Matchday was closing in.
At Melwood, Liverpool's historic training ground, preparations were far from ideal.
Kenny Dalglish stood by the tactical board, arms crossed. His eyes were tired. His thoughts heavier.
Liverpool had spent the last two years drowning in chaos—ownership changes, broken transfer promises, financial misfires. The club that once ruled English football now sat eleventh in the Premier League.
And the man once known as King Kenny? He was now a caretaker in all but name. Waiting for the axe. Waiting for Liverpool's new owners to choose their future.
It wasn't just about the table. It was about style. Direction. Identity.
Under Dalglish, Liverpool had gone retro—force-feeding an outdated system into a modern league. Long balls. Physical play. English grit. But the Premier League had moved on. Fluid pressing. Continental transitions. Ball-oriented defensive schemes.
And Liverpool? Still playing like it was 1986.
"You going with Carroll and Suárez again?" asked Steve Pearson, his longtime assistant.
Dalglish hesitated.
Andy Carroll, the towering number 9. Suárez, the chaotic magician. It was the textbook 4-4-2: one big, one quick.
But it felt like putting a cassette in a streaming era.
"We don't have many choices," Dalglish muttered. "Just have to make it work."
He turned to the board again.
The midfield looked patchy. The flanks lacked pace. Confidence? Nowhere in sight.
---
This match meant more than just points.
It was Liverpool versus Manchester United.
The rivalry had history. Fire. Hate.
And a cruel twist of irony.
If United won the league this season, they'd become the first club in English history to win twenty top-flight titles—surpassing Liverpool's eighteen.
It would be a symbolic burial.
For decades, United had trailed Liverpool's shadow. In 1992, when the Premier League was born, Liverpool were the giants: 18 league titles. Manchester United? Just 7.
But then Ferguson happened.
United won twelve league titles in twenty years.
The crown of English football had shifted.
And now, Liverpool—once untouchable—had gone over two decades without a league title.
A win over United wouldn't fix the rot. But it would slow their march. It would hurt them, at least.
---
Dalglish sat down.
"Any updates on United's lineup?"
"Just Nani. Pulled something in training. He's out," Pearson said. "Other than that, no major injuries. Full squad."
Dalglish grunted. "Ferguson has options. But no patterns. Always rotating. Always disguising things."
That was the problem. United weren't packed with Galácticos. But Ferguson stitched role players into a winning system—tactical duct tape that held under pressure.
"Be careful with that new Chinese-Spanish kid," Pearson added. "Alessandro. The midfielder."
Dalglish raised an eyebrow.
"He's played one match."
"Yeah," Pearson said. "But it was enough. Composed, controlled the tempo. Scored twice. Assisted. The media's already buzzing."
"Ferguson won't start him. Not at Anfield."
"I agree," Pearson said. "But he might come off the bench. Especially if United need to shift rhythm late."
Dalglish leaned back.
"He's seventeen."
"Seventeen," Pearson said, "but he doesn't play like it. He'll come. Sooner or later."
---
Still, it was hard to plan for bench threats. You couldn't adjust to a substitution that hadn't happened yet.
Dalglish sighed. He wasn't sure where this team was going. He wasn't sure where he was going.
But one thing he did know:
Lose at home to United?
The fans would turn.
The owners might, too.
And Alessandro Dybala?
He was just a question mark for now.
A smart manager wouldn't plan around him.
A wise manager wouldn't ignore him.
---