Against All Odds: Legacy Of A Football King-Chapter 341: Second-half Begins I

Fweeeee!

The referee’s whistle cut through the night air at De Grolsch Veste. Sharp and clear

The second half had begun.

Bright floodlights bathed the pitch in white light. The wind stirred in the corners of the stadium, making flags dance and scarves flutter.

Twenty-four thousand fans rose from their seats as one. The buzz of anticipation crackled like electricity.

AZ Alkmaar kicked off.

Altidore tapped the ball sideways to Maher. The young playmaker spun on his heel, his body twisting away from pressure. One touch. Two. Then he slipped the ball wide to Benjamin on the left wing.

Benjamin’s first touch was perfect. The ball stuck to his foot like glue. He looked up, saw Rosales charging toward him, and smiled.

One stepover. Two.

Rosales lunged.

Benjamin was already gone.

The crowd gasped as the young winger burst into open space. His legs pumped in rhythm. His boots barely touched the grass. He was flying.

[Benjamin again! He’s causing all sorts of problems,] the lead commentator’s voice boomed through the speakers. [The boy is on fire.]

Benjamin didn’t wait. He crossed the ball early, whipping it low and fast across the penalty box. The leather spun through the air like a bullet.

Martens came charging in from the back post. His leg stretched out, reaching for the ball. His boot was inches away from glory.

He missed by a whisker.

The ball sailed past his outstretched foot and bounced harmlessly to safety. Nathaniel Clyne scrambled to clear it, his desperate hack sending the ball flying into the stands behind the goal.

Benjamin dropped his head into his hands. His shoulders sagged. The AZ Alkmaar fans let out a collective groan that echoed around the stadium.

[So close! AZ Alkmaar starting this second half on the front foot,] the co-commentator observed, his voice rising with excitement.

Steve McClaren stood rigid on the edge of the technical area. His arms were crossed tight across his chest. His eyes never left the action. A few yards beside him, Gertjan Verbeek was already shouting instructions to his players, his voice cutting through the noise.

The clock showed forty-seven minutes. The second half was barely two minutes old, and already the intensity had doubled.

In midfield, Henriksen read the game like a book. He saw Tadić slow down for just a moment and pounced. His tackle was clean but firm. The ball popped loose.

Henriksen scooped it up and passed quickly to Berghuis on the right wing.

Berghuis trapped the ball with his chest and immediately cut inside. Two Twente defenders rushed toward him, their boots sliding on the grass. He waited until they were close enough to smell his sweat, then slipped the ball through to Altidore.

The striker’s first touch was heavy, but his second was magic. He spun around his marker and fired a shot toward goal.

The ball flew low and true, skimming across the wet grass.

Mihaylov dived to his left. His gloves stretched out, grasping for the ball.

He was a fraction too slow.

The ball smacked against the post with a sharp crack that rang around the stadium.

Twenty-four thousand people held their breath.

[Altidore hits the woodwork again! That’s the second time tonight!] Peter Walsh’s voice cracked with excitement.

[They’re knocking... AZ Alkmaar are knocking very loudly now,] Michael Harrison added, his words tumbling over each other.

The ball bounced back into play. Twente players scrambled to clear it. Tadić got there first, his long legs eating up the ground. He turned and tried to start a counter-attack.

But Martens was waiting for him.

The AZ Alkmaar defender slammed into Tadić with a crunching challenge that echoed around the stadium. Both players hit the ground hard. The referee’s whistle stayed silent.

Fair tackle.

AZ Alkmaar kept the pressure on. They could smell blood now.

Maher picked up the loose ball and looked up. He saw Berghuis making a run down the right wing and hit a long diagonal pass that sailed over three Twente heads.

Berghuis brought the ball down with his thigh like he was catching a butterfly. One touch to control, another to set himself, then he whipped in a cross that curled toward the penalty spot.

Henriksen was already moving. He timed his jump perfectly, rising above the defender behind him. His forehead connected with the ball at the exact right moment.

The header was clean and powerful, aimed for the bottom corner.

Mihaylov reacted like lightning. He threw himself across his goal line, his body stretching like a rubber band. His fingertips brushed the ball just enough to push it away from goal.

The ball spilled loose in the penalty area.

Altidore saw his chance. He lunged forward, his body horizontal in the air.

But Douglas was faster. The Twente defender got there first and booted the ball clear with all his strength.

[Relentless pressure from AZ Alkmaar!] Peter Walsh shouted, his voice hoarse with excitement. [You can feel a goal coming. You just can.]

On the sideline, Gertjan Verbeek was like a man possessed. His voice rang out across the pitch, cutting through the noise of the crowd.

"Don’t let up! Keep going! Pressure them!"

His players heard him. They responded.

Steve McClaren paced back and forth in his technical area. His brow was furrowed with worry lines. His team looked rattled. They were being pushed back, deeper and deeper.

The crowd could sense it too. The AZ Alkmaar fans were on their feet, bouncing and singing. The Twente supporters tried to match them, their voices rising in desperate song, trying to drown out the growing energy from the away end.

Benjamin got the ball again on the left wing. Rosales was waiting for him this time, but the young winger didn’t care. He danced to the right, then to the left. His feet moved so fast they were a blur.

Rosales committed to a tackle.

Benjamin skipped past him like he wasn’t even there.

This time, instead of going wide, Benjamin cut inside toward the penalty area. Twente players rushed to close him down, but he was too quick.

He spotted Maher lurking at the edge of the 18-yard box and rolled the ball to him.

Maher shaped his body as if he was about to shoot. The Twente defenders froze for a split second. Instead of shooting, he clipped a delicate pass over their heads to Altidore.

The big striker controlled the ball with his chest, letting it drop to his feet. Without hesitation, he hit it on the volley.

The shot was fierce and true.

Mihaylov threw himself to his right. His fingers just touched the ball, enough to tip it wide of the post.

The crowd erupted. Twenty-four thousand people jumped to their feet as one.

[What a save! Mihaylov is keeping Twente alive!] Michael Harrison shouted, his voice barely audible over the noise.

The AZ Alkmaar fans were going wild. Red and white shirts filled the penalty area as players rushed forward for the corner kick.

Martens stepped up to take it. He raised his hand to signal his teammates, then whipped the ball into the danger zone.

Viergever rose highest at the near post. His header was powerful but not accurate. The ball bounced in the six-yard box like a pinball.

Reijnen swung his boot at it.

Blocked by a desperate sliding tackle.

The ball bounced to Henriksen.

He didn’t hesitate. He fired from close range.

Too close. Too hurried. The ball sailed over the crossbar and into the stands behind the goal.

[End-to-end action here at De Grolsch Veste!] Peter Walsh yelled, his voice cracking with the strain. [And it’s all AZ Alkmaar right now!]

Five minutes into the second half. The crowd had barely had time to blink. The energy in the stadium was electric. You could feel it in your bones.

AZ Alkmaar were throwing punch after punch. Twente were hanging on by their fingertips.