"GOAL!!!"
"Juventus have struck first!!!"
Neville's voice was filled with disbelief.
"Juventus have actually scored first? You've got to be kidding me!"
"That's their first shot of the night—and it's in! Juventus lead Liverpool 1–0!"
"They've pulled the aggregate back to 2–1. Higuaín grabs the ball and sprints back to midfield—he knows there's still work to do."
"Just one more and they're level on aggregate!"
"Liverpool couldn't find the breakthrough, and Juventus punished them with a single, clinical counter!"
"That goal could change everything. A real blow to morale. The Liverpool fans were convinced they'd be the first to score tonight."
Across live broadcasts, reactions poured in.
"This is football."
"Waste your chances, and you pay for it—simple as that."
"Juventus have exploded in desperation. That nutmeg from Dybala was outrageous, and the assist was perfectly weighted. A striker like Higuaín doesn't miss from there!"
The suffocating pressure unique to the Champions League settled over the stadium. Liverpool's players could feel it—the weight on their shoulders growing heavier by the minute.
That goal seemed to unlock Juventus completely. In the remaining minutes of the first half, they pushed forward relentlessly, attacking with conviction and authority.
Sharp counterattacks tore at Liverpool's defense again and again. At Anfield, Juventus were slowly reclaiming control—almost turning the hosts into the ones chasing.
By halftime, the cameras scanned the stands. Anxiety was written across most Liverpool supporters' faces.
Leo Lin jogged briskly toward the dressing room. Klopp had already stormed down the tunnel—he had plenty to say.
On ESPN's broadcast—
"Juventus have been excellent," Jim Beglin said, clearly impressed.
"That's football for you. Start strong, then fade if you can't capitalize—"
Jon Champion cut in immediately.
"This is no time for proverbs, Jim!"
His tone carried tension.
"If Liverpool want to avoid elimination in the second half, they have to score. They must take their chances. That's the bottom line."
...
Liverpool dressing room.
Klopp emphasized the same message: be ruthless in front of goal.
After finishing the tactical adjustments, the players split into small discussions.
"Lin, this isn't looking great," Firmino said seriously.
"In the second half, I'll combine with you more—more runs, more movement. We'll create something."
He was still talking when Leo Lin suddenly stood up and patted him on the shoulder.
"Firmino, let's go eat picanha tonight. I'll treat."
Firmino blinked.
What?
Are you serious?
This is the second leg of a Champions League knockout tie.
We're down 1–0 at home. Juventus are flying. One more goal and it's level on aggregate.
And you're talking about dinner?
Was this what youthful composure looked like?
Watching Leo Lin walk away so casually, Firmino felt his own tension begin to loosen. Somehow, the fear of the deficit faded.
He hurried after him.
"But… picanha? How do you even know about that?"
Leo Lin just smiled.
"We're going to win, Firmino."
"Relax."
...
The second half kicked off.
Juventus were even more proactive than before, clearly intent on seizing control.
With Dybala cutting in from the left and Douglas Costa stretching the right, they fully activated Higuaín through the middle.
The Argentine striker showcased his lethal finishing again and again.
49th minute.
"Liverpool look almost cursed," Jon Champion said.
"They're the more aggressive side, creating more chances."
"But Juventus feel like a phantom with a dagger—ready to strike at any moment."
Opportunity on the right.
"Arnold drives it across to the far post—Mané slides in!"
Into the side netting.
"Tight angle!"
Juventus countered immediately.
Juan Cuadrado surged forward. Originally a winger, now operating as a fullback, his attacking instincts were sharp—his crossing precise and dangerous.
Near the halfway line, he passed inside to Khedira.
Leo Lin was tracking Pjanić. Khedira returned it instantly.
One-two.
Cuadrado didn't go to the byline. He adjusted his stride and, before Robertson could close him down, whipped in a diagonal 45-degree cross.
Perfect trajectory. Slight dip.
It found Higuaín.
The Argentine rose high and powered a header toward goal.
The angle was tricky. The bounce vicious.
Mignolet dived full stretch, fingertips just enough to tip it away!
Rebound!
Lovren hacked it clear.
Every Liverpool fan inside Anfield clutched their heads in disbelief.
Lovren's clearance flew toward midfield.
Pjanić tried to bring it under control—
But a black shadow burst toward him like a predator.
Leo Lin.
He was sprinting at full tilt, wind roaring in his ears, vision blurring from speed.
In less than a second, as Pjanić cushioned the ball with his chest, Leo Lin arrived.
Shoulder in.
Power through.
He shoved Pjanić aside, stole possession cleanly, and twisted forward with his right foot pushing the ball into space.
Rugani retreated—Juventus' last defender.
But to Leo Lin, Rugani was too far away.
Plenty of room.
Riise's thunderbolt spirit possessed him.
Two steps.
Left leg swings like a hammer.
All his strength behind it.
A ferocious low drive.
"Bang!"
The ball skimmed across the turf at blistering speed.
"Swish!"
Buffon didn't move.
Juventus players froze.
For a split second, Anfield went silent—only the echo of that strike ringing in the air.
Then—
The stadium exploded.
A thunderclap.
"Ohhh!!!" Jon Champion roared.
"IT'S IN!!!"
"IT'S IN! IT'S IN! IT'S IN!!!"
"LEO LIN!!!"
"Once again stepping up in the decisive moment!"
"He robs Pjanić with sheer explosive power!"
"And what a finish! Absolutely world-class!"
Leo Lin sprinted to the touchline, dropped into a knee slide, then leapt up and grabbed the broadcast camera with both hands, planting a kiss on the lens.
Across countless screens, female fans leaned in toward their televisions.
A tribute to Gerrard's iconic celebration.