the match, understood his journey, respected his ability. Last season, they'd watched him dismantle their defense single-handedly.
Still, watching an opponent celebrate like that on their turf left a bitter taste in every mouth.
Liverpool's players mobbed Julien, pulling him into a crushing group embrace, everyone was shouting at once.
In the commentary box, Martin Tyler's voice reached a crescendo: "IT'S IN! GOAL!! JULIEN! Four minutes! Liverpool lead 1-0!
"What an individual performance! From corner kick chaos to outside-the-box artistry, Julien has carved his talent into every touch of this sequence!
Look at this replay—Skrtel's header smashes the post, Walker's clearance doesn't travel far enough, and Julien is first to react. That cushioned control with the outside of his boot—exquisite! Then one touch to eliminate Paulinho, absolutely mugging off the Brazilian with that body feint.
Surrounded by three Tottenham defenders, he doesn't panic—calmly squares it to Gerrard, then immediately peels away to create space. He understands how to exploit defensive gaps better than players twice his age!
And that finish! The dragback turn is seamless, the technique flawless, and the shot—my word, the shot! Curling into the far post with such precision that Lloris couldn't even get a hand to it.
This is what the Premier League's top scorer looks like, ladies and gentlemen! Julien has elevated the standard beyond just scoring goals—he orchestrates attacks, tears apart defensive structures with individual brilliance, and finishes with ruthless efficiency.
Tottenham's backline looks like wet cardboard against him—one touch and it collapses!
Four minutes in! A lightning strike in the rain! This is the aggression Klopp demanded, this is Julien's dominance on full display!
Who can stop a player like this? Tottenham need to figure something out, and they need to figure it out fast—"
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