As the match got underway again.
Anfield which remained quiet for fifteen minutes, plunged straight back into fever.
The Kop especially demanded the eye—tens of thousands of die-hard voices surged back over the whole ground once more, thunderous, overwhelming.
And every one of them was standing, the sight of it was staggering to take in.
Dean looked out at that boiling red sea, and a brand-new thought took shape in him.
If, one day, he could wear the red of the Reds himself, stand out on that turf, surrounded by the roar of tens of thousands of supporters—what would that actually feel like?
In this moment, football stopped being just dull training, repetitive fundamentals, a plain, practical way to earn a living.
It had started taking on an actual shape, something to reach for.
Dean found himself wondering: if that day ever really came, would his legs just give out from nerves?
The match carried on.
Every shift out on the pitch held the heartbeat of tens of thousands of people in a tight grip.
In the sixty-second minute, the visitors nearly rewrote the story of the match.
Davies drove hard down the left for Tottenham and sent the ball near the byline; Jenas, arriving unmarked in the middle with an open goal in front of him, slid in for the shot but it drifted just wide of the post, wasting an absolutely golden chance.
Hooooo!!
A single, unified groan of relief-mixed derision swept the ground at once.
It was part mockery at the visitors’ wasted luck, and part sheer relief at the team’s narrow escape.
Tottenham paid a heavy price for that waste almost immediately.
Barely a minute later, Liverpool surged forward in a sharp counterattack—Gerrard powered down the right at speed and thrashed in a pinpoint cross.
Bellamy met it in front of goal but his shot cannoned agonizingly off the post.
Just as Bellamy clutched his head in anguish with the whole crowd sharing his regret, Mark González arrived at speed and slammed home the rebound—the ball rolled firmly into the net!
The referee pointed straight back to the center circle.
Goal given!
In that instant, Anfield completely exploded.
They’d scored!
An overwhelming roar tore through the sky, the whole ground’s fever was reaching its absolute peak.
Everyone leapt to their feet, screaming González’s name.
Applause, cheering, screaming, all tangled together, shaking the grounds.
The fans all knew exactly how hard-won this goal was.
Mark González had actually completed his move to Liverpool the year before, but work-permit issues had kept him from getting onto the pitch in the Premier League for ages—he was stuck waiting a full year before he finally, officially joined up at Anfield this summer.
Earlier, in Champions League qualifying, he’d already come off the bench to score a decisive goal that turned the match around.
Now he’d bagged his first-ever Premier League goal on top of that, the perfect proof of a player with real nerve—someone who always seemed to show up in the moments that mattered most.
Ethan completely lost it, and was clinging tight to Dean, shaking him while screaming hoarse, his voice trembling.
He was completely, utterly worked up.
“GOAL!
We’re ahead!
God!
I’m going mad, Dean!
This is unbelievable!
Oh my god!
I can’t take it, Dean!”
The scorching atmosphere wrapped around everyone.
No one could stand apart from it.
Dean felt the fever all around him.
Even he could feel it—his own body was quietly heating up, his blood was slowly starting to boil.
This was a feeling he’d never had before.
Something deep inside him seemed to have been quietly woken up—burning, scorching, something that made him want to throw himself right into it.
For the first time, he found himself genuinely picturing it.
If some day, in the future, he could stand out on that turf himself, score a goal for Liverpool—could he make tens of thousands of supporters go this wild, and swelling over like this too?
Could he become the reason for Anfield’s celebration himself?
Dean smiled.
If a day like that ever really came, maybe it wouldn’t be so bad at all.
Once the deadlock had been broken, Liverpool took complete control of the match, their attacks were flowing smoothly, and Tottenham started to buckle under the pressure.
In the seventy-third minute, Luis García slipped through an inch-perfect through ball; this summer’s new signing Kuyt read the run sharply, arriving exactly on the end of it, and coolly slotted it home, making it 2–0!
BOOM!
BOOM, BOOM!!
A fresh wave of thunder swept over Anfield all over again, waves of joy were piling one on top of another, carrying everyone right up to the peak.
Ethan cheered and leapt with joy again, clinging tight to Dean, shouting nonstop.
The middle-aged supporter who’d backed Kuyt earlier turned to the two of them, looking thoroughly pleased with himself, grinning as he called out loudly.
“Told you, didn’t I!
This lad’s the real deal!
He’s going to score us loads of goals at Anfield!
My eye for this stuff is never wrong!”
Ethan shouted back at him, “Yeah!
Kuyt’ll score more too!”
The two of them burst out laughing together.
As the match moved into stoppage time, the result was long since settled.
Anfield’s supporters had already relaxed completely, the whole stand was breaking into song and dance, celebrating the win early.
A rich, soaring song rose up slowly.
Gradually gathering into a chorus of tens of thousands, ringing out across the entire ground.
“Walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart,
And you’ll never walk alone, you’ll never walk alone…”
This song, Liverpool’s anthem, “You’ll Never Walk Alone,” had long since become something far bigger than an ordinary club song.
At the 1965 FA Cup Final, Liverpool’s supporters sang it together at Wembley Stadium, and that was what turned it into the club’s own symbol.
In 1982, the song’s title was carved into the Shankly Gates at Anfield, cementing it as the club’s spiritual emblem.
Across decades of storms, it had borne witness to glory, had soothed the pain of the Hillsborough disaster, and remained the toughest, warmest thread of feeling binding together the club, its players, and every one of its supporters.
While the singing carried on, the match drew close to its end, moving into stoppage time.
Just as everyone assumed the match would close out at 2–0, Liverpool launched yet another rapid counterattack from deep, sharp and fast-paced.
The ball went through several hands before landing at Riise’s feet.
The Norwegian drove forward with it, and, from a full thirty yards out from goal, struck a decisive long-range effort.
Thwack!
No one dared stand in the way of that cannon of a shot.
The ball tore through the night air with tremendous force, straight into the top corner of the net!
Whoosh!
The ball hit the net!
Three-nil!
In this instant, Anfield boiled over completely, all over again.
A three-goal, strong victory—a thoroughly satisfying, one-sided win, writing the most glorious page yet in Liverpool’s new season.
Riise sprinted to the touchline, pumping arms wildly, and every Liverpool player rushed over to mob him in wild celebration.
A red wave rolled and surged across the whole ground.
It was blindingly red.
That image burned itself deep into Dean’s memory.
Maybe, he’d found something close to an answer now—what football’s fever actually was, what Anfield’s faith actually meant.
Out on the pitch, the wave of celebration hadn’t even had time to settle before the referee blew the final whistle, ending the match.
Three long blasts, and it was done.
A resounding win.
Liverpool had thoroughly demolished Tottenham at home.
The Tottenham players walked off with their heads hanging, looking utterly deflated—having wasted two golden chances to score across ninety minutes, they were left instead with a crushing 0–3 defeat.
More than a few of them walked off the pitch with shoulders slumped in silence.
Watching their opponents leave the field looking so thoroughly beaten, Anfield’s Reds supporters didn’t hold back on the mockery.
“Off you go home, then—Tottenham, zero trophies and counting~”
“Want to borrow our Champions League trophy for a look?
Might rub off a bit of luck on you—this might be your only chance in this lifetime to get anywhere near one~”
That was about as satisfying a release as it got, after a win this big.
Their Champions League title—won, no less, after coming back from three goals down was the hardest, most unanswerable ammunition they had for taunting their rivals.
Ethan joined right in with the supporters around him, laughing without a hint of restraint.