Emperor of Football: Julien De Rocca

Chapter 644 - 644: Chapter-643 The Second Half

Liverpool kicked off, De Bruyne immediately playing the ball backward to Gerrard, and the front players began their coordinated pressing movement with the same suffocating intensity that had dominated the first half without pause.Sunderland's response showed Poyet's tactical adjustments instantly. Their defensive block compressed noticeably tighter, eliminating space between lines. Cattermole and Ki held their central positions stubbornly, refusing to be drawn forward, focusing totally on blocking passing lanes rather than engaging opponents.

Just three minutes into the second half, Sunderland created a promising counter-attacking opportunity—exactly the scenario Poyet had identified as their only realistic chance.

Ki Sung-yueng read Kanté's pass and stepped across to intercept before Kanté could react. The moment he won possession, his head snapped up, searching for the forward run he knew would be developing.

There—Borini already sprinting into space behind Liverpool's advanced defensive line. Ki's long pass was hardly elegant technically, but the execution was effective, launching the ball toward the Italian striker's run with appropriate weight and trajectory.

Borini collected cleanly, suddenly in space with momentum. He drove forward rapidly, Van Dijk was desperately trying to recover defensively with legs pumping at maximum pace to close the gap.

But Van Dijk's reading of danger, his recovery speed, his intelligence all combined to shut down the opportunity before it fully developed. He positioned his body perfectly, angling Borini away from the most dangerous central areas, then made his challenge, winning the ball cleanly just outside the penalty area.

The counter-attack died instantly. Van Dijk immediately distributed the ball forward.

Liverpool quickly stabilized their rhythm, reasserting control through patient possession.

Julien began actively orchestrating attacking movements, no longer restricting himself to left-flank duties. He drifted centrally, rotated to the right side, pulled defenders in multiple directions, constantly creating confusion about marking responsibilities.

In the 52nd minute, he received Piszczek's pass on the right flank, about forty yards from goal. Alonso immediately closed him down, aware that giving Julien space invited disaster.

Rather than attempting to dribble past his marker, Julien showed his improved tactical maturity. He played a simple horizontal pass to De Bruyne, who was arriving in central space with momentum. Kevin struck his shot first-time from distance—a powerful drive aimed toward the bottom corner.

Mannone collected comfortably as the shot lacked sufficient accuracy or placement to truly threaten despite the power.

But the pattern was becoming clear: Liverpool were probing from every angle, testing different approaches, maintaining constant pressure.

Three minutes later, another attack developed through different personnel but with similar intent.

Coutinho collected possession on the left flank and began driving forward, Bardsley was tracking his movement carefully. Rather than immediately attempting to beat his marker, Coutinho used deceptive movement—shifting sideways, feinting one direction then another, pulling defenders across the pitch, creating angular passing opportunities.

Just as Sunderland's defence expected him to shoot, having committed multiple players to blocking that option, Coutinho executed a perfect through ball instead.

The pass bisected two defenders, rolling into the penalty area where Julien was making a timed run, arriving exactly as the ball did.

Julien received inside the penalty area with Brown and O'Shea immediately converging, attempting to trap him between them, using their combined positioning to eliminate shooting angles and passing options.

Julien's left foot touched the ball, pushing it slightly left. Before Brown could adjust, his right foot pulled it back in the opposite direction. The movement was fluid, seamless, executed with such speed that defenders saw only a blur.

The technique—commonly called "la croqueta" or elastico in South American football required extraordinary close control, perfect timing, and absolute confidence. Executed poorly, it left the ball vulnerable to interception. Executed perfectly, it created separation from multiple defenders simultaneously.

Julien executed it perfectly.

Both centre-backs lunged toward where the ball had been a fraction of a second earlier, their momentum carried them past the actual space Julien now occupied.

Suddenly, he had created a yard of space in the most congested area of the pitch, a clear sight of goal where moments before there had been only bodies and pressure.

He didn't hesitate or take an additional touch to steady himself. His technique was so clean that the ball sat perfectly for shooting, and any delay would allow defenders to recover.

His right foot connected with explosive power.

BANG!

The shot was struck with fury and precision, the ball rocketed toward goal from close range. Mannone had been positioned well, had read the danger, was already moving but the distance was too close, the power too great, and the accuracy too precise.

The goalkeeper's diving hand reached toward the ball but arrived too late. The ball was already past him, already bulging the net.

WHOOSH!

0-3!

Liverpool had delivered the knockout blow.

The television commentator exploded with excitement, his voice rose several octaves.

"BRILLIANT! JULIEN! Absolutely spectacular! What technique, what composure, what clinical finishing! This is elite-level individual ability on full display! Coutinho's clever manipulation of space created the opportunity, but Julien's piece of skill—that double-touch to eliminate both defenders—was pure magic! And the finish, powerful and precise, gave Mannone absolutely no chance! Three-nil Liverpool, and this tie is essentially decided!"

Julien sprinted toward the touchline, arms spreading wide in his celebration. He ran directly toward the massed cameras and the small group of traveling fans, feeding off their energy, giving them a moment they'd remember.

De Bruyne reached him first, wrapping both arms around him from behind. "Unbelievable! That skill move was ridiculous! I didn't think you'd get through both of them!"

Julien laughed breathlessly. "Neither did they!"

"Hahaha!" De Bruyne's laughter was infectious, and other teammates arrived rapidly.

On the touchline, Klopp was pumping both fists toward the sky, his face was split by a huge grin. He turned and grabbed Buvac in a tight embrace, both men were shouting celebration directly into each other's ears.

This goal effectively sealed passage to the final. One foot was already through the door, possibly both. Perhaps, his first trophy as Liverpool manager was within reach?

The possibility excited him more than he'd expected.

Across the technical area, Poyet's expression had shifted from grim determination to resignation. If he'd maintained some hope before this moment, that hope was vanishing rapidly now.

When your opponent possessed multiple players—three, four, even five individuals capable of winning one-on-one duels consistently, capable of beating two defenders simultaneously, what tactical adjustment could possibly compensate? You couldn't organize your way out of that kind of talent disparity.

Dead defending wasn't sufficient when the attackers were this good. Nothing was sufficient except matching their quality, and Sunderland simply didn't have that.

Back in Liverpool, The Boot Room pub had fallen into complete pandemonium.

"HE'S SCORED! JULIEN'S DONE IT AGAIN! BRILLIANT!"

One fans' shout was immediately drowned by the unified roar, his voice lost in the tsunami of noise.

Within seconds, he was wrapped in a bear hug by the person beside him, both men were slapping each other's backs with force.

Throughout the pub, fans had completely lost composure. Some were embracing and spinning in circles, others jumping up and down while waving red scarves, several banged tables rhythmically while chanting Julien's name.

The noise level had surpassed anything previously achieved tonight.

"Absolutely beautiful! That's just pure individual quality demolishing them! Two centre-backs closing him down and Julien just produces that ridiculous skill move—la croqueta, just like Iniesta or Ronaldinho used to do!

Then the finish, powerful and precise, Mannone had absolutely no chance! He's still our most irreplaceable player, still the special one! With him in the team, our attack will always have that cutting edge, that moment of magic that unlocks any defence!"

Another voice jumped in immediately, alcohol and excitement was raising the volume beyond normal conversation. "Three-nil! This tie is absolutely finished! We're going to the final, lads! We're actually going to Wembley!"

That declaration ignited new optimistic speculation, discussions rose around the room about finals and trophies and vindication.

"Sunderland can't possibly come back from this! We've destroyed them completely in the first leg!"

"Final's basically secured! And you know what? Maybe—just maybe—this is the season we actually win something! Feels different this time, doesn't it?"

"How many years have we waited to see Liverpool looking this strong, this complete? We've got the core quality in Julien, we've got world-class support in Luis and Kevin, we've got Jurgen organizing everything brilliantly. This team can win trophies; I genuinely believe it!"

Television replays showed Julien's goal from multiple angles, everyone in the pub was watching in silence during the replay, then erupting again when the skill move was shown in slow motion.

"Look at how smooth that double-touch is—perfect technique!"

"The way he explodes into his shot immediately after creating space—no hesitation!"

"Sunderland's defenders had absolutely no idea what he was doing, they look completely bamboozled!"

As the replays concluded, spontaneous singing broke out, traditional Liverpool anthems was emerging organically from the crowd. Voices merged together, slightly off-key but utterly sincere, the sound built until it dominated the entire pub.

A young fan in a brand-new Julien shirt leaped onto his chair, hoisting his pint glass on his head unsteadily. "TO JULIEN! TO THE FINAL! TO THE TROPHY! CHEERS!"

"CHEERS!"

Back at the Stadium of Light, the atmosphere had shifted from tense to deflated. Sunderland fans couldn't hide from the score on the scoreboard.

Three-nil down at home, with a second leg still to come at Anfield—the fortress where Liverpool rarely lost.

They stared at that scoreline, lips pressed tight, unable to process the scale of defeat. If they couldn't even manage a lead at their own stadium, with their own fans creating maximum atmosphere, how could they possibly expect to achieve a miraculous comeback at Anfield?

The math required to overturn this deficit seemed impossible.

This wouldn't be a miracle. This would require divine intervention, an act of God, something beyond ordinary sporting possibility.

The match continued, but the competitive tension had vanished. Everyone in the stadium understood the outcome was decided, the match was over despite thirty-five minutes still remaining on the clock.

Sunderland attempted to raise some attacks, trying to salvage pride if nothing else. But Liverpool's pressing remained suffocating, denying them space to build possession, forcing hurried clearances and desperate long balls that rarely found targets.

Long balls were inherently unstable, dependent on perfect execution and favourable bounces. Sunderland couldn't generate anything constant, couldn't create genuine scoring opportunities, couldn't even convince themselves they remained competitive.

Meanwhile, every time Liverpool regained possession, Sunderland's suffering intensified. The red shirts circulated the ball patiently, probing for additional openings, creating chances almost at will.

Poyet stood on the touchline watching the continuing deterioration with growing resignation. His arms remained crossed, his expression was growing increasingly grimmer, his hope faded with each passing minute.

A single thought kept repeating in his mind: 'Is this tie really going to be decided after just one leg? Will we even have anything to fight for in the second leg?'

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