The match continued its relentless rhythm.
Riding the wave of Anfield's roaring support, Liverpool's players gave Norwich no room to breathe, maintaining their high press. Wave after wave of red shirts surged into the opposition half, suffocating any attempt at a Norwich counterattack.
Gerrard controlled possession in midfield, his arms were constantly gesturing forward, demanding his teammates push higher up the pitch. Behind him, Kanté swept across the turf like a heat-seeking missile, intercepting passing lanes before Norwich could even imagine they existed.
Julien, Suárez, and Sturridge intertwined complex patterns through the attacking third, their movement was stretching and distorting Norwich's defensive shape. The fullbacks bombed forward without hesitation, compressing Norwich's wide areas until there was barely room to breathe.
On the touchline, Norwich manager Chris Hughton paced like a caged animal, his hands were waving in increasingly desperate gestures.
"Drop back! Everyone drop back!" His voice cracked with urgency as he bent low, jabbing his finger toward his own half. He made a squeezing motion with both hands signaling for defensive compactness.
He was calling them to abandon the press. Hughton had no illusions that his players could win the midfield battle against Liverpool. The gulf in quality was obvious, like watching a Premier League titan toy with a Championship relegation candidate. You'd need to adjust the difficulty settings on FIFA just to recreate this level of domination.
His entire squad retreated into their own half, establishing a defensive bunker. Lock down the penalty area, wait for counter-attacking opportunities—this was the only viable strategy. After all, Hull City had stunned Liverpool and clinched 3 points with precisely this approach just days earlier.
The Norwich players didn't need telling twice. They backtracked frantically, adjusting their positioning on the move. The entire back four dropped onto the edge of the eighteen-yard box while the midfielders scrambled to form two barriers of resistance in front of the danger zone.
Yet even with eleven men behind the ball, Liverpool maintained absolute control.
They played an intricate game of keep-away in Norwich's half, their short passing combinations were thoroughly pulling the defensive block out of shape, probing for the slightest crack in the yellow wall.
Every time Gerrard launched a laser-guided long ball, every time Julien sliced through with one of his surgical dribbles, every time Suárez manufactured danger from nothing, Anfield erupted in thunderous appreciation.
"LIVERPOOL! LIVERPOOL!"
The chant reverberated around the stadium.
The Kop had completely unleashed itself. The bitter disappointment of last weekend's shock defeat had vanished, replaced by pure, intoxicating joy.
Red scarves whirled in synchronized waves. Fans clapped in rhythm with each attacking sequence, some roaring: "Push forward!" while others sang "You'll Never Walk Alone". The anthem echoed into the night sky, transforming Anfield into a cathedral of noise.
This was the Liverpool they demanded. This was the Anfield they remembered—dominant, relentless, suffocating, never granting the opponent a single breath of relief.
Liverpool's attacks came in relentless succession, each wave of pressure matched by rising decibels from the stands.
Julien operated in the number ten role like he'd been born for it, completely in his element.
Norwich's defensive paranoia centered completely on this nineteen-year-old prodigy. They feared his dribbling ability, which could slice their defense open like a hot knife through butter. They feared his long-range shooting, which could detonate from anywhere within thirty yards.
Two central midfielders shadowed him consistently, one on each shoulder, while even the fullbacks instinctively pinched in, denying him any space to settle or adjust.
But this suffocating attention couldn't actually stop Julien. At best, it delayed the inevitable—slowing his ability to identify gaps in Norwich's crumbling defensive structure.
In the 17th minute, before the echoes of Liverpool's first goal had even faded, the home side raised another devastating raid.
Julien received Gerrard's pass with his first touch cushioning the ball perfectly. Norwich's midfield enforcers swarmed immediately, closing the space.
But Julien showed no hesitation. His left foot dragged the ball back slightly, creating just enough separation to lower his center of gravity. Then he charged directly at the cluster of yellow shirts, driving straight into the heart of Norwich's defensive block with audacious directness.
His dribbling rhythm was mesmerizing—left foot stepping on the ball, body rotating, right foot knocking it forward in one motion. It appeared he was preparing for a bulldozing run through the middle, but in reality, he was arranging a tactical diversion, drawing defenders like moths to flame.
The trap sprung perfectly.
Three Norwich players converged instantly, forming a triangle of bodies around him. The central corridor became extremely congested, transformed into a no-man's-land of tangled limbs and desperate lunges.
Just when every spectator expected Julien to unleash a shot or attempt a dribble through the crowd, he disguised his intentions brilliantly. His left foot lifted subtly, then glanced against the ball with the gentlest of touches, redirecting it left with misleading speed.
The pass was surgical—skimming across the grass between two defenders' legs with millimeter precision, finding the vacant channel on the left flank with accuracy.
Sturridge had timed his run to perfection, arriving at full speed to meet the ball. Without breaking stride or taking a touch to control, he swung his right boot through with ferocious conviction.
The shot came off his foot like a howitzer shell, rocketing toward the near post with violent intent.
Norwich goalkeeper Ruddy threw his body desperately toward the trajectory, his fingertips were stretching but finding only air as the ball cannoned into the net with a satisfying whoosh.
2-0!
Anfield detonated once more.
The Kop became a crimson tsunami, crashing against the stands in waves of pure ecstasy. Fans leaped from their seats as if electrified, voices hoarse from sustained screaming.
Julien turned away toward Sturridge with a broad grin. Sturridge spread his arms wide like a conquering hero, and the two collided in a shoulder-barging celebration. Gerrard led a stampede of red shirts to join the embrace; the entire team was mobbing their goal scorers while the touchline erupted in celebration.
Klopp pumped both fists toward the sky on the sideline, his face was contorted in pure elation. His assistant coaches slapped hands and embraced while the substitutes jumped off the bench, waving jerseys like battle flags.
By contrast, Norwich's players stood frozen in various poses of dejection and disbelief.
Manager Hughton remained rooted to his technical area, hands on hips, face drained of color.
The realization had struck him—even with numerical superiority and organized defensive shape, Julien had still dissected them with a single pass. His game plan was disintegrating before his eyes.
"STURRIDGE!"
"JULIEN!"
The names boomed from the stands in alternating chants, building into a deafening wall of sound that seemed to press down on the Norwich technical area.
The pressure crushed against Hughton's chest.
The disparity in star quality between these two squads wasn't just significant—it was astronomical.
Liverpool possessed genuine match-winners; Norwich had honest workers giving their absolute best but in a completely different level of ability.
Hughton glanced toward the Kop. Fans bounced in unison, some pounding the barriers with closed fists, others embracing complete strangers with joy.
He exhaled slowly, trying to steady his racing pulse. This was going to be a very long afternoon.
Meanwhile, across the internet, social media platforms erupted in real-time commentary:
"My God! Julien's gravitational pull is INSANE! He attracts three defenders and still delivers that pass with precision!"
"A nineteen-year-old playmaker! Goal and assist already—this kid is ascending to another plane of existence!"
"Liverpool are BACK! This combination play is absolutely flowing—last week's nightmare feels like it happened in another universe! Like they switched the difficulty from Legendary back down to Professional mode lmao"
"Sturridge's finish was FILTHY and that pass from Julien? Literal scalpel. Thread the needle doesn't even describe it."
The comments multiplied exponentially.
One fan captured a screenshot of Julien's assist, the ball frozen mid-flight as it split two defenders, adding the caption: "This is what happens when talent meets football IQ—complete domination."
Within minutes, the post accumulated thousands of likes and hundreds of shares.
In the commentary box, Martin Tyler's voice trembled with excitement, his words were tumbling out in a rush:
"STURRIDGE SCORES! Set up by Julien! Seventeen minutes gone and Liverpool lead 2-0! Extraordinary! Absolutely extraordinary! That pass from Julien was world-class—drawing three defenders into his orbit and still finding Sturridge's run with precision. The vision, the technique, the composure—you'd never know you're watching a nineteen-year-old!
Norwich are terrified of everything Julien can do. They're scared of his dribbling, scared of his shooting, so they commit bodies to shadowing him constantly. But that just creates space elsewhere, and Julien has the awareness to exploit it instantly. This is what true superstar impact looks like—affecting the game even when you don't touch the ball!
Liverpool have completely seized control of this match! Look at Hughton's expression—he's got to be suffering a tactical migraine right now. How do you defend against Julien? Stop his dribbling, he shoots. Stop his shooting, he passes. The lad is simply unplayable at this level!"
The roar from Liverpool's second goal had barely subsided when the home side launched yet another assault on Norwich's stressed defense at 24th minute.
Julien collected possession in central midfield, facing down the double-teaming press of Norwich's central midfielders. His foot kissed the outside of the ball, redirecting it with a delicate flick that carved open a passing lane to the right channel.
Suárez had already burst into that exact space, anticipating Julien's vision.
Throughout this match, Julien had been operating on a different plane entirely in the central areas.
The freedom he enjoyed was intoxicating, though even he recognized that only Norwich's deficiencies made this possible.
This was a team bleeding goals—conceding twenty-six while managing just eleven of their own, carrying a catastrophic goal difference of minus-fifteen.
Their defensive organization was less "system" and more "collection of individuals hoping for the best."
In short, they were offering themselves up on a silver platter.
Suárez received Julien's diagonal pass and immediately demonstrated why he'd become one of Europe's most complete forwards.
Instead of greedily hunting his own goal, he carried the ball laterally along the penalty area's boundary, dragging two defenders with him like a master puppeteer manipulating strings. Their center of gravity shifted, their attention was fixated entirely on his next move.
Then, with that ingenuity that made him impossible to predict, Suárez flicked his heel back. The ball rolled invitingly into the path of Sturridge, who had slicked into the central corridor like a predator sensing bloody prey.
The entire sequence unfolded with grace—one touch, two touches, goal. Norwich's defensive shape collapsed like a condemned building, their organization was reduced to rubble.
Sturridge didn't hesitate, didn't need even a millisecond to compose himself.
His right foot swept through the rolling ball with precision, sending it skimming across the turf toward the bottom right corner.
Ruddy threw himself desperately across his goal line but could only watch helplessly as the ball nestled into the side netting for the third time in twenty-four minutes.
3-0!
Anfield absolutely lost its mind.
"STURRIDGE WITH THE BRACE!" The commentator's voice cracked under the strain of his excitement.
The Kop transformed into a churning sea of red, fans were bouncing in unison experiencing collective euphoria.
On the sideline, Klopp threw both arms wide and spun in a complete circle grinning as he pumped his fist toward the sky with enthusiasm. His coaching staff swarmed each other with embraces and high-fives.
By contrast, Hughton stood frozen in his technical area, face drained to the color of ash. His eyes carried the hollow look of a man watching his worst nightmare unfold in real-time. He shook his head slowly, managing only a weak, defeated gesture toward his players—a vague instruction to hold shape that even he knew was pointless at this stage.
Norwich's yellow shirts hung their heads in dejection. The psychological damage was visible in their body language. Three goals in twenty-four minutes had broken them.
Martin Tyler's voice thundered through television speakers around the world:
"THREE-NIL! Sturridge bags his brace! Another attack orchestrated by Julien! Twenty-four minutes on the clock and Liverpool have already put this game completely beyond doubt!
The attacking football is simply sensational! Julien's distribution, Suárez's selfless heel flick, Sturridge's ruthless finishing—every piece of the puzzle fits together perfectly! Norwich are completely shell-shocked! They've got no answer to Liverpool's attacking trident!
And at the heart of everything is that young man, Julien De Rocca! He's conducting this orchestra like a maestro thirty years his senior! The composure, the vision, the decision-making—it's extraordinary for a nineteen-year-old!
Remember Liverpool's defeat last weekend? That's Ancient history now! Completely erased! This is the Liverpool we know—aggressive, coordinated, absolutely relentless! Three goals in twenty-four minutes! This match was over before it even began!"
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