Using his military-grade physical conditioning and flawless close-quarters technique, Allen completely shattered Everton’s defensive cage.
He had bypassed their entire backline in a single fluid motion.
He was now one-on-one with the goalkeeper.
Realizing the catastrophic failure of his defense, the Everton keeper rushed off his line.
He sprinted toward Allen, spreading his arms and legs wide to make himself as big as possible, desperately trying to close the shooting angle.
Not bad, Allen thought, evaluating the keeper’s form.
For a kid, your positioning is actually quite professional.
You’re definitely better than the ones I faced in the qualifiers.
But you are still just a kid.
Instead of opting for a powerful strike or trying to dribble around the keeper, Allen decided to execute a perfectly calculated, high-arcing chip.
He slipped his right boot under the ball and applied a delicate, spinning lift.
The ball left the turf and floated gracefully into the air.
The Everton keeper watched in absolute despair.
The boy was barely four feet tall.
The ball was floating exactly ten feet in the air.
Even if the kid had wings, he wasn’t going to reach it.
The ball sailed effortlessly over the keeper’s outstretched hands and dropped softly into the back of the net.
1-0.
The moment the ball crossed the line, Allen ignored the devastated Everton keeper and sprinted straight toward the section of the Anfield stands where the Liverpool faithful were packed the tightest.
He slid on his knees across the pristine grass, raising his fist into the air.
“KILL!” Allen roared, letting a sliver of Jack Vance’s battle-hardened soul bleed through.
It was his first goal at Anfield.
Even a cynical black-ops operator could not deny the sheer, intoxicating adrenaline rush of scoring on hallowed ground.
Before Allen could finish his celebration, he was violently tackled from behind.
Welsh slammed into his back, screaming in jubilation.
A second later, Warnock piled on top of them, followed quickly by Otsemobor and the rest of the squad.
Get off me!
Allen grumbled internally as he was crushed at the bottom of a ten-man pileup.
I scored the goal!
Why does this feel like a punishment?
The vast majority of the fans had only come because the tickets were free and they wanted an excuse to mock Everton.
But as they watched the seven-year-old execute a flawless backheel flick, overpower two defenders, and execute a perfectly weighted chip, the mood completely shifted.
Thanks to the recent articles in the Liverpool Echo, the fans already knew the club had a prolific youth striker.
But reading about a kid scoring a hundred goals in amateur qualifiers was one thing; watching him dismantle a professional academy defense at Anfield was another.
Every single fan in the stadium suddenly realized the hype was completely justified.
The boy was a generational talent.
When Allen finally managed to crawl out from under the dogpile, he shot a venomous glare at Welsh.
If he had his tactical combat knife, he would have seriously considered using it.
He spat on the grass, wiped the dirt off his kit, and turned to jog back to the center circle.
As he turned, his eyes caught a flash of red and white moving violently in the front row of the stands.
Allen stopped dead in his tracks.
A massive wave of embarrassment washed over him.
Hammond was leaning over the barricade, violently waving a massive flag that read: ENGLAND’S GREATEST STRIKER — GEORGE!
“Did you see that?!” Hammond screamed at the men standing next to him, his face red with manic joy.
“That is my grandson!
The boy who just scored is my blood!
I am telling you, he is going to be the greatest goalscorer this country has ever seen!”
“Calm down, old man,” one of his friends laughed, clapping Hammond on the back.
“But you’re right, that is your lad out there.
No wonder you haven’t brought him to sit with us lately!”
“Of course he is playing for Liverpool!” Hammond shouted proudly.
“The House of George bleeds red!
Mark my words, he will conquer Anfield!”
The surrounding fans laughed and cheered along with the old man.
They knew Hammond from years of attending matches together.
They humored the old man’s wild predictions, completely unaware that the eccentric, screaming grandfather was the absolute sovereign of the British underworld—and entirely unaware that his prophecy would soon become absolute reality.
Up in the executive boxes, the atmosphere was equally electric.
“Graeme, what do you think?” Chairman David Moores asked, leaning forward in his leather seat.
“How does he compare to Michael Owen or young Steven Gerrard?”
“Gerrard is a midfielder, so it is hard to compare them directly.
But compared to Michael?
Honestly, David…
this boy looks stronger.
His reading of the game, his tactical intelligence, his physical composure…
these are traits that even some of my first-team strikers lack.
The Echo was right.
He is a complete, total forward.”
Moores smiled warmly.
Discovering a hyper-lethal prospect in their own backyard was a chairman’s ultimate dream.
He turned to Chief Executive Rick Parry and offered a meaningful, pointed look.
Parry nodded.
He understood exactly what the chairman meant.
We need to lock this boy down immediately, Parry thought, his eyes fixed on Allen down on the pitch.
We cannot afford an Alan Shearer situation.
Years ago, Alan Shearer had been a boyhood Newcastle United fan, desperate to play for his hometown club.
But Newcastle had hesitated, failing to secure his signature.
Shearer eventually slipped through the cracks, signed with Southampton, and exploded into a superstar.
By the time Newcastle finally brought him home, they had to pay a world-record £15 million transfer fee.
Parry was not going to let that happen to Allen George.
Down on the pitch, the celebrations ended.
Allen jogged back to his half of the field.
As he crossed the center line, he locked eyes with the Everton captain.
Wayne Rooney was glaring at him.
The bulldog’s face was flushed with pure, competitive rage.
The fact that Liverpool had just humiliated his defense had ignited a fire in the young Evertonian.
Allen smirked coldly.
Your move, bulldog.