The Professor's retort was blunt and direct: "Chelsea are firmly in the title race. If they truly had no interest in winning the league, it would be easy enough to drop out—just lose a few games.
We never concern ourselves with what others say. We focus on ourselves. We're in an excellent position, and we intend to fight for it with everything we have.
The closer we get to the end of the season, the more vital every match becomes—every single point matters enormously.
We've worked hard to get where we are. Now we must go out and enjoy the football, and give our very best."
He ended with a parting jab: "For Mourinho to say something like that—it's a little too modest, don't you think."
Wenger then turned to the questions about Balotelli, Gourcuff, and others.
"There's plenty of transfer speculation floating around, and yes, we are assessing suitable reinforcements—particularly in midfield and attack, to cope with the demands of a congested fixture list.
But for now, our complete focus is on the match against Liverpool. Transfer business will proceed on schedule through the club and won't affect our preparation."
When the topic shifted to Liverpool's jewel, Julien—
Wenger made no effort to hide his admiration for his fellow Frenchman. "Julien is a player of extraordinary talent. When he chose to come to the Premier League, I was convinced he would make something special happen here.
The intensity and pace of English football tests every player who comes here.
But in half a season, he's already broken the Premier League's long-standing single-season scoring record. That is no accident—it is the full expression of pure, extraordinary talent.
He doesn't just score at a remarkable rate; he has brilliant vision, the ability to stretch play down the flank, and the quality to orchestrate the entire attacking move—linking everything together—as well as the individual brilliance to break the deadlock when it matters most.
As a fellow Frenchman watching him grow into Liverpool's heartbeat—watching him plant his flag at Anfield—I am genuinely proud of what he has become.
He has proven, through his performances, that he deserves every bit of the recognition he receives."
A reporter pressed him: "had Arsenal any regrets about failing to sign Julien?"
Wenger didn't dodge it. He gave a calm nod. "Of course we have regrets. Any club that misses out on a player like Julien should feel them.
He is the kind of player who changes the course of matches and raises a team's ceiling. Every manager wants a talent like that in his squad.
We did make contact. We did assess him. I put in every effort to bring Julien to Arsenal. But football is always at the mercy of factors you can't fully control.
What's done is done. All we can do now is focus on refining the squad we have and developing our young players into the stars they're capable of becoming."
Then he turned to the match itself, and his tone grew grave.
"Earlier this season we met Liverpool at home and drew 2–2. Both sides showed real quality that day. Liverpool's attacking threat has since risen another level.
They've been in outstanding form recently—just reached the League Cup final, and they sit top of the table on goal difference. The momentum in that squad is real. The high-press system Klopp has built carries genuine menace, and the atmosphere at Anfield will create enormous pressure for us.
This will be an extremely difficult match. We must be ready for every challenge it throws at us."
On the other side of the city, Klopp kept his pre-match words simple.
"Everyone knows what this game means. The table is this tight for a reason. Any result can shift everything. Here at Anfield, our goal is singular: win, and hold on to first place."
February's wind off the Mersey carried a chill, but it did nothing to dampen the warmth gathering around Anfield.
By just past ten in the morning, fans in red were already clustering along the streets. White-haired supporters in faded, well-worn classic kits turned club-badge keepsakes over in their hands. Boys with unlined faces wore Julien's No. 10 shirt and clutched miniature Liverpool scarves, tugging at their fathers' arms to ask the chances of a win.
The shops lining the roads had already been dressed in red. Posters filled the windows—Julien's Last-Minute Winner! The Reds Top the Table!—printed after last week's Derby Day goal. Club flags snapped in the wind above doorways.
The benches along the pavements were full of fans deep in debate, the conversation revolving always around this match, this moment, this question of who would be champions.
"Think we can hold the advantage this afternoon? Last time Arsenal squeezed a draw, and their midfield is no joke—Ramsey gets into everything once he's running."
"What's there to be afraid of? This is Anfield. Klopp's press will run them into the ground. Julien and Suárez together—they'll find a way."
"It's been so many years. We're finally close again. This game—we cannot lose this game."
The voices overlapped and multiplied.
In the pubs, it was the same—every conversation attached to the football.
The English devotion to beer, on a day like this, was on full display.
Pubs clustered thickly around Anfield, from the main roads down to the narrow back lanes—almost every few steps brought you to another one, with its worn old sign and its warmth spilling onto the street. By just gone one in the afternoon they were already packed, loud with drinkers, loud with voices.
For the English, football and ale have always been inseparable—especially in a match like this. One pint to chase away the February cold; another to ignite the fire already burning inside. A gentle midday haze was, for these supporters, the only proper way to begin the ceremony of the match.
The Boot Room—one of the sacred gathering places for Liverpool fans had been bursting since early morning.
Legendary photographs and championship pennants hung from every surface. The televisions cycled through classic Reds highlights, and whenever Julien's winner against Everton came on the screen, the whole room erupted. Behind the bar, the staff moved without stopping, the thumping of pint glasses striking the counter a constant rhythm underneath it all.
Fans sat clustered at tables. Some had brought tactical boards and were arguing the merits of both sides. Others had their arms around each other's shoulders, belting out the team song. A few poked at the television screen whenever the Arsenal lineup appeared, pointing and commenting.
The whole place felt less like a pub before a game and more like a celebration that had already started.
"We're going to put five past Arsenal today. No, six—six–nil!"
In the corner, a man with a red face slammed his palm on the table hard enough to slosh half his pint. He was roaring, his hair was plastered to his forehead with sweat, his eyes were burning with something beyond ordinary feeling.
The fans around him laughed. Someone clapped him on the back. "Mate, finish your glass first. Arsenal have been on fire this season—we'll be doing well just to win."
Another shook his head, grinning. "He's had one too many. Though I'll say this—can't fault the spirit."
Nobody took his shouting seriously. They all knew Arsenal were no soft touch—consistent this season, defensive record to match the best, a genuine contender. This was going to be a war, not a stroll.
The drinks kept flowing. The singing didn't stop.
You'll Never Walk Alone pushed through the windows and out into the street, where it joined the noise of the fans outside and became something larger.
As the clock moved toward four, the streets grew fuller. The road to Anfield had become a river of red.
Fans poured out of the pubs and made their pilgrimage to the ground—the cathedral of their faith.
Boom!
Boom—Boom!
Three-forty in the afternoon. The noise at Anfield had already broken through the sky.
Red tides rolled from the lower tiers to the top of every stand. Tens of thousands of supporters in scarlet raised scarves and flags and swayed together as one.
You'll Never Walk Alone rang through the ground.
The words came again and again—the sound was crashing forward in waves, sweeping the cold along with it, pushing everything toward the breaking point.
In the stands, fans sang shoulder to shoulder. Arms rose and fell with the rhythm. Fists clenched; voices went raw. Even the stadium announcer reading out the starting lineups could barely be heard above the roar.
In the Liverpool dressing room, the atmosphere was still—a stark contrast to the fire outside.
Klopp ran through the tactical points one final time.
"I'll say it once more: the press starts at full intensity from the first minute. Get tight on Ramsey and Özil—both of them. Don't give their midfield room to link up. Runner support must be sharp—"
He raised a hand toward the forward line. His eyes found Julien and Suárez. His voice sharpened.
"Arsenal's centre-halves are slow to turn. Luís, keep moving through the channels. Julien, your job is to tear open the half-spaces on their flanks. Your combination is how we break this open. Stay calm—"
Down the corridor, in the Arsenal dressing room, Wenger was running through his own final words.
"Liverpool's press is ferocious. We hold our shape, control the passing tempo. Cazorla, you own the midfield—work the ground game, stay out of Kanté's reach. At the back, Mertesacker and Koscielny, your focus is Suárez. Sagna, stay tight on Julien—no one-on-ones, no openings.
Everyone stays focused. Find the counter. Giroud, hold the line, give us a reference point. Wilshere, run late into the box—be the knife when the moment comes—"
The players walked out of the dressing rooms and moved through the tunnel.
The tunnel light was low and close. At its far end, a blaze of white—the pitch, the stadium beyond, the day.
In the tunnel, Julien found Giroud.
They looked at each other and both smiled.
Giroud extended his hand. Julien slapped it.
"Let's give them a proper game," Julien said.
Giroud nodded, still grinning. "Good luck to you. I hope you score—though maybe not too many."
On the pitch, rivals. Off it, close friends. Each in service to his club. To play to the limit was the only form of respect either could offer the other.
Julien smiled back. "Same to you."
They separated, returning to their respective groups, and walked together toward the tunnel mouth.
Julien's gaze settled on the light at the end—the merging of floodlights and winter daylight that blazed ahead of him.
He narrowed his eyes slightly. He knew Arsenal were formidable, but they had a history of the spectacular collapse.
The real obstacles on Liverpool's road to the title were never Arsenal—they were City, Chelsea. Those were the teams that could truly stand in the Reds' way.
He breathed in slowly. The hunger burned in his chest.
Liverpool—this century-old giant, this storied club—had never once lifted the Premier League trophy. Generation after generation of fans had kept their faith across the years. Legends had retired without this final thing. Regrets had accumulated and gone unresolved.
Now, he had the chance to rewrite that history. To put a Premier League title in the hands of this red army for the very first time.
He was going to give every last thing he had.
The cheering grew louder as they approached the mouth of the tunnel. The supporters' voices broke through the walls and into the bones of every player listening.
A roar surged from the stands: "Go—!"
The referee swept his hand forward. Both sides walked out.
As the players stepped from the tunnel and onto the Anfield pitch, the noise exploded in a detonation that filled the body as much as the ears. Red scarves surged up like a tide. The singing crashed down from every tier.
Julien looked up at the stands. Tens of thousands of eyes were fixed on him.
In the broadcast booth, Martin Tyler had already hit his stride.
"Welcome to our live coverage of today's Premier League summit clash! Anfield is erupting—this encounter between Liverpool and Arsenal is not simply a contest of points. It is a defining moment in the title race. Both clubs sit level on fifty-five points; Liverpool lead on goal difference alone, and every single point from here has the power to decide who lifts the trophy—
"This is, without question, the most important match of the season so far.
"Last season, Arsenal came to Anfield and won 2–0. Earlier this term, the two sides drew 2–2 at the Emirates. And with Liverpool's squad transformed—the balance of power between these two clubs has been shifting fast—
Now, starting eleven for the home side, Liverpool.
In goal: Mignolet. The Belgian has been a rock this season—commanding in the air, one of the cornerstones of the Reds' backline.
Defence, right to left: Piszczek, Kolo Touré, Van Dijk, Aly Cissokho.
Double pivot: Gerrard and Kanté. As a partnership, they cover every dimension of the game. Captain Gerrard controls Liverpool's tempo—his long diagonal passing and late runs forward remain lethal weapons; he also carries the weight of commanding the side.
Kanté is the shield in front of the back four, his range of coverage remains extraordinary. Against Arsenal's intricate midfield combinations today, Kanté's interception rate will determine how much pressure the Liverpool defence absorbs.
Attacking midfield three: De Rocca, De Bruyne, Henderson. Single striker: Suárez.
"De Rocca is the unquestioned heartbeat of Liverpool this season—he broke the Premier League's long-standing single-season scoring record in half a campaign, and his ability to create and finish is the key to unlocking any defence.
De Bruyne operates centrally, threading the attack; stifled and frustrated at Chelsea, he has found new life at Anfield, rebuilding the instinctive understanding with De Rocca from their days together at Bastia in Ligue 1—where the two of them delivered both a French league title and the Europa League trophy.
Henderson holds the right side and covers for Piszczek whenever the right back pushes forward.
And the lone striker: Suárez. He arrives today desperate to break his own personal hex—Arsenal have shut him out every time these two sides have met. His restless, intelligent movement will be a constant examination of Mertesacker's and Koscielny's ability to turn and recover.
Now, the visitors—Arsenal.
Goalkeeper: Szczesny. Back four: Monreal at left back, Koscielny and Mertesacker in the centre, Sagna at right back.
In front of them: Wilshere and Arteta.
Then the three behind the striker: Cazorla, Özil and Oxlade-Chamberlain. The lone forward is Giroud—"
The pre-match formalities concluded.
Both sets of players took their positions at the centre circle.
The referee raised his whistle.
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