Away Day at Anfield (2)
“We are live at Anfield in Merseyside, Liverpool, for Round 4 of the Premier League between Liverpool and Luton Town!”
“The passion from the home supporters is absolutely electric today.”
As if eager to prove why they were known as the Red Empire, the overwhelming majority of the home crowd was draped in scarlet shirts and scarves, roaring with impassioned fervor.
Walk on, walk on
With hope in your heart
And you'll never walk alone
You'll never walk alone
Liverpool’s iconic anthem, “You’ll Never Walk Alone,” reverberated through every tier of the stadium, a spine-tingling reminder to all present that kickoff was imminent. And against that backdrop of roaring voices, the players began emerging from the tunnel and onto the pitch.
“Entering first is Luton Town.”
“Luton Town haven't faced Liverpool since suffering a crushing 5–0 defeat right here at Anfield in the 2007–08 FA Cup.”
“That was the fateful campaign where Luton were docked points due to severe financial distress and suffered relegation, so it's a painful chapter for longtime supporters in more ways than one.”
“Indeed. It will be fascinating to see what these two sides can produce as they cross paths again after more than twenty years apart.”
“Above all, the eyes of the footballing world are fixed on Lee Han. Can he pull off a third consecutive league hat-trick?”
“That's right. It's a feat nobody in history has ever accomplished. Whether he can achieve such an unprecedented milestone here at Anfield—the graveyard of visiting teams—will be one of today's premier storylines.”
“And here come the Liverpool players!”
The roar of the home faithful swelled to an ear-splitting crescendo. The starting elevens lined up along the turf as the match officials carried the ball toward the two captains. Hands were shaken, followed immediately by the coin toss.
Unfortunately, lady luck was not smiling on us today; the face of the coin Teddy had called landed face-down in the grass.
“Liverpool have elected to kick off. Luton Town are awarded choice of ends.”
“Visiting sides at Anfield typically opt to keep the Liverpool supporters behind them in the first half, and Luton Town have followed suit.”
With this being an evening kickoff, the blinding angle of the sun was a non-factor, so our choice of sides came down strictly to our traveling Luton fans. Experiencing the deafening roar of the Kop and their venomous boos raining down on your back throughout a grueling second half can take a heavy psychological toll on any squad. Sure, if I scored in the second half, I had the sheer audacity to sprint the wrong way and taunt the Liverpool fans right in their faces, but that wasn't true for the rest of the lads. Captain Teddy had made the right call.
Facing them head-on—lumping the crowd and the Liverpool players together as the singular wall we had to break through—was far easier on the mind.
“The players have taken their positions.”
“Liverpool deploy the 3-2-4-1 system they’ve favored since last season, while Luton Town counter with a 4-3-3.”
“Dietmar Strich and Gordon Morton, both renowned for their aggressive attacking philosophies, have fielded offensive shapes today.”
“This is an outright declaration of war. There’s a very high chance we're in for a goal fest. Who will emerge victorious from this clash?”
“And right on cue, Liverpool striker Orhi Caceres kicks off, and we are underway!”
Liverpool advanced the ball through their central midfield pivot, underpinned by a three-man backline capable of delivering suffocating, peerless defensive coverage. Meanwhile, their remaining five attackers orchestrated fluid penetrations into the final third and dynamic overloads out wide, with a lethal striker stationed centrally to provide the clinical finish.
“As expected, Liverpool are sharp! A seamless switch of play!”
“Clean trap from wing-back Lanton, and midfielder Alan Shankly receives the ball in stride, immediately probing for an opening in Luton’s lines!”
Alan Shankly’s sudden outside-of-the-boot through ball was fortunately cut off by Giovanni’s sliding challenge, conceding only a throw-in. Manager Gordon Morton clapped from the technical area, praising him for adhering strictly to our tactical plan.
On the team sheet, our formation read as a 4-3-3, but in truth, our shape on the pitch looked far closer to a 4-5-1. With a full week of rest waiting after today's clash, the manager had zero intention of saving anyone's legs. Mick and Wright slotted into their customary fullback berths in the back four, while the flanks of our midfield five were occupied not by traditional wingers, but by Alto and Jozef. Both were players whose primary trade was playing fullback—a stark testament to how thoroughly the boss was prioritizing wide containment.
Of course, central defensive duties hadn't been overlooked either. Orhi was swarmed simultaneously by Andre and Jackson, while the resulting half-spaces between fullback and center-back were diligently plugged by our two holding midfielders.
And the crux of it all was that we held a high defensive line regardless.
The biggest structural vulnerability in Liverpool's modified 3-2-4-1 was that the pocket behind their right midfield tended to thin out. Alan Shankly, the right-sided anchor in their double pivot, was forced to step forward to orchestrate buildup and attacking progressions, which inevitably vacated green grass in his wake. Unless Liverpool's manager was a complete amateur, he would instruct his right center-back to shift across and cover that void. Against ordinary opposition, where Liverpool's center-backs possessed world-class pedigree and could easily handle their duties, it was a theoretically flawless tactical blueprint in both phases of play.
Except not today. Because today, I intended to tear Liverpool’s defense to shreds.
Shifting wide to cover the flank drew their right stopper away from me, and during attacking transitions, their left stopper consistently pushed past the halfway line. Taking on three central defenders on the dribble with a defensive midfielder breathing down my neck was impossible even for me, but just one central defender and a trailing midfielder? I could crack that wide open. Especially with Dominic playing the decoy out on the right.
Thus, this match wasn’t about who carved out an attacking pathway first. It was about who would be the first to rip apart the other’s theoretically impenetrable defensive system.
“Liverpool refuse to take their foot off the gas!”
“Alan Shankly chooses not to pass this time—he drives forward himself! Giovanni shifts over to close him down, but—!”
Ah. He’s getting through.
Even from where I stood, the danger was unmistakable. Gritting his teeth to shield the ball as he charged, Shankly slipped a penetrative pass to Ferrato, their attacking midfielder surging into the final third. In the blink of an eye, Luton’s once-sturdy defensive block was stripped down to a bare four-man backline. And Orhi, Liverpool's talismanic striker, moved with the lethal sharpness that justified why he spearheaded their attack.
Jackson’s positioning to shut down the passing lane to Orhi was dismantled in an instant. Ferrato, having breached the penalty box, fed the ball without hesitation to the momentarily freed forward. Jackson threw himself across in a desperate bid to block, but the ball deflected cruelly off his trailing leg. Mathias was caught entirely wrong-footed in goal, and Orhi pounced with predatory precision.
“The net is virtually empty! Orhi—!”
“GOAL! He effortlessly sweeps the deflected ball home on the half-volley!”
“Sixteen minutes in! Liverpool draw first blood, and Anfield erupts!”
Giovanni stared blankly at Liverpool’s raucous celebration, his expression crushed.
“What are you standing around daydreaming for?”
The moment the ball crossed the line, I scooped it out of the net and jogged straight toward the center circle.
“The boss told us there’d be plenty of goals today.”
“Yeah, but... that was on me—”
“Who do you think the boss is? You think he didn't factor this into the math?”
“...”
Judging by the way Morton’s jaw had clamped shut the second the goal went in, I doubted he had anticipated it at all, but the reality didn't matter right now. Getting Giovanni’s head back in the game did. Giovanni played a role mirroring Alan Shankly’s. If he lost his composure when we built from deep, we were going to suffer across the board.
“We’re restarting immediately. When I lay the ball off to you, loft it straight into my running path. You know, like we always do.”
“...Loft it? But you said you couldn't use your head today.”
I had almost blurted out, That’s Lee Han, not me. Fortunately, Giovanni was more preoccupied with the pass I was demanding than my near slip of the tongue.
“What, you think you can thread a pinpoint through ball past their entire block right to my feet then?”
“...No.”
It was foolish to expect that kind of miracle anyway. If Giovanni possessed that level of precision, offers from the world's richest superclubs would have flooded in years ago. Even so, scooping a high ball toward a targeted zone was well within his capabilities. And right now, that was all the service I needed.
“Even if you aren't completely confident, just trust me and lump it into space. As long as it stays in bounds, I’ll find a way to get to it.”
Leaving him with that, I planted the ball firmly on the center spot.
“Luton Town look eager to restart quickly.”
“There are so many aspects to this squad that defy belief for a newly promoted side.”
“The Liverpool players hurry back to their half following the referee’s whistle.”
“No sooner does the referee signal than Lee Han takes the kickoff, and the match resumes! The score is one-nil, home side Liverpool in front.”
The second Dominic nudged the ball to me, I firmly rolled it back to Giovanni, who had already locked eyes with me.
“Push up, everyone!”
At my roar, Alto and Jozef, hugging the touchlines, exploded forward in lockstep behind Dominic.
“Before Liverpool can even organize their high press, Luton Town strike first!”
“The instant Giovanni receives the pass, he launches a long ball deep into Liverpool territory!”
The split second Giovanni swung his boot, I drove forward with eyes locked ahead. Reading the ball’s flight path down to the final millimeter like Lee Han did was beyond my reach, but anticipating where the ball would drop based on the striker’s body mechanics and the swing of his leg was an instinct where I was half a step faster.
I staked out territory between Liverpool’s left stopper and their central defender, bracing for the holding midfielder charging down my throat. Just as Lee Han had drilled into me, I coiled tension into the stabilizing muscles around my lower joints, cementing my base so I wouldn't budge. A fleeting glance confirmed the trajectories of Luton’s surging orange shirts, and right on cue, the ball carved an arc through the sky, dropping toward my coordinates.
Now came the aerial duel.
Imparting reverse spin to cushion the ball delicately into Dominic’s path like Lee Han was out of the question, but I had to win at least an even chance. Channeling the coiled force from my joints up through my core, I exploded straight off the Anfield turf. I stood firm against the right stopper using raw physical leverage, while covertly checking the rushing defensive midfielder with a stiff forearm right on the edge of legality, denying him any chance to jump. A running leap while tracking the flight of the ball was impossible, but in a static duel, I could muscle through the contact and get my forehead to the ball.
Thump!
Catching the ball slightly higher on the crown of my head than intended, the clearance looped cleanly over the center-back. Dropping into no-man's-land between the goalkeeper and the retreating backline, Jozef won the footrace against the right stopper, poking a toe out to seize possession.
The moment my boots hit the grass, I took off, pinning the central defender directly between Dominic and myself. Matching him stride for stride, I disrupted his balance with an off-the-ball shoulder drop. Braking with violent deceleration, I collected a threaded pass from Dominic—who had taken it from Jozef and slipped it cleanly between the legs of Liverpool’s right stopper.
Because my header hadn't been entirely clean, their central defender had already recovered his ground, but that hardly mattered.
Decelerate. Accelerate. Decelerate.
Carving diagonally with the kind of erratic tempo changes that drove defenders insane, I suddenly arrived at the edge of the penalty area. In situations like this, defenders invariably try to usher the attacker out toward the flanks; it is the textbook maneuver to choke out the shooting angle and buy time for help.
And against that defense, a striker has only one job.
Crack!
Refuse to play along.
Struck sweetly with the inside of my right foot, the ball carved a vicious, dipping arc around the defender’s silhouette, curling viciously toward the far corner. Screened by his own teammate, the goalkeeper picked up the shot’s trajectory far too late. He hurled himself horizontally across the goalmouth in desperation, but the ball dipped well beyond his outstretched fingertips.
The net billowed violently.
“AAAAH! Just two minutes after Liverpool scored, Luton Town pull it back level!”
“An astonishing curling finish from Lee Han! The center-back and the goalkeeper did everything humanly possible to close down the angle, but they couldn't even slow him down!”
“One-all! Lee Han completely snatches the momentum back in an instant! The outcome of this match is blown wide open once again!”
Amidst the vast sea of red jerseys and swirling banners suffocating Anfield, a lone corner shone defiantly in vibrant orange—the traveling faithful of Luton Town. The deafening jeers and curses raining down from every side were utterly swallowed by the ecstatic roar erupting from our supporters.