On the touchline, Klopp watched the ball enter the net and felt something happen in his chest—not quite believing what his eyes were telling him, a microsecond of processing time was required before reality confirmed what he'd seen.
Then he moved.
His right fist clenched with a ferocity that whitened his knuckles, and he drove it forward through the air with three powerful strokes—each punch expressing a different emotion: the first for the goal itself, the second for Julien's extraordinary execution, the third for the three points that had seemed lost.
He spun toward his assistant coaches, grabbing the nearest one in a bear hug that lifted the man briefly off the ground. Klopp was laughing and screaming simultaneously, his glasses were slightly skewed, his voice was hoarse from ninety minutes of roaring's and now cracking under the additional demand of pure celebration.
He jumped, literally jumped with joy on the Anfield touchline.
The technical area was cleared completely within seconds—Robertson and Lucas and the remaining substitutes sprinted across the pitch toward the corner celebration, completely abandoning the substitute's bench.
The assistant coaches left behind stood in the empty technical area, gesturing wildly, screaming at each other, high-fiving with both hands.
The contrast between the two halves of the stadium was brutal.
In the away section, Everton's blue-clad fans had undergone a transformation as instant and whole as Liverpool's celebration.
Where there had been noise and nervous hope, there was now silence, shock, and the grief of being so close to a famous result only to have it snatched away by a single moment of individual genius.
Some sat immediately as the sudden depletion of emotional energy left them unable to stand. Others remained straight but motionless, staring at the celebrating Liverpool players with hollow expressions.
A few walked out early, unable to watch the celebration, needing the cold evening air to process what had happened.
On the pitch, Everton's players had become statues.
Jagielka stood with both hands on his hips, head bowed, staring at the turf where moments before he'd been beaten by the most demoralizing of moves. The replaying of that sequence was visible on his face showing anguish.
McCarthy had dropped to a crouch with forearms resting on his thighs, both hands covering his face. He'd worked harder than anyone on the pitch for ninety-plus minutes. He'd made tackles, won headers, tracked runners, done everything that his team needed from him. He'd been so close to securing a remarkable result.
And his own exhausted legs had betrayed him in the final moment when everything counted.
Howard leaned against his post, staring at the ball resting in the back of his net. He had given everything to that dive. It still wasn't enough to stop De Rocca's perfect curling strike.
Martínez stood frozen on the touchline.
His hands had disappeared into his trouser pockets. His gaze was fixed on the celebrating mass of red shirts in the corner, but he wasn't truly seeing it.
He was processing.
His plan had been excellent. His defensive organization had been superb. His players had executed the gameplan with commitment and discipline for the ninety-two minutes full of heroic defensive resistance, countless blocked crosses, crucial last-ditch tackles. They'd created their own genuine opportunities and had deserved at minimum a share of the points from a purely football-logical perspective.
And then one player, in one moment, had made every tactical consideration irrelevant.
Baines, McCarthy, Jagielka—three excellent, experienced professionals who between them had accumulated hundreds of Premier League appearances and thousands of defensive actions were beaten in sequence in under ten seconds.
Some things couldn't be planned for.
The visiting supporters had no fight left. They slumped in their seats, the earlier bravado was gone. Some were already walking out, heads down, shoulders bent.
Then You'll Never Walk Alone rose again from the stands.
The anthem and the roar of the crowd interweaved together into the most beautiful sound in football.
Anfield's joy burned on.
Back out in the centre circle, the teams reset.
Tweeeeeet!
The whistle blew. Everton kicked off and pushed forward in a desperate last surge.
But Liverpool gave them nothing—and time gave them even less.
The referee's whistle for full-time arrived almost immediately after play resumed, Everton's brief attempt at response was snuffed out by Liverpool's determination to protect what they'd taken so long to earn.
The scoreline confirmed: Liverpool 1-0 Everton.
Julien walked toward the stand flanked by his teammates, raising his hand to the crowd. The noise peaked one last time.
Klopp found him and pulled him into a long, firm embrace, patting his back. "Son—you did it. You're Anfield's hero tonight."
Julien smiled and nodded while his teammates joined around him.
The Merseyside Derby belonged to the Red half of the city.
Even the wind felt red.
Outside Anfield, the streets transformed instantly.
The moment the final whistle sounded, fans who'd been watching on screens in surrounding pubs and public squares exploded into celebration. Their joy merged with the crowds flowing out of the stadium itself, creating rivers of red humanity that surged through Liverpool's streets in every direction.
"You'll Never Walk Alone" began spontaneously, started by no one in particular and joined by everyone within the range.
The song travelled down Stanley Road and into Anfield Road and along Walton Breck Road, carried by thousands of voices into the cold January air, rising above the rooftops of the terraced houses that surrounded the stadium like the music of communal joy.
Young fans stripped off their shirts and held them in the air, letting them swell in the wind. Others had their scarves wound around their wrists, their foreheads—exchanging high-fives and embraces, faces lit up with happiness of a derby win.
A small group had gathered around a set of steps outside a red-brick Victorian terrace, and one young fan had climbed to stand at the top, spreading his arms wide in an imitation of Julien's celebration while his friends cheered and took photographs.
The gesture would appear dozens of times across Liverpool tonight.
As the Liverpool team bus eased out through the crowd, fans swarmed it on all sides, drumming on the bodywork. Windows came down—Julien, Gerrard, others were leaning out, waving. The screaming redoubled.
Supporters' pubs across the city had become scenes of sustained, joyful mayhem.
One voice cut through: "JULIEN! You're the king of Anfield!"
From the ground to the city centre, red was the only colour that existed.
Under every streetlight, Liverpool supporters were grinning.
At a packed pub on Anfield Road, a television screen was cycling through the goal from multiple angles repeatedly, each viewing cycle triggered new eruptions of celebration. The analysis happened organically, fans were pointing at the screen, breaking down each element:
"Look at the touch on Baines—barely moves the ball but completely shifts his weight. How does someone think of that in injury time?"
"And then McCarthy—the fake shot! The fake SHOT! He's almost going for real but just... rolls it away instead. McCarthy has nothing. His legs are done."
"Then Jagielka—he's already beaten mentally before the ball even hits the net. You can see it. The minute Julien's hips go one way, Jagielka knows."
"And Howard! His fingertips are practically touching it! Half an inch! HALF AN INCH!"
"That's why he's different, mate. That's the difference. In injury time of a derby when everything's on the line, he does something that only a handful of people in the entire world could do."
An older man in his sixties sat slightly apart from the main crowd, nursing a pint with both hands, watching the replays with an expression that contained joy but also something more complex.
He'd seen the great Liverpool sides of the past. Had watched European nights and title-winning campaigns. Had lived through the difficult years since.
He didn't say anything for a long time, just watched the replays. When a younger fan caught his eye and raised a glass, the old man smiled.
Outside in the streets, a group of Everton fans walked home in a cluster, their blue shirts were covered by winter coats against the January cold and perhaps against the reminder of tonight's result. They moved ignoring the celebrating red masses around them with detachment.
One of them, walking beside a friend, couldn't quite suppress the truth of what he'd witnessed: "That goal, though." His voice was quiet, intended only for his companion. "You have to admit. That goal was something else."
Deep into the small hours, the carnival showed no sign of ending.
By midnight, Liverpool's digital presence had become a phenomenon.
Social media platforms were overwhelmed with posts sharing Julien's goal from every possible angle—the full-speed version, the slow-motion dissection of each second, the reaction shots showing Howard's desperate dive, the celebration image of Julien standing arms-wide above the crowd.
The clip was being reshared globally, not just by football fans but by casual observers drawn to the pure aesthetic quality.
Sports media in France were running with the story. European football accounts were sharing the highlights. The clip was accumulating millions of views within hours.
The Premier League's official social media accounts made it their lead post within minutes of the final whistle: "He did WHAT in the 92nd minute?"
Overnight, the statistics confirmed: the victory had propelled Liverpool to the top of the Premier League table.
For the first time under Klopp, Liverpool were the division's target—the team that every other club was now chasing.
One match remained tomorrow night that would determine whether they could hold that position, but regardless of Arsenal's result, the psychological significance was enormous.
The Liverpool Echo went to press with their match report written:
{
When Julien's curling strike pierced the Anfield night sky and tore through Howard's despairing dive to nestle in the far corner, the roar that greeted it wasn't merely a celebration of a football goal. It was the sound of a city reconnecting with its identity.
Liverpool won this second Merseyside Derby of the season 1-0, Julien's sublime last-gasp individual goal proving the decisive moment in a tense, compelling contest that both teams deserved to win at various stages.
In his post-match press conference, Klopp was unable to contain his joy. 'This is what the Merseyside Derby is,' he said after those ninety minutes full of emotion. 'Unpredictable, intense, capable of extraordinary moments. We created many chances in the first half and came close to scoring several times, but the clinical execution wasn't there. Second half we faced the controversy of the disallowed goal and continued counter-attacking threats. My players never gave up. They maintained their belief and their discipline. That persistence was ultimately rewarded.'
On Julien, Klopp was superlative without hesitation:
'He is a born winner. He has technique at the highest level. He has a mentality under pressure that most players spend entire careers trying to develop and never achieve. In a match where we couldn't find the breakthrough, where the clock was running down, where a draw seemed inevitable—he reached into himself and produced something extraordinary. He didn't just score a goal. He found something that nobody else on that pitch could have found. Every manager in the world wants a player like him at the centre of everything. Tonight he deserved every single cheer.'
The report continued:
{
What Klopp also demonstrated was essential emotional intelligence in managing his players during the difficult goalless period. Rather than increasing pressure on already-frustrated individuals—his half-time team talk was reportedly focused on reassurance and tactical recalibration rather than criticism. The second-half performance was significantly more composed.
'Julien contributed to this recalibration through his own example as much as his words. While younger teammates showed impatience, he maintained equilibrium—persistent, inventive, dangerous without becoming erratic. That emotional intelligence, combined with his technical gifts, makes him uniquely valuable.
The Liverpool Echo said it previously and repeats it without reservation: Julien De Rocca has become what Steven Gerrard was to this club in his prime—the player through whom everything meaningful flows, the figure whose individual quality raises the team's ceiling in moments when tactical systems reach their limitations.
Gerrard was the midfield engine who drove Liverpool through character and quality for two decades. The torch is not just being passed, it is also being held simultaneously by two generations.
When Gerrard eventually completes his Liverpool career, we fans will grieve his departure as the conclusion of something irreplaceable.
They will also already know that his successor is already here. And that he produced his defining moment on a winter night in stoppage time with the weight of a derby on his nineteen-year-old shoulders."
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