The entire Anfield transformed into a churning, turbulent sea.
The famous old stadium resembled a storm-tossed ship, rising and falling with the relentless waves of noise and passion that crashed down from every stand.
From the opening whistle, Roma launched a ferocious assault on Liverpool's goal, carving out chance after chance with aggressive, purposeful football.
Pepe Reina quickly became the busiest man in the back line.
Yet with Xabi Alonso, Javier Mascherano and Steven Gerrard forming a compact, disciplined shield just in front of the penalty area, Roma were repeatedly forced into long-range efforts. Although Liverpool's defenders and their Spanish goalkeeper remained faultless, the sheer weight of pressure created an unmistakable sensation that the home side was weathering a storm—holding on, but only just.
Particularly dangerous was Roma's left flank.
Mancini advanced down the left flank and whipped a dangerous, curling delivery into the six-yard box. Reina reacted instantly, surging off his line to meet the ball in the air. He launched himself forward, timing his leap perfectly, and claimed the cross cleanly with both hands just before Mirko Vučinić could connect with a powerful header.
The ball never reached the Montenegrin forward, and the danger was averted.
A collective gasp swept through the Kop, followed by a roar of relief and appreciation for the Spanish goalkeeper's bravery.
Reina landed heavily but rolled through the momentum, pushed himself back to his feet in one fluid motion, and without a second's hesitation launched a powerful drop-kick with his right boot, aiming to bypass Roma's high press and find Yang Yang racing forward on the left wing.
The long ball sailed deep toward the halfway line, but Yang Yang was still recovering position in his own half and couldn't catch up in time. It bounced once and ran out of play for a Roma throw-in near the touchline.
Liverpool had given the ball away cheaply.
Reina's hurried clearance, born of the frantic moment, had been a rare misjudgment. No immediate danger resulted, but the sequence still cost possession and handed Roma another chance to build.
The Spanish goalkeeper immediately raised his left hand high in apology, palm open toward his teammates scattered across the pitch.
Steven Gerrard responded at once, clapping his hands sharply and barking encouragement. "Heads up! Stay with it!" he shouted, voice carrying over the din. "We just need to get through this spell—stay compact, stay calm!"
His teammates understood the situation perfectly. Rafael Benítez had warned them plainly before kick-off: Roma would come hard from the start, throwing everything forward in search of an early goal on Anfield soil.
How long the onslaught would last was anyone's guess—ten minutes, fifteen, perhaps even twenty or more.
Spalletti's teams were notoriously unpredictable in their approach, their tactical shifts sudden and sharp. No one could read the Italian manager's mind with certainty, least of all when the Stadio Olimpico's pride was on the line in front of sixty thousand roaring English voices.
…
Spalletti had been pacing the technical area since the opening whistle.
When the Italian bald-headed manager saw Reina's hurried kick sail out of bounds, he couldn't help but clap his hands sharply and let out a satisfied shout.
"Great! That's exactly it—keep the pressure on them!"
After the outburst, Spalletti turned and strode back toward the visiting dugout.
This early, aggressive start was the core of his match strategy: disrupt Liverpool's rhythm right from the kick-off and prevent them from settling into their usual controlled game.
Anfield remained the most fearsome fortress in European football this season—no visiting side had left with three points.
Roma's public slogan was victory, but privately Spalletti was realistic: a draw would be an excellent result here. Secure it, and the second leg at the Olimpico would give them every chance to progress.
This was the first time in nearly twenty-three years that Roma had reached the Champions League quarter-finals, yet Spalletti's ambition stretched further.
"Benítez clearly anticipated we'd come out swinging," assistant coach Daniele Domenichini said, flipping through the small notebook crammed with scribbled observations. "Even at home, they've stayed relatively stable from the start."
Spalletti nodded without taking his eyes off the pitch.
"The midfield triangle of Xabi Alonso, Mascherano and Gerrard is rock-solid," Domenichini continued. "That unit wouldn't look out of place against the AC Milan side everyone calls the best in Europe."
Spalletti gave another steady nod. He had seen the same thing: Liverpool's engine room was compact, disciplined, and difficult to break down.
"Then we go wide," Spalletti replied. "Stretch them out to the flanks, then cut back into the middle."
"Exactly," Domenichini agreed.
"Paolo!" Spalletti called over his shoulder to the other assistant standing nearby. "It's been almost ten minutes. Can we sustain this intensity?"
Paolo Bertelli, Roma's fitness coach, had been instrumental in the club's recent surge. The Giallorossi's ability to press high and maintain tempo across Serie A—and now in Europe—owed much to his meticulous conditioning work over the past two seasons.
Along with Domenichini, Bertelli was one of Spalletti's most trusted lieutenants.
"I think we can hold it for at least another five minutes—maybe even ten," Bertelli answered after a quick glance at his watch and the players' body language on the field.
Both teams had come off demanding fixtures three days earlier. Liverpool had hosted Arsenal at Anfield and come away with a convincing win. Roma, meanwhile, had drawn at home against AC Milan—a solid result, but one that left them with less recovery time than the Reds might have enjoyed after their victory.
Spalletti nodded once more, then turned his full attention back to the pitch.
In the pre-match tactical briefing, he had identified Liverpool's two most dangerous threats: Peter Crouch and Yang Yang.
Crouch, the towering target man standing well over two metres, was a physical anomaly. Spalletti had half-joked to his staff that the Englishman should have played basketball instead of football. Yet Crouch combined that height with surprising mobility and technical quality. His link-up play in the final third—especially with Yang Yang and Dirk Kuyt—was growing more effective by the match.
Then there was Yang Yang himself: Liverpool's most lethal attacker, arguably the most complete forward in European football over the past two seasons. His individual quality was undeniable; given even half a chance, he could score in countless ways.
Spalletti had publicly downplayed any specific plan to mark Yang Yang before the game, insisting Roma would focus on the team rather than individuals. In reality, everyone understood the truth: neutralize Yang Yang, or Liverpool's attack would tear you apart.
Right-back Marco Cassetti, centre-back Philippe Mexès, and right-sided midfielder Daniele De Rossi formed the triangle Spalletti had tasked with containing him. From the first minute, the three had executed their roles tightly: Cassetti shadowing runs down the wing, Mexès stepping up to block central channels, De Rossi dropping to double up when necessary. So far, Yang Yang had been given no clear opening.
"Keep this up," Spalletti said, his voice low but firm, "and we'll take at least one point out of here."
...
From the opening whistle of the first half, Liverpool had been largely pinned back, reduced to an average, reactive performance under Roma's sustained pressure.
Yang Yang, too, had been kept quiet so far. He frequently dropped deep into his own half to help his teammates defend, tracking runners and closing passing lanes.
In one defensive phase, the Swedish winger Christian Wilhelmsson dribbled forward on Roma's right flank, only for his attempted pass to be intercepted.
The loose ball rolled free.
Yang Yang reacted instantly, sprinting to win it back, taking it under control in stride, and bursting past Wilhelmsson with a sharp acceleration to launch a rapid counter-attack.
Daniele De Rossi, positioned close by in midfield, closed the space immediately, charging in to confront him.
For the past two or three years, Yang Yang had drilled intensely in the Dream Training System on specialised reaction and agility exercises—scenarios built precisely to mimic the sudden arrival of an aggressive defender in match conditions.
So when he sensed De Rossi bearing down, Yang Yang instinctively dropped his right shoulder, feinted left with a quick touch outside his left foot, then dragged the ball sharply right and accelerated away.
De Rossi lunged but was left grasping at air.
Having beaten two men in quick succession, Yang Yang cut inside sharply and drove toward the penalty area with the ball glued to his feet.
But Roma reacted fast. David Pizarro slid across from central midfield, Philippe Mexès stepped out from centre-back, and De Rossi—recovering from the initial dribble—raced back to join them. The three Italians converged, boxing Yang Yang in the middle of the pitch.
For a split second, it felt like being trapped in a cage. Yang Yang scanned quickly, spotted space to his left, and fired a firm pass back toward the flank. Unfortunately, Peter Crouch had already peeled inside too early and wasn't in position to receive it.
Marco Cassetti, tracking back smartly, arrived first and hammered the ball clear upfield.
The attack came to nothing, but Yang Yang's burst of skill—two sharp dribbles and a clean escape—drew warm, appreciative applause from the stands. The Liverpool supporters recognised the quality, even if the move hadn't produced a clear chance.
The repeated bursts of acceleration, sharp changes of direction, and high-intensity sprints left Yang Yang breathing a little harder as he jogged back into position.
He felt a touch of frustration.
He knew he was Roma's primary marking target. The Italian side's defence was proving a real headache, especially this kind of focused, man-oriented marking.
Moments earlier, after shaking off Wilhelmsson, De Rossi's intervention had been perfectly timed. A fraction of a second slower, and Yang Yang could have angled his run diagonally forward instead of cutting horizontally inside.
The difference between those two paths was enormous: horizontal meant another change of direction to go goalward; diagonal would have carried him straight toward the box with momentum.
He had to admit it—Roma's defensive work was meticulous.
Yang Yang glanced toward the touchline. Spalletti's bald head gleamed under the floodlights; the Italian looked pleased, laughing and clapping as his team dealt with the threat.
Credit where it was due, Yang Yang thought: the targeted defensive setup was working.
Roma's focus remained squarely on him and Crouch, and it had succeeded in keeping Liverpool on the back foot from the start.
What now?
If Roma scored first, the tie would become far more difficult. He needed to find a way through.
Yang Yang kept searching for openings.
Soon Roma built another dangerous move. Francesco Totti collected the ball thirty yards out, shifted it onto his left foot, and unleashed a powerful, dipping long-range shot. The ball curled wickedly, grazed the outside of the post, and spun behind for a goal kick.
Anfield held its breath, then exhaled in collective relief. That one had been close.
Yang Yang got his next opening moments later.
He received possession suddenly on the left side of midfield, turned, and drove forward at pace. De Rossi stepped up to engage again.
Yang Yang feinted right, then threaded the ball neatly between the Italian's legs with a cheeky nutmeg before continuing his run and delivering an accurate, low pass into Crouch's feet.
The towering Englishman controlled it well and swung his right leg back to shoot. But Mexès and Cristian Chivu closed in tandem, the pair throwing their bodies in to block his line.
Crouch's contact was poor—his boot caught the ball awkwardly and sent it ballooning high and wide. A wasted chance.
Crouch shook his head in frustration, clearly annoyed at being sandwiched by two defenders.
Yang Yang caught sight of Steven Gerrard as the play broke down.
Liverpool's captain had dropped a little deeper since kick-off, which had left the midfield zone ahead of him under-populated when transitions occurred.
If Gerrard—or Xabi Alonso—could surge forward more aggressively to support attacks, their long-range shooting ability could punish Roma's high line...
As Yang Yang jogged back toward his own half during the momentary pause, he glanced across at Gerrard.
The two had been teammates for more than six months now. In all that time, Yang Yang had never provided an assist to Gerrard, and Gerrard had never set one up for him. Yet their on-pitch understanding felt almost instinctive—they read each other's movements without needing frequent direct combinations or goal involvements.
Their eyes met briefly. Gerrard gave a small, knowing nod. Yang Yang returned it.
Then Yang Yang turned and made a quick, discreet gesture toward Crouch—outlining the next coordinated movement with a subtle hand signal.
...
Spalletti's team had indeed executed their game plan with impressive efficiency on both sides of the ball—swift in transition, disciplined in shape.
They plugged gaps rapidly when pushing forward and retreated in numbers the moment possession was lost.
Wilhelmsson's contribution that night owed much to his work rate: excellent positioning in attack, but equally committed to sprinting back the instant the ball turned over.
Liverpool intercepted once more in midfield and exploded into another lightning counter. Yang Yang collected the loose ball on the left flank. Christian Wilhelmsson was already bearing down from the right wing, Marco Cassetti closing aggressively in support behind him, and Daniele De Rossi lurking just inside, ready to pounce if the move came centrally.
One glance with God Vision sweeping the scene told Yang Yang everything: he could probably skin the two on his right side alone, even with De Rossi waiting to intercept. But this time glory wasn't the priority. He wanted to drag Roma's entire defensive block toward him and create space through the middle.
He burst forward without hesitation, driving straight at Wilhelmsson and forcing the Italian back line to drop deeper, retreating toward their own thirty-metre zone.
Then the magic happened.
A quick step-over with his right foot, a feigned shot that sucked in the defender's weight, a sharp body feint to the outside—and instead of bursting past on the wing, Yang Yang cut the ball sharply inside with the sole of his left boot.
De Rossi charged in to shut down the angle, but Yang Yang was a fraction quicker. Right foot planted firmly, he pushed a precise, low pass through the narrowing channel between the lines.
The ball sliced like lightning across Roma's midfield.
Steven Gerrard and Xabi Alonso, having watched Yang Yang charge at Wilhelmsson, instantly read the intention. Xabi, positioned perfectly in the pocket of space, surged forward toward the edge of the penalty area.
He trusted Yang Yang implicitly—after more than six months as teammates, he knew the young forward rarely misplaced a pass in these moments.
And sure enough, Yang Yang delivered. After dribbling past Wilhelmsson, shimmying around De Rossi's recovering lunge, he threaded the ball right into Xabi's running path.
Anyone else might have grumbled in the aftermath, "Damn, couldn't you have put it closer?" But in the heat of the moment, Xabi had zero time to complain. He sprinted at full tilt to meet the rolling ball.
As a playmaker himself, he understood immediately why Yang Yang had placed it exactly there: just far enough from David Pizarro to allow a clean first touch, while Peter Crouch was tying up Philippe Mexès and Cristian Chivu up top—leaving Roma's central lane momentarily wide open.
Xabi took it on the half-volley with his right foot, powering through the contact as he drove forward.
A thunderous crack echoed through the stadium. Before anyone could fully react, the ball rocketed past Doni and into the net. The Roma goalkeeper barely twitched; the rigging bulged violently behind him.
"Gooooooooooooooooooal!!!!!"
"Xabi Alonso!"
"Goal in!!!!!"
"1-0! A devastating quick counter-attack from Liverpool—Yang Yang with the assist for Xabi Alonso!"
"A thunderous long-range strike from twenty yards!"
The Spaniard had felt the power the instant his boot connected—he knew the ball was destined for the net.
When he saw it crash into the roof of the Roma goal, he spun away to the left and sprinted straight toward Yang Yang. He scooped up the young teammate in a bear hug, lifting him slightly off the ground as they celebrated wildly near the corner flag.
Xabi Alonso was simply incredible!
Liverpool players poured forward from every direction. The team swarmed around Yang Yang and Xabi Alonso, jumping, slapping backs, and roaring in relief. This key goal from the Spanish midfielder would lift an enormous weight off the home side's shoulders.
"The person they're focusing on is me," Yang Yang said quickly amid the chaos, his voice steady with newfound confidence now that the strategy had paid off. "I pull their defence apart. You just get into position—I'll send the pass for you to score!"
His teammates nodded, the realisation dawning clearly. This was the opening they had been waiting for.
The main reason it worked: Roma's defensive block had pushed too high and too narrow, leaving them vulnerable to that exact switch of play.
…
They had conceded first.
Spalletti's face drained of colour.
Just ten minutes earlier, Roma had held a commanding grip on the match. Now, unexpectedly, the scoreboard showed Liverpool ahead.
What now?
Drop into a low block and defend for dear life?
Moments ago they had been inches from taking the lead themselves—multiple clear chances carved open—and to suddenly pull everyone behind the ball would feel like throwing away every bit of momentum they had painstakingly built. It would sting.
Yet the alternative was grim too. Another goal conceded now, and the tie could slip away before half-time.
A conservative manager—Benítez, Mourinho, Capello—would almost certainly have chosen caution at this moment: shore up the back line, stabilise, absorb pressure, then look to strike on the break once the storm passed.
Luciano Spalletti was not that kind of coach.
He lived for attack.
Risk was baked into his footballing DNA.
The Roma players, too, were visibly shaken by the goal. They had dominated large stretches of the game, created chance after chance on Anfield's famous turf, only to be caught and punished on the counter.
The injustice burned.
Heads dropped for a heartbeat; shoulders slumped; muttered curses carried on the cold Merseyside air.
But Spalletti did not signal retreat.
He stayed on the touchline, arms folded, jaw set, eyes burning with the same fire he demanded from his squad.
No backward step.
No parking the bus.
Instead, Roma surged forward again—faster, hungrier, more reckless than before.
Totti dropped deeper to collect, turned, and immediately looked for the channels. De Rossi pushed up alongside him, no longer sitting so deep. Cassetti and Panucci bombed forward on the flanks almost in unison, overlapping aggressively. Even the centre-backs, Mexès and Ferrari, stepped higher to compress the space and support the press.
The crowd sensed the shift. Anfield, which had erupted in relief and noise after Liverpool's goal, now felt the sudden tension again. The away section—packed with red-and-yellow scarves—roared encouragement, sensing their team refused to fold.
Roma were going all-in.
They were gambling that one more big push, one moment of quality, could restore parity before the balance of the tie tilted irreversibly toward the home side.
Whether that gamble would pay off or bury them deeper remained to be seen.
But Luciano Spalletti had made his choice.
And his players, disappointed and angry as they were, had followed.
…
When Yang Yang first arrived at Ajax, almost everyone drilled the same lesson into him.
Van Gaal, Ronald Koeman, Ruud Krol and Marco van Basten.
They all said the same thing, over and over:
On the pitch, the most important qualities are truthfulness, calmness, and reason.
Never lose your head.
Statistics bear it out: in football, the ten minutes immediately following a goal are the most dangerous period for another one to follow.
Either the team that conceded charges forward in a desperate, emotional counterattack and finds an equaliser—or the team that scored smells blood, presses the advantage, exploits the disarray, and doubles their lead.
There is a third possibility, of course.
The conceding side throws everything forward in a frenzy, fails to score, overcommits, and gets picked off on the break.
That was exactly what happened to Roma now.
After Yang Yang collected the ball in the left half-space, he glanced up once—briefly—then played a sharp diagonal pass out to Crouch, who had drifted wide left to stretch the back line.
Crouch held off the pressing Roma defender, used his height and frame to shield, then laid the ball back into the channel for Aurélio arriving late from deep.
The Brazilian full-back took one touch to control, drove forward a few strides, then whipped a low, driven cross back toward the centre.
Yang Yang had already peeled off his marker and curved his run into the middle.
He positioned his body between the ball and Daniele De Rossi, using his shoulder and hip to block the Italian midfielder's path without fouling. As the ball arrived, Yang Yang cushioned it perfectly with the outside of his left foot—not a heavy touch, just a delicate side-foot flick that sent the ball arcing gently over Cristian Chivu's outstretched leg.
The Romanian centre-back, caught flat-footed, could only watch it sail past.
And then Steven Gerrard appeared.
No one had tracked exactly when he had made the late, surging run from midfield, but suddenly he was there—ghosting in behind Chivu, perfectly timed, one step ahead of the recovering defender.
Gerrard took the ball in stride on the edge of the box, just inside the arc of the penalty area. Doni, sensing the danger, rushed off his line to narrow the angle.
Too late.
Gerrard, with ice in his veins, opened his body and chipped the ball delicately over the sprawling Brazilian goalkeeper.
The ball looped, hung for a heartbeat, then dropped softly into the far corner of the net.
2–0.
"Gooooooooooooooal!!!!!"
"Five minutes! Five minutes!"
"Liverpool have scored twice in five minutes—and both assists come from Yang Yang!"
"My God—he had his back completely turned to the centre, yet somehow he spotted Gerrard's run into the channel. Does this kid have eyes in the back of his head?"
"That pass was exquisite. A little outside-of-the-boot curler, just enough bend to clear Chivu. Gerrard only had to lift his leg and guide it home."
"Yang Yang with the assist—Gerrard with the chipped finish from the edge of the box. Roma's goal breached again!"
"Two-nil to Liverpool!"
Gerrard took off immediately, arms spread wide, sprinting toward the corner flag in that familiar, relentless celebration stride.
The rest of the Liverpool players poured after him—Carragher pumping his fist, Alonso clapping and the others joining the huddle. Anfield erupted once more, the Kop end shaking with noise, scarves twirling, the roar rolling down from the stands like a wave.
"I knew you'd see me!" Gerrard shouted as he reached Yang Yang, slapping him hard on the back. "I bloody knew it!"
He grabbed Yang Yang around the shoulders, grinning wildly. "That assist? Half a year's rent—waived. You're living rent-free, mate!"
The others piled in, laughing, congratulating, shaking their heads in disbelief.
Because it really was unbelievable.
Yang Yang had received the ball facing left, body oriented toward the flank, no line of sight to the centre. Gerrard's run had come from deep, late, completely out of his field of vision.
Yet the pass had dropped exactly where it needed to be—perfect weight, perfect curve, perfect timing.
Coincidence? Too precise.
Luck? Too consistent.
But Yang Yang said nothing.
He just smiled faintly, accepted the back-slaps and praise, and jogged back toward the halfway line.
Sometimes it was better to let a little mystery linger.
…
After the second goal went in, Liverpool's confidence surged to breaking point.
Across the pitch, Roma looked shell-shocked—lost, uncertain, players glancing at one another as if searching for answers that weren't coming.
And that was exactly when Liverpool struck again.
Aurélio collected the ball on the left flank, took a couple of strides to draw his marker, then clipped a precise diagonal pass into the centre circle toward Gerrard.
Gerrard controlled it cleanly, drove forward a few metres with purpose, then—without breaking stride—slid the ball left to Yang Yang, who had dropped short to offer an angle.
Yang Yang took one touch to settle it, feinted left with a quick step-over, then nutmegged Cassetti in a flash. The Italian full-back slid desperately but got nothing but air as Yang Yang burst past him and raced toward the byline.
Reaching the edge of the six-yard box, Yang Yang whipped a low, driven cross along the ground toward the near post.
Crouch timed his run perfectly, arriving ahead of the scrambling centre-back. He met the ball with a firm downward header from point-blank range—thud—straight past Doni and into the net.
3–0.
"Gooooooooooooooal!!!"
"Third assist!"
"Yang Yang has just delivered his third assist of the night!"
"My God—he's registered an assist hat-trick in under twenty minutes!"
"Three-nil! Liverpool have torn Roma apart with a ferocious ten-minute spell."
"The Roman wolves have been tamed on the road!"
"Spalletti needs to steady his team right now. At this rate, with Liverpool riding this wave, another goal feels inevitable."
Anfield exploded. The roar was deafening—over 40,000 voices fused into one continuous wall of sound. The Kop end bounced as one; scarves spun overhead; the stadium lights seemed to pulse with the energy.
Liverpool's players were in full flow now, rhythm locked in, passing crisp, movement instinctive. The early nerves had vanished; they were dictating the tempo completely.
The game had flipped on its head.
What had started as a passive, cautious Liverpool performance had transformed into relentless pressure. Wave after wave rolled toward Roma's goal.
Yang Yang, in particular, was everywhere on the left wing—relentless, electric.
Two minutes after Crouch's header, he collected again on the flank, sold Cassetti another dummy with hips and shoulders, cut inside, and unleashed a curling left-footed shot from the edge of the D. The ball swerved beautifully but clipped the outside of the post and spun away.
Moments later, he tried his luck from deeper—twenty-five yards out, a driven effort straight at Doni, who parried it wide with both hands.
Liverpool were rampant, but Roma refused to fold.
Three goals down, something in them snapped—not despair, but anger. They abandoned any thought of sitting deep. Spalletti, arms folded on the touchline, could only watch as his players pushed higher, chasing the game with the same reckless spirit he had demanded earlier.
The counterpunch came quickly.
Yang Yang picked up possession once more on the left touchline. He shook off Cassetti for the third time in quick succession—sharp change of direction, burst of acceleration—then drove infield, drawing De Rossi toward him.
At the last moment, before the Italian could close him down, Yang Yang shifted the ball to his right foot and lofted a perfectly weighted cross over the top of the Roma back line.
Dirk Kuyt had made an intelligent diagonal run from the right channel, timing it to perfection. He stole half a yard on his marker, rose highest in the six-yard box, and powered a downward header past the despairing dive of Doni.
4–0.
"Oh my word! Four goals!"
"Every single Liverpool goal tonight has come from an assist by Yang Yang!"
"I think he forgot his shooting boots at home—but he definitely remembered the assist boots!"
"Incredible!"
"Yang Yang has orchestrated an astonishing offensive storm."
"In the 34th minute of the first half, Liverpool lead Roma 4–0!"
"No one saw this coming before kick-off. The Roma wolves have been given a brutal footballing lesson at Anfield."
"Yang Yang, with four assists already, is the undisputed star of the show. He hasn't scored, but every touch, every run, every time he gets on the ball, he carves out gilt-edged chances. He's had several good shooting opportunities himself tonight, yet somehow the radar for goals is off—his accuracy is pinpoint for assists, but the finishing touch has eluded him so far."
"Regardless, he remains the absolute focal point on this pitch."
"Don't believe it? Just listen to the Anfield faithful."
The stadium shook with chants—his name echoing from every stand, over and over.
Even with a four-goal cushion, Liverpool kept coming. They pressed, they probed, they hunted.
Yang Yang, more than anyone, wanted a goal tonight. You could see it in the way he sprinted back for every restart, the urgency in his runs, the frustration when another shot sailed just wide or was blocked.
But the ball and the goalframe refused to cooperate. It was one of those nights.
Roma, to their credit, never stopped fighting.
Four goals behind, trailing heavily away from home, most Italian sides of the era might have shut up shop, preserved some dignity, waited for the final whistle.
Not this Roma.
Not under Spalletti.
They kept pushing forward—stubborn, proud, refusing to accept humiliation.
This was nothing like the stereotype of the cautious, catenaccio-minded Italian team.
They were still trying to play.