Against All Odds: Legacy Of A Football King
Chapter 188: Training Session 1

Chapter 188: Training Session 1

Despite the dominant 15-0 victory over SC Veendam in the KNVB Beker second round, AZ Alkmaar had no time to dwell on their record-breaking performance.

The fixture list was getting tighter as the latter stages of the year closed by, and just three days later, they had a crucial league match against RKC Waalwijk. There was no room for complacency.

Gertjan Verbeek knew that maintaining momentum was key. While the win was a confidence booster, the Eredivisie remained the priority.

AZ Alkmaar were in the middle of a tightly contested league campaign and were placed second with a three points gap behind league leaders, AJax, and every point mattered.

Dropping focus now, even for a moment, could undo all the hard work they had put in.

Training resumed the very next day which was on monday the 28th. The squad reported early to the AFAS Training Complex, where Gertjan Verbeek and his coaching staff immediately shifted attention to RKC Waalwijk.

The second eleven players who had featured heavily in the cup match had a lighter session, while the rested main team trained at full intensity.

Despite the physical demands, the mood in the camp was positive. Winning by such a huge margin had lifted spirits, but there was no arrogance—just determination to keep the run going.

Meanwhile, news had already broken about AZ Alkmaar’s next opponent in the KNVB Beker. The draw for the third round had been made, and they were set to face Sneek Wit Zwart, a side from two divisions below the Eredivisie.

On paper, it was another favorable matchup, but Gertjan Verbeek wasn’t one to take any opponent lightly. He knew cup competitions had their surprises, and while the match wasn’t until November, it was another challenge to prepare for in the back of his mind.

For now, though, all focus was on RKC Waalwijk. Another game, another test, and another chance to prove that AZ Alkmaar were serious contenders on all fronts.

The sun had barely risen, casting a soft glow over the AFAS Training Complex. Despite the early hour, the squad moved with energy, the echoes of their laughter and conversation breaking the quiet.

Gertjan Verbeek stood near the center with his arms crossed, observing as the players began their warm-up routine under the guidance of the fitness coach.

There was no need for a rousing speech—everyone knew the importance of the coming days. The lightheartedness of their record-breaking win was already behind them.

They started with slow jogs around the pitch to warm up before the main session, their boots crunching against the damp grass. The pace was steady, loosening stiff muscles from the previous night’s recovery session.

As they circled the field, small pockets of conversation formed—Martens and Elm discussing a play from the last match, and Altidore joking with Jóhannsson about some funny missed chance. Benjamin ran alongside Henriksen, his mind already set on the drills to come.

After a few laps, they transitioned into dynamic stretches. Leg swings, lunges, high knees—each movement done with precision, easing their bodies into the session.

The coaching staff moved through the players, offering corrections and encouragement. There was no rush, but there was purpose.

"Keep it sharp, keep it focused," one of the assistants called out, clapping his hands.

Once the warm-up was complete, they split into groups for possession drills. Small grids were marked out on the pitch, and the intensity immediately picked up.

One-touch passing, quick movements, and relentless pressing—every player locked in, reacting to the ball’s movement as if it were a match situation.

"Move it faster!" Gertjan Verbeek’s voice rang out as he stepped closer to one of the grids. "Think ahead! Don’t wait for the pass—see it before it comes!"

Benjamin found himself in a tight space, three defenders closing in fast. He took a quick glance over his shoulder before flicking the ball with the outside of his boot toward Elm, who shifted it wide before the defenders could react. The move drew a nod of approval from the coach.

On another grid, Altidore shielded the ball from Marcellis, using his strength to hold off the defender before laying it off to Martens, who immediately switched play with a lofted pass. The rhythm of the game was building.

"That’s it! Play with purpose!" an assistant shouted.

The tempo continued to rise, and with it, the competitive edge among the players. The ball zipped across the surface, defenders lunged in with controlled aggression, and every misplaced pass was met with groans.

This wasn’t just a regular routine drill—it was a battle for sharpness, for fluidity, for the level of play they needed to maintain.

Gertjan Verbeek watched closely, his eyes scanning for lapses in concentration. There was no room for sluggishness, not with an important league match just days away.

After nearly thirty minutes of intense possession drills, the coaching staff finally called for a water break.

The players who were already dripping sweat like raindrops wasted no time, grabbing bottles of water as they sank to the grass, sweat glistening on their skin.

Some stretched their legs, others leaned back on their elbows, catching their breath. The crisp autumn air did little to cool the heat of the session.

Jozy Altidore took a long sip from his bottle before exhaling sharply. "Man," he muttered, shaking his head, "I still can’t believe I didn’t play in that game. What a big let off."

Henriksen, seated beside him, chuckled. "Tell me about it. Fifteen goals? That could’ve been a career stat booster for an attacker."

Martens, who was sprawled out with an arm over his forehead, groaned dramatically. "I swear, if I’d been on the pitch, I would’ve had a hat-trick, minimum. No cap."

Elm, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, laughed. "Hat-trick? Please. I would’ve bagged at least four."

Their exaggerated regretful expressions drew an immediate reaction from the others.

Benjamin, Berghuis, and Beerens exchanged amused glances before bursting into laughter. Guðmundsson and Adam nearly choked on their water, while Overtoom wiped a tear from his eye, shaking his head.