Away at Anfield (3)
When the whistle blew for halftime, a heavy silence settled over the away dressing room.
Conceding a set-piece goal from a corner right before the break meant we went into the tunnel trailing by one.
"Come on now, you don't plan on sulking the entire break, do you?"
The manager clapped his hands, assuring us that our overall performance was far from bad.
"You gave a solid account of yourselves in the first half. That isn't just empty flattery. You drew Liverpool into our trap and defended with remarkable efficiency. Giving up two goals stings, certainly, but nobody is at fault."
We had forced Liverpool to monopolize possession.
We lured them into meaningless attacks, draining their energy in the process.
Buildup play is only truly dangerous when the opposition reacts—when players bite on pressing triggers or break out of defensive formation. If we refused to press and kept our lines unbroken, Liverpool had no choice but to commit heavy numbers deep into our half if they wanted to pierce our defensive shell.
That was precisely why a two-line defense was so agonizing to break down, and why a true difference-maker—a crack—was essential.
Liverpool, however, currently lacked that specific profile of player.
Given the disparity in individual firepower, our first-half blueprint had been the most logical approach available.
Throughout the first half, Luton Town had assumed a thoroughly passive posture. Liverpool held the lion's share of the ball and generated several times more chances than we did. Yet that hardly meant Liverpool had been playing proactive football.
Typically, the side dominating possession conserves energy. Once in control of the ball, they can dictate the tempo and shape their buildup at will, patiently hunting for the perfect opening. But the boss had congested the flanks and the final third, claiming the dangerous spaces and forcing Liverpool's wingers to run themselves ragged.
As a result, by the tail end of the first half, their wide men were running on fumes, easily contained by our backline. In truth, Liverpool had been reduced to funneling their attacks centrally through Alan Shankly and Orhi.
"Han, remind me again: why is Liverpool's attack so formidable?"
"Because their forwards can strike at will across both flanks, the final third, and through the center, backed by midfielders capable of sliding lethal passes into any pocket at any moment."
"Accurate as always. Exactly. But the bite on their flanks has dulled significantly. Which means there's zero reason for us to remain pinned in a low block."
Liverpool naturally had substitutions available, but their depth on the wings was thin. While their starters possessed the world-class pedigree expected of a juggernaut like Liverpool, the options warming their bench were distinctly lacking. Reviewing the match footage, even accounting for fresh legs, the starters offered vastly superior quality—particularly in clinical finishing.
In a game where every single goal carried colossal weight, taking off their most lethal finishers was an enormous risk. In all likelihood, Liverpool's starting forwards would remain on the pitch for the second half.
"All that brutal conditioning during pre-season has to pay off, wouldn't you say?"
"Yes, Boss!"
"Good. Run. Run far more than they do. If anyone feels on the verge of collapsing, I'll pull you off myself, so leave every ounce of energy out there."
"......"
A few players grimaced, visibly triggered by the memory of the conditioning nightmare they had endured. I hadn't been there because of my Olympic commitments, but seeing the collective shudder, it had clearly been even more punishing than last year.
With those instructions laid out, the boss made the tactical adjustments.
"Alto, Jozef. You're coming off."
Alto and Jozef had run themselves into the ground over the first forty-five minutes, shielding our actual fullbacks, Mick and Wright, from excessive physical strain. They were thoroughly spent. The moment the boss signaled the substitution—an acknowledgement of a job brilliantly done—both collapsed back against the bench in relief.
This substitution had been part of the plan before we even arrived at Anfield. With Liverpool's wingers gassed and their threat out wide blunted, there was no longer any need to station auxiliary fullbacks on the wings. In short, Luton Town were finally ready to unleash their genuine attack.
We reverted to our customary 4-2-3-1.
Dominic slotted into the central attacking midfield role, Luke and Emir took up the flanks, and I stood as the lone striker at the tip of the spear. An attacking unit honed through years of shared chemistry.
I wondered how well we would fare against Liverpool. To be fair, our previous league fixtures hadn't featured any opposition that could truly be classed as a top-tier powerhouse.
Once the managerial staff concluded their tactical briefing, they instructed us to rest and prepare mentally for the second half.
"And one last thing. Han, Giovanni."
"Yes, Boss."
"The chemistry was sharp in the first half. Their defenders clearly hadn't anticipated your heading threat, which made it quite effective. In the second half, if the opportunity presents itself, don't hesitate to pull the trigger on those long deliveries again."
The manager never missed a chance to look after Giovanni's confidence.
...I'm not sure we can pull off that exact miracle twice, though.
Still, forcing the defenders into an impossible guessing game was better than offering them an easy read. Center-backs operate on recent memory. No matter how much their tactical analysts insisted that heading was my weak link, after watching me land a decisive header earlier today, Liverpool's defenders wouldn't dare disregard my aerial presence.
Besides, with fresh wingers on the pitch, even slightly disrupting the center-backs would multiply the chances of second balls falling to our teammates. And if an aerial flick wasn't viable, taking it down on my chest or thigh remained a solid alternative. It would slow the tempo compared to a first-time header, but it had the distinct advantage of taking a defender clean out of the play.
"See that? The boss said you did great."
"...Yeah."
"Just spray it whenever you see an opening. As long as it doesn't get intercepted halfway, just let it fly."
I put it bluntly, but knowing Giovanni's exquisite distribution, he would pick the right moments without putting our midfield under unnecessary strain.
With our brief exchange settled, the time came to head back out. Even through the concrete dressing-room walls, the deafening, rabid chants of the Liverpool supporters echoed down the tunnel.
For the second half, the traveling Luton supporters were gathered behind our net, while the Liverpool goal sat beneath the towering presence of the Kop, who directed their deafening roar and vitriolic jeers directly at us.
"Honestly, I prefer it this way."
Facing open hostility and sneering faces directly was far more comfortable than absorbing faceless venom from behind. Not that I faulted the supporters—fiery, borderline hostile passion was simply the lifeblood of football. In return, however, they would have to swallow whatever consequences we served up on the pitch.
—Fweeeeet!
The referee blew his whistle to inaugurate the second half. Tapping the kickoff to Dominic, I surged directly into Liverpool's half.
I deliberately gravitated toward Alan Shankly, hovering in his periphery. With acres of green grass yawning behind him, it was the natural pocket to exploit. Turning on the ball from here would put me face-to-face with their back four. By planting myself right behind Shankly, I applied passive pressure on Liverpool's central defenders while simultaneously clogging Shankly's passing lanes.
The minutes ticked away in a tense tactical stalemate.
Then, a loose backpass from Emir was intercepted, suddenly pitching us into grave danger. Reacting instantly, I slid in and stripped the ball cleanly from Shankly, knocking it out across the touchline.
"Now here's an extraordinary sight! Lee Han tracks back and dispossesses Alan Shankly like a seasoned defensive specialist!"
"That was an immense intervention! A corridor had opened straight down the center, and any threaded ball could have proved fatal. Perfect timing on the tackle!"
"It came off the tip of Shankly's boot last. Throw-in to Luton Town."
Shankly, dumped onto the grass by my tackle, looked thoroughly irritated as he climbed back to his feet.
"Get out of my face."
"If you don't like it, you should've dribbled past me."
"......"
There were quite a few differences between me and Han, the most prominent being defensive work in settled positional play. In raw physical aerial duels and set-piece defending, Han held a clear edge over me. But whenever an opponent tried to shake me off with standard dribbles, subtle shifts, or flashy flair, they inevitably surrendered the ball right into my feet.
"Mick, give it to me and make your run."
Handing the ball to our right-back as he advanced for the throw-in, I gave the brief instruction. Mick nodded without a single objection. Having racked up a respectable tally of assists largely on my account, his trust in me was absolute.
The moment the referee signaled play, Mick fed the throw-in directly to me as I stood ready near the touchline. Having no interest in tangling with Liverpool's coordinated flank press, I took the throw and instantly whipped a diagonal cross toward Luke on the opposite flank, who had begun sprinting before the throw had even been taken.
"He releases it first-time the moment he receives it, picking out Luke on the switch!"
"A blistering diagonal delivery carving clean across the Anfield pitch! The ball checks its pace right before Luke and settles perfectly at his feet!"
"A pass of that caliber demands extraordinary calculation, yet Lee Han pulls it off in the fraction of a heartbeat—simply sensational!"
Plucking my postage-stamp cross out of the air, Luke utilized his blistering pace to shield the ball against Liverpool's right-back. But Liverpool weren't hailed as giants for nothing; their backline dropped in unison, immediately reconstituting their defensive shape.
"Luke! Pass!"
This was the precise moment an overlapping fullback was called for.
Having darted deep down the flank, Wright received the layoff from Luke. Luke intentionally obstructed the recovering defender's tracking angle to craft space, allowing Wright to cut inside toward the edge of the penalty box without hesitation.
However, the box was choked with bodies. Driving blindly into that thicket would invite an instantaneous counterattack, and with both our fullbacks committed forward, a transition would prove catastrophic even against Liverpool's tired wide men.
Wright recognized the optimal choice.
"Take it!"
He laid the ball off toward me as I arrived at the top of the box.
I collected it square in front of the penalty arc. Liverpool's holding midfielder found himself level with me—he was already too late to intervene. Without slowing down, I drove into the penalty area and shaped my body to strike.
Haunted by my goal in the first half, the center-back hesitated, instinctively dropping into a shot-blocking stance. Reading the flinch, I chopped the ball sharply inside, slipping clean past the defensive line.
"A daring breach right into the heart of the penalty area—!"
"The stoppers converge from both flanks, but a single touch evades the squeeze! He has to pull the trigger now!"
The penalty box was swarming with retreating shirts. Even with flawless close control, slicing through that many bodies forced my angle slightly wide. The goalkeeper took cautious, stuttering steps to smother the shooting lane, while the defenders I had bypassed scrambled desperately to close me down.
There was no reason to waste another second.
—BOOM!
Near post.
I caught the ball flush with my left foot.
The goalkeeper flung a desperate hand upward far too late. The strike crashed against the underside of the crossbar, hammered down into the turf beyond the goal line, and snapped the netting back with thunderous violence.
"GOOOOOAL! 'Try and stop that if you can!' An absolute missile of a finish!"
"Lee Han secures his brace to restore parity! Eighty-first minute, and it's two-two! What a magnificent, breathless contest this has turned out to be!"
"Newly promoted Luton Town are going toe-to-toe with the titans of Liverpool!"
The moment the ball ripped into the net, an overwhelming barrage of boos cascaded from the Liverpool faithful.
Cupping a hand to my ear toward the Kop, I gestured as though begging to hear more—pure sarcasm, of course.
Judging by how the boos escalated into flying debris and furious, red-faced roars, it seemed my heartfelt gesture had been received loud and clear.