Welcome to Anfield, Rookie.
Tweet-!!
The 04-05 season for Liverpool was, in a word, possessed. Even people who didn't care about soccer had heard of the Miracle of Istanbul.
This season, Liverpool disappointed in the league and cups, but they pulled off a miraculous Champions League triumph—the pinnacle of European soccer.
"Captain Gerrard, even if I change history because of me, please don't cry."
Liverpool's Champions League win back then was truly a miracle, so my involvement could very well alter Liverpool's—and Gerrard's—fate.
"Wooooaaahhh!!!"
Our defense flinched—as if cursed by the Kop. This roar was on another level. Even Old Trafford hadn't been like this. It felt like thousands of arrows raining down.
"Anton! Push up!"
"What!? I can't hear you!"
"Damn it!"
The Kop's unified roar drowned out our teammates' voices. Liverpool knew this and launched an early onslaught.
Thwack-!!
"Snap out of it, everyone! We can't let this damn atmosphere eat us alive!"
"Wooooooo~!!"
I jumped up and shouted, but the Kop's jeers swallowed it whole. I glanced around Anfield's stands, suspicion creeping in.
"Is it the design?"
Anfield held fewer fans than Old Trafford, yet the noise was louder. The screams from all sides felt like a nuclear blast on the pitch. My head throbbed, heart pounding. Hot blood surged through my veins.
Thump-thump-thud-
As I drove forward with the ball, Liverpool retreated while holding their shape. Their strategist, Benítez, had surely cooked up a plan to neutralize me. Whatever it was, I didn't know yet.
Thud-thud-thud-!!
Bam! Tweet-!!
Gerrard shoulder-barged me and stepped on my foot at the same time. Then he approached the fallen me and extended a hand.
"Welcome to Anfield, rookie."
Snap—I grabbed his hand without thinking. Gerrard grinned and pulled me up.
What the hell is this guy? Shameless, but cool. The bastard who just floored me.
Gerrard must've wanted to show me, "This is English soccer."
"Fine. I won't hold back then."
Thwack-!
Carrick's movement was noticeably different. Proactive play, barking orders and rallying teammates. In acting terms, he'd been content as a top supporting role before. But the captain's armband changed him. Now he aimed to be West Ham's leading man.
"Mark! Get in! Jermain! Left side!"
Thwack-!
Kaboom-!
Mark took Carrick's perfect pass, turned, and got done by a Spaniard. Xabi Alonso. The embodiment of Spanish defensive midfield. A different nightmare from Makelele. Alonso was famous for reading passes and intercepting technically.
Thwack-!!
A piercing forward ball. Teams with Alonso didn't need aimless short passes. He sniffed out defensive weaknesses like a ghost and fired pinpoint 40-50 meter curlers there.
"Damn!"
"Luis 'Lungz'" Garcia chest-trapped past fullback Rufus. Then unleashed a left-foot volley.
Thwaaack-!! Thud!
True to Lungz form, he passed on an easy chance—it lacked swagger.
"How do you get peeled back that easily!? Wake up!"
Goalkeeper Alex raged, and veteran Rufus signaled apology. More wrinkles from marking Garcia.
Rufus wouldn't start for top teams.
"Fullbacks need fixing too."
With backup options lacking, the Rufus-Spencer flank was shaky. Fullbacks would only grow more vital. No dominant European side post-2004 had weak ones.
"Focus on the game for now."
After the Alonso-Garcia Spanish duo's counter, West Ham dropped deep. I stuck to my sweeper role in the modified five-back.
Liverpool's counters terrified, but they were weak in the air. Expensive striker Djibril Cissé out injured early, no target man to battle in the box. Current strikers Garcia and Núñez were penetrators.
"Makes sense. We need a target forward too. Marlon's nowhere near PL ready."
I suppressed my FM mode urges and focused. But damn, our squad was thin.
First half, 45th minute. Into stoppage as regulation ended. Tension eased, awaiting the whistle.
"Hey! Anton! Up now!!"
"What!?"
A killer exploited the mental lapse.
Thwack-!!!
Swoosh-!
Gerrard, casually rolling the ball in a safe zone, spotted space and unleashed lightning. No wind-up—just ankle snap. No time to react. His shot rocketed 30+ meters like a SAM, nestling top corner.
As Gerrard roared, the Kop belted their anthem, You'll Never Walk Alone. "Even if you walk through the storm alone~ Hold your head high~ Fear not the darkness~"
We were mere extras in Liverpool's theater. Not even supporting actors.
Tweet! Tweet! Tweet-!
Halftime. Back in the locker room, Zola awaited. The vibe was off.
"I'm disappointed in your play just now. Have I ever yelled at you for losing a game?"
"No, sir."
"Win or lose isn't ours to decide. That's for the gods of soccer. But focus? That's on us. That goal from Gerrard? Our fault! Aren't you ashamed in front of our fans who traveled from London to Anfield!?"
"..."
No one spoke. Tomas and Anton especially hung their heads like traitors. First time seeing Zola angry; the room froze. Even he struggled to continue.
"Come on! Heads up! Second half left. Compared to the Big Three we beat, Liverpool's defense is weak. We can equalize and win. More focus, more fight!"
Carrick stepped up, calming things. His steady tone restored cool heads. The armband was perfect for him. I hadn't expected him to captain so well. Maybe this life, he'd surpass Scholes, Gerrard, Lampard as England's top midfielder.
Tweet-!!
Second half kicked off. Tactician Benítez foxily sat deep, frustrating us. Luring the must-score side in for counters.
Thwack-!
Vrooom-! Clang!
From deep, I anticipated Alonso's pass, intercepted, then charged, winning aerials with Garcia.
I blasted Garcia with physique, chested it down, then volleyed left-footed.
Thwack-!!
Wham! Tweet-!
Liverpool CB Carragher fouled rough. Priceless free kick, 28 meters out.
"Wooooooo~!!"
Play stopped. I walked slowly to the spot. No rushing—elevated heart rate or heavy breathing ruins the kick.
Liverpool fans, clueless and uncaring, hurled abuse: dog-eater, chink, DVD, Kim Jong-il, nuke, slanty-eyes... Same menu every away ground. Tedious.
Teammates circled the ball, awaiting me. I was the ER doc and Sherlock at the crime scene. Had to find clues in the maze.
"Let's see."
First, position: ~28 meters, right of goal.
Next, ball check. Weight, scratches—tiny ones wreck spin. No wonder pitchers scuff baseballs.
"Fwew~ Perfect."
The ball was prime for striking.