Everton left-back Leighton Baines saw the danger immediately.
The moment Julien received De Bruyne's pass on the left flank with barely two minutes remaining in stoppage time, every defensive instinct in Baines's body fired simultaneously.
He launched himself forward without hesitation urgently, determined to shut down Julien.
Baines was no naive defender. Over a decade of Premier League experience had educated him thoroughly about players who could hurt teams in moments like this. He understood Julien's capabilities closely from ninety minutes of watching him terrorize defenders all evening.
He couldn't allow Julien any space at all. Not with the match still goalless, with a famous derby draw enticingly close to being secured after ninety-two minutes of heroic defensive resistance.
His approach was designed to be suffocating—cutting off the inside route immediately, forcing Julien back or out toward the touchline where the threat diminished.
If Baines could press him onto his weaker side or simply shepherd the ball out for a throw-in, the danger would dissipate.
Julien showed no signs of anxiety.
His left foot moved gently, pulling the ball back toward his own body in a subtle touch that simultaneously shifted his weight backward, his upper body was swaying with the exaggerated hint of a touchline run—telling Baines's defensive instincts that he intended to go left, to burst past him on the outside and deliver a cross from deep.
Baines's left foot moved half a step accordingly; his centre of gravity was shifting subtly to his right in preparation to block that anticipated route.
That half-step was everything.
In the instant Baines's weight had committed, Julien's right foot was already moving in a sharp outward push that took the ball to the right, away from Baines's lunging challenge, while Julien's body followed simultaneously, accelerating through the narrow gap that had opened between Baines's body and the touchline.
He didn't squeeze through—he exploded through, his acceleration from standstill to full pace was accomplished in two bursts of sprint that left Baines grasping at nothing but air.
He immediately began his recovery run but the gap was already uncloseable. Julien's burst of speed carried him away so quickly that Baines couldn't even grab his shirt, could only watch helplessly as he accelerated toward Everton's penalty area with nothing but open space ahead.
"BEAUTIFUL! Julien has beaten Baines with an absolutely exquisite feint!" Martin Tyler's voice climbed with the increasing excitement. "The footwork, the deception, the timing's pure technical perfection! And now he's through with pace, bearing down on Everton's penalty area with ninety-two minutes on the clock! This could be it! This could be the moment!"
WHOOOAAAHHH!
Anfield, which had been gradually sinking into resignation for a draw, erupted back to life. Forty thousand people who'd been mentally processing disappointment suddenly found their hope restored in a single explosive burst.
James McCarthy saw the situation developing with growing alarm and made the only decision available to him.
He had covered extraordinary distances throughout this match—tracking runners, winning second balls, making tackle after tackle, performing the unspectacular work that Martínez's gameplan required. His legs were screaming. His lungs were burning. Every muscle fibre in his body was dissenting the continued demands being placed upon them.
But Baines had been beaten. Julien was accelerating toward the penalty area. If nobody intervened, Liverpool's most dangerous player would arrive at Everton's goal with momentum, options, and the kind of individual quality that could produce moments of genius from nowhere.
McCarthy threw himself into recovery, his tired legs were responding to the urgency of the moment despite their exhaustion. He met Julien from a diagonal angle, his eyes were locked on the ball calculating the precise moment to make his challenge.
He had one chance. If he timed it impeccably, he could dispossess Julien before he could release a shot or pull the trigger on a delivery. If he got it wrong—Julien would be past him and through on goal with nothing between him and Howard.
His body angled to block the most obvious forward route, while watching for the moment Julien's run pattern showed he was about to shoot.
Julien sensed him coming without needing to look directly. His peripheral vision had already registered McCarthy's approach angle, speed, and positioning.
He allowed this midfielder to believe the tackle was promising, that there was nothing Julien could do about the interception bearing down on him.
As McCarthy's confidence peaked as he began his lunge and committed to the challenge—Julien's touch changed everything.
His pace dropped suddenly, almost to a standstill, his left foot pushed the ball forward into the space in front of him while his body adopted the posture of a player about to shoot.
The message to McCarthy's brain was clear: he's stopping to strike.
McCarthy did exactly what Julien needed him to do.
He decelerated from commitment to interception to preparation for blocking a shot. His body's momentum which had been his greatest weapon became his greatest liability. His weight repositioned, his run shortened and his body adjusted for a different kind of challenge.
Julien's right foot, guided by its owner's extraordinary touch, was already rolling the ball to the right with the outside of his boot by a subtle redirection that moved the ball away from McCarthy's repositioning body.
Simultaneously, Julien's centre of gravity dropped, his body sank lower to maximize acceleration, his legs drove him into the gap that had opened beside McCarthy's compromised body.
McCarthy's brain registered what was happening about half a second too late.
His legs tried to reverse course—to push back into Julien's path but they were done.
Ninety-plus minutes of relentless defensive work had depleted the physical reserves that explosive recovery movements needed. The message from his brain arrived at his muscles simultaneously with the knowledge that his muscles couldn't obey.
He lurched forward as his body tilted at an unstable angle while two stumbling steps that looked funny.
Julien slid past him like he wasn't there.
Phil Jagielka couldn't afford to wait.
The Everton captain had watched from his central defensive position as Baines was beaten, as McCarthy's recovery failed, as Julien bore down on goal with increasing momentum and confidence.
Every instinct told him to hold his position, to remain in the penalty area where his defensive presence was most valuable.
But Julien had already beaten two men. If he reached the penalty area unchallenged, Liverpool's most dangerous attacker would have the space and time to execute whatever he wanted.
Jagielka made the brave decision: he would step out and confront Julien before he could get a clean look at goal.
His approach was the product of vast experience in similar to these situations. He didn't commit hastily or lunge recklessly, didn't allow desperation to override his defensive intelligence. He moved forward and positioned himself to cut off the most dangerous angles while maintaining enough balance to adjust if Julien changed direction.
Jagielka was one of the Premier League's finest defenders. He'd handled countless dangerous attackers over his career. He understood that the worst thing a defender could do in this situation was commit too early, show his hand before the striker was forced to make his own decision.
His approach was intended to compress Julien's options gradually, force him toward positions of less danger and make him choose a suboptimal attack.
Julien read all of it.
He understood Jagielka's positioning, his defensive strategy and the angles being closed off one by one. He could see exactly what the experienced defender was trying to achieve.
His left foot pushed the ball forward and to the left, his body weight followed the same direction—apparently to take the ball onto his stronger left foot and drive toward the more central angle.
Jagielka moved accordingly, his feet adjusted quickly to cut off the left-side route as he closed the gap.
The shift in weight was the opening.
Julien's body continued its leftward lean for precisely the fraction of a second required—enough for Jagielka's defensive positioning to commit to blocking that route—before reversing suddenly.
His right foot came through the ball with explosive violence, striking the ball in a motion that incorporated his entire body's rotational momentum.
BOOM!
That distinctive sound was unmistakable even in the stadium's enormous ambient noise.
The ball launched off his boot with ferocious velocity, rising sharply before the combination of pace, topspin, and deliberately-applied sidespin caused it to curve.
The trajectory was almost mathematically perfect: rising steeply over the cluster of retreating defenders clustered between Julien and goal, then bending slightly as the sidespin applied itself, dropping and curving simultaneously toward the top corner.
Howard's pupils contracted. He hurled himself full-stretch, every last reserve of his body committed to the dive—fingertips were reaching, almost there….
The crowd watched in slow-motion suspension.
Half an inch separated his fingertips from the ball.
THUD!
The ball hit the back of the net with violent force.
The eruption that followed Julien's goal was seismic.
Forty thousand people launched themselves simultaneously.
ROOOOOOOAAAAARRRRR!
"OH MY GOD! UNBELIEVABLE! UNBELIEVABLE!" Martin Tyler's voice cracked. "JULIEN! JULIEN! WHAT HAVE WE JUST SEEN?!
The ball is IN! A winner! A last-gasp winner! "
His voice dropped from the shriek:
"Individual brilliance of the absolute highest order! Baines beaten first—one touch, one acceleration, gone! McCarthy beaten second—the fake shot, the push right, the burst of pace—gone! And then Jagielka—three steps, a feint that shifted the world's best centre-backs' weight, and then that strike—"
Tyler's voice broke slightly again: "That STRIKE! Rising, curling, bending into the top corner with Howard at full stretch unable to reach it! The technique, the improvisation, the sheer audacity of it all in the ninety-second minute of a goalless derby!
I have been commentating on football for over thirty years. I have witnessed extraordinary moments in remarkable matches. But what Julien just produced—single-handedly beating three defenders and curling a shot into the top corner in injury time to win a Merseyside Derby—ranks among the most breathtaking moments I have ever had the privilege of describing.
THIS IS ANFIELD and ANFIELD IS ERUPTING!"
Red flags erupted across the stadium. Fans who'd been sitting in resigned acceptance moments earlier were now on their feet, jumping, screaming, embracing.
The Kop became a single unit of joy. Songs erupted spontaneously without needing to be started, the melodies were pouring from thousands of throats simultaneously, YNWA and half a dozen others weaved together into a chours of sound.
"JULIEN! JULIEN! JULIEN! JULIEN!"
The name thundered around the stadium in rhythmic chanting.
In the executive boxes, Abdullah leaped to his feet with an explosive movement entirely uncharacteristic of his usual composed demeanour.
His fists punched the air repeatedly, his face was transformed by pure exhilaration. He turned to embrace Dein, both men were gripping each other's shoulders in ecstasy.
Julien ran.
He spread his arms wide like wings catching an updraft, sprinting toward the corner flag.
He reached the corner flag and didn't stop.
In one smooth run, he planted his right foot and leaped, grabbing the advertising hoarding surrounding the pitch boundary and pulled himself up until he stood high above the pitch, arms spread wide, face tilted slightly up, accepting the worship of forty thousand people who were losing their minds below him.
The image was iconic—Julien standing above the crowd with his arms extended, the red wave was surging beneath him, the stadium's lights were illuminating him against the dark English winter sky.
In that moment, he was Anfield's king.
The celebration lasted about five seconds before teammates arrived and hauled him down from his perch, the crowd of red shirts surrounding him were so densely that he almost disappeared.
Gerrard seized him first, thumping his back again and again.
"YOU ABSOLUTE MADMAN!" Gerrard's voice was hoarse with emotion as he held Julien and shook him simultaneously. "I've been here twenty years and that's one of the best goals I've ever seen! You insane, beautiful lad!"
Suárez bounded over with intensity, catching Julien's eye before landing a gentle punch on his chest, "That was ART, my friend! Pure art! How does someone do that in injury time of a derby? Tell me—how?"
De Bruyne wrapped an arm around Julien's neck.
Van Dijk, Kanté, Coutinho, Piszczek, Mignolet—they all joined in a red mass of celebrating, hands patting backs, voices shouting over each other, the accumulated tension of ninety-plus frustrating minutes released in one explosion of relief and joy.
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