This Is Anfield, Liverpool (2)

Tenth minute of the first half.

The Sunderland players had figured it out.

The opposition was moving exactly as predicted.

There was nothing to say except that it was amazing.

At every moment, they outnumbered their opponents by at least one or two men.

As with every tactical game, it is always better to have more pieces on the board than your opponent. The more cards you hold, the more flexible your play can be. In football, that is called a numerical advantage.

Thiago Motta, who had been sparking tactical revolutions at Bologna and Juventus. And Liverpool's Arne Slot. Both had adopted a particular method to seize numerical superiority against Guardiola's positional play.

Overload.

Flood a specific zone with players, force the opposition's space-holders to commit, and leave them with no choice but to mark. When middle-schoolers do it, people just call it "swarm football." The essence is the same: pack as many bodies as possible around the ball, guarantee at least one extra man over the opposition, and forcibly manufacture a passing lane.

What ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠such a tactic demands, in the end, is spatial awareness, understanding — and the manager's order. Without a coach's tactical foundation to back it up, the remaining open spaces get carved open on the counter, over and over.

Han Shin had shown this once before.

Bellingham, releasing the pass and bursting into a run, remembered the match in which he had been utterly helpless.

So this is the tactic the gaffer used in that practice match.

The shape that had isolated Haakon and driven every other player toward one flank. The difference between the two approaches was simple: Slot concentrated through the middle; Han Shin had piled everything onto the wing.

Bellingham recited what he had drilled endlessly in the ARK Project.

An ordinary manager would try to break Slot's system by attacking down both flanks. But we go fire-for-fire. Only we funnel the ball down one side.

‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠

Aside from Clarke left stranded on the left wing, every body had shifted to the right. The red home shirts and the white away kit looked, for all the world, like—

Romain took Bellingham's pass and exploded forward.

"Yoo-hoo~!"

Curtis Jones let out a strangled yell.

"Kubo! Come back! Come back!"

That was how desperate the situation had become. Liverpool's back four, wary of Nelson Weiper, began to drop deeper step by step. But the line stayed compact, giving up space only grudgingly.

Romain drove with the ball, only to find Tsimikas ahead of him and Kubo to his left.

"Pass! Pass!"

The moment Chris burst past Szoboszlai, Kubo abandoned Romain and chased after him instead. Romain shaped to play a lobbed pass to Chris — then, in the split second the defenders' eyes flicked away, he stabbed a long ball forward.

He left Tsimikas for dead and tore toward the byline.

Romain arrived clean. Two options. Square it back to Abdullah and recycle in a U-shape to find space — or combine with Chris in a one-two along the line.

Tsimikas stretched a leg to clear. But the ball is always faster. Romain lofted a cutback-style cross from the byline toward the surging Weiper.

Goalkeeper Kelleher threw both hands out. Two centre-backs and the keeper swarmed Weiper. The man who won the duel was Weiper.

Sunderland 1 – 0 Liverpool.

"Danke! Thank you, Romain!"

Adapted to Anfield? A first time?

Not for Weiper.

Even for Premier League regulars, Anfield was a place they visited once or twice a year. Weiper had already been there fifty times. Romain, the same. Practice makes perfect — they had drilled each other's roles so thoroughly that the moment Romain reached the byline, Weiper was already in the perfect position without a single word spoken.

"It's fine! It's fine! Just a fluke!"

Gomez, the number two and elder statesman of the side, clapped shoulders and steadied his teammates.

"Do it properly! Properly!"

The man who refused even to enter the dressing room, all in the name of keeping the squad atmosphere free and open — Arne Slot — let out a disbelieving laugh, then called Curtis Jones over and issued fresh instructions.

Thirty-seventh minute of the first half.

Since the opening goal, Sunderland had been forced almost entirely onto the back foot. Everyone except Weiper up top dropped deep into a two-bank defensive block — a rigid 5-4-1 box. It looked as though they had abandoned attacking altogether. Liverpool's possession climbed past seventy percent.

And yet Liverpool simply circulated the ball from right full-back all the way across to the left.

Before Ederici could even begin a dribble, Mahroudi stepped in and cut it ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠out.

"That's it! Good! Mahroudi! Nice, nice!"

Mahroudi flushed under Han Shin's unstinting praise.

I only did what I was told…

Han Shin was thoroughly pleased with Mahroudi's movement.

You can see how much he's studied.

More than anything, the worry lines that had been carved deep around Mahroudi's mouth were smoothing out, as if someone had taken an iron to them, the longer the match went on.

Commentator Lee Jun-hee praised the defending.

He was right. Not just the ten outfield players — at the back, goalkeeper Anthony stepped out to help build from deep, making eleven. Han Shin's instructions made twelve. And last of all, three thousand away fans whose roar cut clean through Liverpool's anthems. Thirteen, counting every supporter who had travelled this far.

What had been a spear-straight attacking line had, before anyone noticed, become a shield.

The local Anfield commentator seized the microphone and launched into a passionate monologue.

A shield can still be peeled open if the opposition has one outstanding number six.

Twenty-seven-year-old Martín Zubimendi. Alongside Kubo, he was living proof of the lively transfer traffic between Real Sociedad and Liverpool. His strengths: comfortable on either foot, and — true to his name — a tireless hustle player who protected the back four without fear of getting hurt. His relative weaknesses: limited ability to escape pressure, and none of Xabi Alonso's long-range distribution to either flank. In short, an anchor. The link man bridging defence and midfield.

Han Shin prowled the touchline in silence, checking whether his players understood what to do and where to stand without him having to bark a single order.

The Scousers in the stands hurled abuse in their distinctive dialect.

"Boooooo—!"

"Fuck off! You call this football?!"

"Did you come here just to defend?!"

"Stop playing like cowards and fight like men, you idiots!"

"What a waste of a ticket!"

Classic pleading from a side being dragged around the pitch. Han Shin ignored it lightly.

Even with Zubimendi on, Liverpool failed to create a decisive chance. The first half ended 1–0. Sunderland: two shots, one goal. Liverpool: ten shots, only two on target. Against a deep block, all they had managed were speculative efforts from range. Anthony, reaping the full benefit of his sunglasses training, saved every one of them.

And then the second half.

Slot and Han Shin returned from the dressing rooms and made wholesale changes.

Han Shin gripped each of the four incoming players by the shoulders and gave them a firm squeeze.

"Go out there and feel Anfield with your whole body. Brand it onto your heart!"

"Yes, gaffer!"