Against All Odds: Legacy Of A Football King
Chapter 149: Team Talk

Chapter 149: Team Talk

In the AZ Alkmaar dressing room, the air was thick with tension.

Boots scraped against the floor as players shuffled to their seats, their faces etched with a mixture of frustration and determination.

The sound of the door slamming shut behind Gertjan Verbeek silenced the low murmurs.

The head coach stood at the center of the room, his eyes scanning the players. His usually calm demeanor was replaced with a sharp intensity.

For a moment, he said nothing, letting the weight of the situation settle over the squad.

"Alright," Gertjan Verbeek began, his voice steady but firm. "Two-one. That’s where we’re at."

He looked to each player, his gaze lingering just long enough to remind them of their responsibility. "You’ve been the better team out there. They know it. We know it. But being better means nothing if we don’t take our chances."

Jozy Altidore leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his head nodding slightly. Next to him, Henriksen wiped sweat from his brow while breathing heavily.

"We’ve hit the post thrice," Gertjan Verbeek continued, his tone rising slightly. "Thrice! That’s unlucky, yes, but luck isn’t going to save us. We make our own luck."

He pointed toward the tactical board behind him, where the assistant coach, Martin Haar, was busy adjusting magnets representing the players. "PSV are playing narrow when they defend. Their fullbacks are getting sucked in, leaving space on the flanks. Berghuis, Benjamin—exploit that. Get wide, get crosses in. Jozy, stay sharp and proactive in the box. Those balls won’t come to you if you don’t stay in position."

Altidore nodded, his brow furrowed in concentration.

Gertjan Verbeek stepped closer to the group, his voice dropping. "And for the Midfield, I need more control. Martens, Elm—one of you has to stay back when the other pushes forward. We can’t afford to be caught out on the counter again."

Elm raised a hand slightly but drop it back, silently acknowledging the instruction. Beside him, Viergever shifted uncomfortably, knowing the defense had been exposed too easily for PSV’s second goal.

Gertjan Verbeek’s gaze landed on Benjamin, who was seated near the corner, staring at his boots. "Ben."

The young player looked up, his eyes meeting the coach’s.

"You’ve been unlucky tonight," Gertjan Verbeek said, his tone softening just a touch. "But don’t let it get in your head. Those strikes? That’s what I want to see more of. Keep shooting. One of them will eventually go in, and when it does, it’ll change the game."

Benjamin nodded, his shoulders straightening slightly under the encouragement.

Gertjan Verbeek clapped his hands, the sharp sound echoing through the room. "Now listen. This game is far from over. They’ve got the lead, but they’re not unbeatable. We’ve shown that already. Get out there, stay disciplined, and take the fight to them."

The players began to stir, the energy in the room shifting from frustration to determination.

Altidore and Henriksen exchanged a quick fist bump, while Martens leaned over to give Benjamin a reassuring pat on the back.

As the team prepared to leave the dressing room, Gertjan Verbeek’s voice rang out one last time. "Believe in yourselves. Play like you’ve got nothing to lose, but don’t lose your heads. This is our game to win."

Meanwhile, inside the PSV dressing room, the atmosphere was surprisingly a mirrored image of the AZ Alkmaar dressing room.

The players sat on benches, their jerseys clinging to their sweat-soaked backs, breaths coming in sharp and uneven. Some stared at the floor while others leaned back against the walls, trying to catch their breath.

The faint hum of the spectators outside filtered in, constantly reminding them of the battle waiting for them.

Dick Advocaat stood in the center with his arms crossed, and eyes scanning the room. He wasn’t shouting—yet—but his voice carried the weight of authority.

"We’re playing like we’re scared," he said, his tone firm but measured. "AZ Alkmaar are good, but they’re not at the level to warrant such. We’ve made it too easy for them to dictate the game."

A few players shifted uncomfortably. Dries Mertens ran a hand through his hair, avoiding the coach’s gaze. Kevin Strootman, seated in the middle, nodded slightly, his jaw clenched.

"Lens," Advocaat said, turning to the winger, who was hunched forward with his elbows on his knees. "You’re fast, but you’ve got to use your head. Twice you’ve had space, and twice you’ve picked the wrong option. Be smarter."

Lens nodded quickly, wiping his face with a towel. "Got it, coach."

"And Matavž," Advocaat continued, pointing at the striker. "You’ve got to stay sharp in the box. You can’t drift offside like that. We need you to be clinical, not careless."

Matavž raised a hand in acknowledgment, his expression apologetic. "I’ll fix it, coach."

The coach’s gaze shifted to the defenders. "Bouma, Derijck—good work so far, but don’t get complacent. Altidore’s a handful, and that kid in the left wing, Benjamin? He’s got an eye for a pass. Keep him under control. Don’t let him dictate."

Bouma nodded, his face a mask of determination. "We’ll lock him down."

Advocaat’s voice softened slightly as he addressed the team as a whole. "We’ve had our chances and are ahead by two goals to one. That early goal being called offside was unlucky, but we can’t let that mess with our heads. We’re creating openings—now we just have to finish them."

The assistant coach, Ernest Faber, stepped in, his voice carrying a sense of urgency. "Set pieces, gentlemen. AZ Alkmaar are dangerous with their corners. We’ve been lucky so far, but we can’t rely on luck. Stay switched on."

Strootman, the captain, stood suddenly, his voice cutting through the murmurs. "We’ve got this," he said, looking around at his teammates. "We know how good we are. We just need to show it. Keep the ball moving, press high, and take the fight to them."

A few players muttered agreement, the tension in the room starting to shift. Jeremain Lens clapped his hands together, a flicker of determination returning to his face.

Dick Advocaat stepped closer, his voice low but intense. "The second half is ours. Go out there and show them why we’re PSV."

The players rose in unison, and their expressions hardened. As they filed out of the room, the noise of the crowd grew louder, fueling their resolve.

In the corner, Advocaat exchanged a glance with Faber. "They’ve got the fight in them," he said quietly. "Let’s hope they use it."

The players filed out, their cleats clicking against the tiled floor, their expressions focused and resolute.

In the tunnel, the noise from the stadium grew louder, the fans chanting and singing in anticipation of the second half.

Back in the commentary box, Mike’s voice cut through the broadcast.

[Well, here come AZ Alkmaar,] he said, watching the players emerge. [They’ve got a mountain to climb, but if anyone can turn this around, it’s them]

[And they’ll need to hit the ground running, Mike,] the co-commentator added. [PSV have the lead and all the momentum, but a quick goal for AZ Alkmaar could flip this game on its head]

The camera panned to Benjamin, who’s face was a picture of calm determination as he stepped onto the pitch.

[This second half, against a top club like PSV] Mike said, his tone brimming with anticipation, [could define their season]