Another Saturday lunchtime kickoff.
Liverpool's players could barely remember the last time they had played at noon. This was their first early kickoff of the season, yet what everyone clearly remembered was the controversy from before the campaign even began.
Rafael Benítez had publicly criticised the Football Association and the Premier League's scheduling authorities. He accused them of favouring other top clubs while repeatedly assigning Liverpool to inconvenient kickoff times — particularly at noon.
Statistics from the previous season had supported his frustration. Liverpool had been given significantly more early Saturday kickoffs than Manchester United, Chelsea, or Arsenal. Benítez had not hidden his dissatisfaction.
Few players enjoy playing at noon.
The issue is not merely preference — it is physiological.
On matchday, a professional footballer's entire routine is precisely structured. Wake-up time, meal timing, hydration, tactical briefings, light activation exercises, and rest periods are all calculated to ensure optimal physical and mental condition at kickoff.
Afternoon or evening matches allow the body to follow a more natural rhythm. Players can sleep adequately, eat at proper intervals, and gradually build focus throughout the day.
A noon kickoff disrupts that rhythm.
The pre-match tactical meeting must be brought forward. Meals are taken much earlier to ensure digestion is nearly complete by kickoff. Players often need to wake significantly earlier than usual, cutting into recovery time.
Even small adjustments matter at elite level.
Reduced sleep, altered eating patterns, and compressed preparation windows can subtly affect sharpness, reaction speed, and concentration. For a high-intensity match — especially against a direct rival — those margins are crucial.
And that is only part of the equation.
Warm-up timing, muscle activation cycles, and mental preparation all require recalibration. Everything within a football club is structured around match rhythm. Changing the kickoff time shifts that entire framework.
Does that mean noon matches are inherently unfair?
Not necessarily.
There is a commercial logic behind them.
Due to the time difference, a lunchtime kickoff in England aligns well with prime-time viewing hours in Asia. As the Premier League's global audience expanded — particularly in East and Southeast Asia — broadcasters increasingly favoured early Saturday fixtures.
Since Yang Yang joined Liverpool, the club's visibility in Asian markets had grown significantly. Shirt sales, television audiences, and sponsorship attention had all increased.
Whether coincidence or commercial strategy, Liverpool's number of lunchtime kickoffs had noticeably risen.
Now, once again, the North West Derby against Manchester United had been scheduled for noon.
Anfield would host one of English football's fiercest rivalries under an early sun — not floodlights.
...
Although Liverpool had already played several early kick-offs that season, the discomfort never truly disappeared. Noon football felt different. The body reacted differently — legs slightly heavier, timing marginally off, rhythm slower to emerge.
But Manchester United were facing the same conditions.
From the very first whistle, the game ignited.
That was the nature of the North West Derby. The rivalry between Liverpool and Manchester United was built on decades of tension — history measured not only in trophies but in resentment. These fixtures were rarely decided by finesse alone. They were shaped by duels, by physicality, by will.
The tempo was intense immediately.
Every second ball was contested. Midfield challenges arrived hard and uncompromising. Neither side eased into the contest; they attacked it with urgency. The opening exchanges lacked fluid elegance. Instead, they carried confrontation and edge.
At Anfield, Liverpool's plan had been clear.
Benítez positioned Xabi Alonso deeper in midfield, instructing him to protect the defensive line and control distribution from behind the play. Mohamed Sissoko was pushed higher, tasked with disrupting Manchester United's rhythm before it could develop.
On paper, the idea was logical.
On the pitch, complications emerged.
Operating in a more advanced role meant Sissoko inevitably received the ball more frequently. His ball-winning instincts were exceptional. He pressed aggressively, cut off passing lanes, and recovered possession through sheer physical presence.
However, once Liverpool regained the ball, the next phase often faltered.
Compared to Gerrard and Xabi Alonso, Sissoko's passing range and composure under pressure were less refined. Forward transitions felt rushed. Vertical passes lacked precision. Several promising situations dissolved before the attack could properly take shape.
Manchester United recognised the pattern.
They did not dominate possession in the early stages, but their pressing was calculated. Rather than overcommitting high up the pitch, they targeted specific triggers. Whenever Sissoko received the ball facing his own goal, United's midfield closed quickly, compressing space and forcing hurried decisions.
Twice within the first twenty minutes, Liverpool lost possession in central areas. United immediately accelerated forward.
Cristiano Ronaldo drifted inside from the left flank, seeking pockets between midfield and defence. Wayne Rooney dropped deeper to connect play, dragging markers with him. Jamie Carragher had to step out aggressively to close gaps before danger escalated.
Liverpool controlled more of the ball, yet their possession lacked clarity.
The midfield spacing appeared uneven at times. Alonso sat deep, Gerrard surged forward, and Sissoko's advanced positioning occasionally left transitional distances that felt slightly stretched rather than cohesive.
The most reliable attacking outlet remained Yang Yang.
Whenever Liverpool managed to shift play toward the left wing, the rhythm changed. He drove directly at Gary Neville, using sharp acceleration and quick directional shifts to test the right-back. On two occasions, he beat Neville and forced hurried clearances inside the box.
But Sir Alex Ferguson had prepared carefully.
Gary Neville stayed extremely tight in his marking. He avoided reckless challenges. Instead, he delayed, jockeyed, and subtly guided Yang Yang toward the touchline. Whenever Yang Yang cut inward, a second United player — often a midfielder sliding across — immediately closed the channel.
The available space collapsed quickly.
As the half progressed, the physical intensity increased.
Shoulders clashed. Shirts were tugged discreetly. Tackles arrived with force. The referee adopted a lenient threshold, allowing robust contact to continue as long as it remained within control.
Anfield responded to every collision with noise.
Appeals followed. Heated words were exchanged. The rivalry simmered just beneath the surface.
Yet genuine, clear-cut opportunities were scarce.
The match felt tense rather than expansive. Heavy rather than fluid.
When the referee signalled for halftime, the scoreboard remained 0–0.
It had been a fiercely contested forty-five minutes — committed, confrontational, and charged with atmosphere — but neither side had found the decisive moment in the final third.
If one team had marginally edged territorial control, it was Liverpool.
They simply had not transformed that edge into something tangible.
...
During the interval, Benítez quickly identified the imbalance in midfield and adjusted decisively.
Liverpool returned to a true double pivot. Sissoko dropped back into a deeper holding role, focusing on ball recovery and simple distribution. Xabi Alonso moved higher, positioning himself between Manchester United's midfield and defensive lines, where he could dictate tempo and release forward passes earlier.
The impact was immediate.
Less than a minute after the restart, Liverpool accelerated down the right flank. Kuyt advanced and delivered an early cross from a tight angle. Rio Ferdinand rose above Crouch to clear, but his header only travelled as far as the edge of the penalty area.
The ball bounced once.
Gerrard arrived onto it and struck cleanly with his left foot. The shot stayed low, skidding toward the bottom-left corner. Van der Sar reacted late and could only watch as it passed narrowly wide of the post.
Anfield roared, sensing the shift.
Liverpool pressed again.
Within another minute, Alonso found space and slipped a precise pass into Gerrard between the lines. Gerrard turned in one motion and lifted a measured ball into the channel behind Gary Neville.
Yang Yang timed his run perfectly.
One burst of acceleration brought him level with Neville. Another stride carried him clear.
He reached the byline and drilled a low cross hard across the six-yard area.
Crouch adjusted his feet and met it first time from around eight yards out. He guided the finish low toward goal.
Van der Sar had no chance.
1–0.
Anfield erupted — the sound immediate and overwhelming.
Liverpool had finally converted pressure into reward.
The tempo intensified. The crowd drove the players forward. Manchester United were pushed deeper than they preferred. Every tackle was cheered. Every clearance from the back line drew applause.
Ferguson responded swiftly, introducing Mikaël Silvestre for Patrice Evra to strengthen the left side against Yang Yang's pace.
Benítez countered by withdrawing Sissoko for Fábio Aurélio, seeking greater composure and ball retention in midfield. If United pressed forward in search of an equaliser, space would open behind them.
The game stretched.
Carragher went in hard on Rooney during a midfield challenge. Rooney stayed down briefly, blood visible on his shin. The referee awarded a foul and showed Carragher a yellow card.
Soon after, Yang Yang broke in behind again. Neville, beaten for pace, tugged him back cynically. Another yellow card followed.
The temperature rose.
Then came another contentious moment. Louis Saha drove toward the penalty area and collided with Carragher and Daniel Agger in quick succession. All three fell. Appeals came from both sides. The referee waved play on.
This was no longer purely tactical.
It had become emotional.
One goal separated them.
Manchester United needed an equaliser to protect their position at the top of the table. Liverpool sensed the opportunity to draw level on points with a victory.
Every duel carried significance.
Even Yang Yang, typically composed, felt the intensity.
In the 86th minute, Saha fouled Carragher near the touchline. The whistle sounded.
As Alonso stepped forward to shield the ball after the stoppage, Paul Scholes arrived late. His trailing leg caught Alonso forcefully on the shin.
The referee did not hesitate.
Red card.
Scholes was sent off immediately.
Alonso fell to the ground, clutching his lower leg. When he rose, dark stud marks were already visible. The atmosphere crackled with tension. Each challenge now seemed capable of igniting confrontation.
The game resumed.
Liverpool did not retreat.
Despite leading, they pressed high against ten men, forcing United deeper.
Yang Yang was visibly tiring. Sweat soaked his shirt, his breathing heavier, yet his eyes remained alert, scanning for space.
Two minutes later, Liverpool attacked again down the right.
Kuyt collected the ball near the touchline and drove directly at Silvestre. With a quick touch, he slipped the ball through the defender's legs and surged past him. Without breaking stride, he whipped a firm cross into the penalty area.
The delivery was flat and dangerous, aimed between the penalty spot and the six-yard box.
In the centre, Crouch grappled with Ferdinand and Nemanja Vidić. Both defenders were fully engaged in the aerial duel. Crouch leapt but did not attempt to head the ball. Instead, he positioned his body cleverly, allowing the cross to skim beyond him while preventing either centre-back from clearing cleanly.
The ball dropped into space behind them.
From just outside the area, Yang Yang accelerated.
He had deliberately held his run slightly deeper, anticipating the second ball. As soon as he saw the cross travel beyond Crouch, he attacked the gap between the defenders.
Silvestre chased from one side. Vidić turned from the other. Both reacted.
Yang Yang was already moving.
He planted his left foot and launched himself forward, body extended horizontally, meeting the ball with a diving header just inside the six-yard box.
Vidić, backpedalling, could not rise in time. Ferdinand was blocked by Crouch's positioning. Silvestre arrived a fraction too late.
Yang Yang struck the ball firmly with his forehead.
The header redirected sharply toward the lower-left corner.
Van der Sar reacted instinctively, but there was no time to adjust.
The ball struck the inside of the net.
"Goal!"
"GOOOOOOOOOOOAL!"
"A magnificent diving header from Yang Yang!"
"Yang Yang! Brilliant from Yang Yang!"
"That's the final word!"
"This goal is absolutely decisive!"
"Two–nil!"
"Manchester United have no way back — Yang Yang has killed the game!"
The live commentator at Anfield almost lost his voice as he roared into the microphone.
Inside the stadium, the reaction was instantaneous.
Supporters leapt from their seats. Arms were thrown into the air. Scarves were lifted high. The roar rolled across the stands in waves, gathering volume with every passing second. Thousands of voices chanted Yang Yang's name in unison.
On the pitch, Yang Yang landed heavily after the diving header and slid across the turf. He pounded the grass with both hands, laughter bursting out of him in pure release.
The emotion was raw.
But the laughter did not last long.
A two-metre figure crashed down on top of him.
Peter Crouch.
The towering striker collapsed over him in celebration, and within seconds the rest followed. Gerrard arrived first, wrapping his arms around both of them. Xabi Alonso threw himself into the pile. Kuyt, Aurélio — even Sissoko, Carragher and Daniel Agger joined, forming a tangled mass of red shirts.
Buried beneath the weight of his teammates, Yang Yang could barely breathe.
From the commentary box came laughter.
"Yang Yang is really enjoying himself now!"
"This kind of celebration treatment is beyond imagination. Yang, take your time down there!"
The crowd continued to revel in the moment.
On the opposite side, the Manchester United players stood motionless. Heads lowered. Hands on hips. The energy had drained from them.
Sir Alex Ferguson remained rooted near the technical area, expression tight. His team's performance had not matched the occasion. They had struggled to assert control, and after Scholes' dismissal, the balance had shifted decisively.
Cristiano Ronaldo stood apart from his teammates.
Throughout the match, he had failed to impose himself on the right flank. Whether due to Liverpool's defensive attention or his own inconsistency, his threat had been muted.
Now he stared ahead, jaw clenched.
He understood his performance had fallen short.
Yet understanding did not change the feeling. Watching Yang Yang celebrate in front of the Kop, hearing the stadium chant his name, Ronaldo felt the weight of frustration settle heavily in his chest.
He had wanted to be decisive.
Instead, he could only watch.
...
...
Liverpool celebrated enthusiastically after defeating Manchester United 2–0.
When the final whistle had blown, the time was only 14:30 in the afternoon. The early kickoff meant the entire day still stretched ahead. Rafael Benítez gathered the squad briefly in the dressing room and, satisfied with both the result and the discipline shown, announced that the team was dismissed for the remainder of the day.
"Recovery tomorrow morning," he reminded them. "Enjoy the rest."
For most players, that meant time with family or a quiet afternoon away from football.
Yang Yang, however, had nowhere particular to go.
Instead of heading into the city, he remained at Melwood. After a light meal and some stretching, he returned to his room and lay down for a short nap.
Soon, he entered the Dream Training System.
Together with Zax, he replayed the match that had just ended. The focus was not on the goals he scored, but on the details he had missed — the moments where execution had fallen short.
"In the first half," Zax said calmly, "if your finishing had been slightly more precise, you could have scored at least two more goals."
Yang Yang smiled wryly.
He would have liked that too.
But he was human, not a machine. Even at peak focus, absolute accuracy was impossible. There were always variables — balance, timing, defensive pressure, fatigue.
In the second half, the energy of Anfield and the surge of his teammates had carried him forward. Emotion sharpened his instincts. When the right opportunity arrived, he seized it.
The smoother midfield structure after halftime had also helped.
"Sissoko's passing still needs work," Yang Yang said, half joking, half serious.
During the first half, the Malian midfielder had delivered several passes in his direction, but the weight and timing were inconsistent. Compared to the precision of Xabi Alonso or Gerrard, the difference was clear.
Sometimes comparison made the gap more obvious.
When Alonso or Gerrard passed, they often considered his movement pattern in advance. The ball arrived not just in space, but into his stride. The pace was measured so that he could accelerate without breaking rhythm.
Xabi Alonso, in particular, had that ability.
Many observers believed Yang Yang's understanding with Alonso was natural chemistry. In reality, much of it came from the Spaniard's refined passing technique. It reminded Yang Yang of his time at Ajax with Wesley Sneijder.
Sneijder had excelled at vertical through balls — sharp, direct penetrations between defensive lines. Alonso, by contrast, was more expansive and strategic, capable of switching play or threading angled passes that opened entire defensive blocks.
Sissoko was different.
His instinct was to win the ball and release it quickly. He focused on reaching the general area rather than tailoring the pass to the receiver's stride. It was functional, but not refined.
Yang Yang was not criticising him.
They were simply different types of midfielders. It would be unfair to judge Sissoko by the same technical standards as Alonso or Gerrard.
Just as it would be unreasonable to expect Alonso to defend with the same relentless physical intensity as Sissoko.
Sissoko was only twenty-two. His development was ongoing. Alonso, at twenty-five, had already reached tactical maturity.
For an attacking player like Yang Yang — someone whose threat depended on timing and explosiveness — the quality of the service mattered enormously. The difference between a perfectly weighted pass and a slightly misplaced one could determine whether he faced the goal or had to adjust under pressure.
Several half-chances in the first half had faded because the rhythm was disrupted at the final moment.
But he did not shift responsibility outward.
"I'm still not strong enough," Yang Yang admitted calmly.
If he were truly complete, he would adapt to any style of teammate. He would adjust his positioning, his movement, his first touch — regardless of the quality of the pass.
Zax agree with him.
"Then there's no need for further discussion," he said evenly. "Continue training."
There were no shortcuts.
Only repetition.
...
After more than an hour of training inside the Dream Training System, Yang Yang finally woke up.
When he opened his eyes, Melwood was already quiet.
Most of the staff had left. The corridors were nearly empty. He never allowed himself to stay inside the system for too long in real time — if he overslept for hours, someone might genuinely worry and come looking for him.
After washing his face, he felt refreshed.
Instead of heading straight home, he walked to the swimming pool. After such an intense derby, active recovery was essential. He slid into the water and began a steady, relaxed swim.
Even though he was still young, he never treated his body carelessly. Every recovery session followed the training plan designed by Winston Bogarde and the club's fitness staff. Load management mattered. Long seasons were not won through overexertion.
When he returned toward the training building, he noticed movement on the pitch.
One figure remained on the training ground.
Javier Mascherano.
Since arriving at Liverpool, the Argentine had trained diligently, often staying behind after official sessions. Today, although he had been included in the matchday squad, he had not played a single minute. It was understandable that he wanted to maintain sharpness.
Yang Yang felt a natural affinity toward players who voluntarily stayed to train. He had built a similar connection with Fábio Aurélio for the same reason.
Previously, he had seen Mascherano training alone but had rarely interacted. The Argentine was quiet, reserved, and still new to the squad. Their positional roles were also different, so their training routines seldom overlapped.
Today, however, Yang Yang walked closer.
On the grass, a row of training poles had been set up. Mascherano dribbled through them, weaving in tight patterns.
It was a fundamental drill — designed to sharpen footwork and maintain agility while carrying the ball.
But something caught Yang Yang's attention.
"Javier," he called out, "a bit slow."
Mascherano had already noticed him nearby. He nodded slightly and increased his pace.
Still, it looked hesitant.
"It needs to be faster," Yang Yang added.
He did not need a stopwatch to recognise it. The rhythm was cautious. The acceleration between markers lacked sharpness.
Mascherano stopped. He shook his head, then slapped his left thigh lightly before walking over.
"What's wrong?" Yang Yang asked, glancing instinctively at the leg.
"In September 2005," Mascherano replied calmly, "I suffered a severe fracture. I was out for more than six months. Since then…"
He did not finish the sentence.
Yang Yang understood immediately.
A psychological shadow.
Serious injuries often left more than physical scars. Even when bones healed, hesitation could linger. Many players never truly returned to their pre-injury confidence.
Footballers were not machines.
"Was it the same at West Ham?" Yang Yang asked gently.
At the mention of West Ham United, Mascherano's expression darkened slightly.
"There were many reasons," he said. "But yes, partly. The Premier League is intense. After what happened, to say I felt no fear would be a lie."
He paused.
"When you've had a serious injury, especially a fracture, you hesitate sometimes. You pull out of challenges. Even in training."
It made sense.
The Premier League's tempo and physicality were unforgiving. Landing awkwardly once could change everything. For someone returning from a long absence, instinctive caution was natural.
"It affected my movements," Mascherano continued. "In matches and in training."
He looked toward the pitch.
"And tactically… it wasn't a fit. Alan Pardew told me clearly he didn't need a player like me. Neither Tevez nor I were in his plans."
The circumstances of Mascherano's and Carlos Tevez's move to West Ham had been controversial across English football.
Both players had complicated third-party ownership structures. Their economic rights were held by external investment groups, not solely by the clubs they played for. It created legal and sporting disputes. West Ham did not fully control their registrations, which led to scrutiny from the league and criticism in the media.
Before England, they had played for Corinthians in Brazil — itself an unusual chapter. Argentine internationals joining a Brazilian club had already been politically delicate. That move had been driven largely by external investors.
At Corinthians, Mascherano had suffered his fracture.
Six months out.
Recovery and then doubt.
Then, on the final day of the 2006 summer transfer window, both he and Tevez were suddenly transferred to West Ham. The arrangement was complex. On paper, it was a loan structure. In reality, ownership rights remained layered and controversial.
The fallout had been intense.
West Ham were fined. Questions were raised about sporting integrity. Within the squad, integration was difficult. Pardew reportedly had not requested either player and struggled to incorporate them.
Yang Yang had always believed Mascherano's quality was obvious. It seemed illogical that he could not succeed at West Ham.
Now, hearing him speak, it was clearer.
Controversial arrival. Tactical mismatch. Lingering injury fear.
West Ham's style under Pardew was direct and physical. A hesitant holding midfielder did not fit that blueprint.
...
When it came to psychological shadows, Yang Yang knew there was little he could do directly.
That kind of burden could only be eased through time, self-belief, and perhaps professional guidance. Confidence after a serious injury was not restored overnight.
From what he had observed, Mascherano was fully aware of the problem. The hesitation was not unconscious. He recognised it — and was fighting against it.
Benítez likely understood it as well.
That explained why the Argentine had not started certain high-pressure fixtures. Against Barcelona in the Champions League. Against Manchester United in this derby. These were matches where margins were thin and intensity relentless. A split-second of doubt could be costly.
Mascherano, however, carried a strong desire to prove himself.
He needed to break free from the past.
If Liverpool decided not to exercise the option to buy him permanently, he would return to the uncertainty of third-party ownership and contractual instability. That prospect weighed heavily on him.
"Psychologically, that part you have to overcome yourself," Yang Yang said with a faint smile. "But physically, I can recommend someone."
Mascherano looked up. "Who?"
"Winston Bogarde."
"The Dutchman?"
"Yes. He worked at Ajax before, and he was with us earlier this season. He's a fitness coach. Aurélio improved significantly under his programme. Daniel Agger trained with him as well. The results were very good."
There had even been talk within the club that Liverpool's relatively low injury rate during the winter period was partially linked to Bogarde's tailored conditioning sessions. Benítez had reportedly hoped to keep him longer, but Bogarde preferred to return to running his own training facility.
"I've heard of him," Mascherano said. "Francisco mentioned him."
Francisco de Miguel, the club's current fitness coach, had spoken highly of Bogarde's methods.
"He doesn't work here anymore," Mascherano added.
"I can contact him," Yang Yang replied calmly. "You can speak with him directly. If necessary, he could even come to Liverpool for a period."
For Yang Yang, it was not a complicated matter. His relationship with Bogarde went back to his Ajax days. A phone call would be enough.
Mascherano's expression changed immediately.
Relief and gratitude.
For him, this was not a small gesture.
It was support at a critical moment in his career.
He thanked Yang Yang repeatedly, his reserved demeanour momentarily replaced by visible appreciation.
For a player trying to rebuild both confidence and stability, such assistance meant far more than simple advice.