Against All Odds: Legacy Of A Football King
Chapter 312: Chaotic Goal

Chapter 312: Chaotic Goal

The clock ticked to the 87th minute. The air in Alkmaar’s AFAS Stadion buzzed, electric with tension.

Both sides pushed, stretched thin, chasing a breakthrough. The scoreboard still read 2-2, but the game felt alive, teetering on the edge of chaos.

Peter’s voice crackled through the commentary booth, steady but urgent. [This is it, John. Late, late drama. Both teams throwing everything at it now]

John leaned closer to the mic, his tone sharp. [You can feel it, can’t you? One mistake, one moment—it’s all it takes]

On the pitch, AZ Alkmaar won a corner. The crowd roared, a hoarse wave of noise that hadn’t let up all night.

Benjamin jogged to the flag, wiping sweat from his brow. He raised one hand, signaling to his teammates.

Altidore and Henriksen muscled their way into the 18 yard box, jostling with Skrtel and Agger. Adam Maher lingered on the edge, ready for scraps.

Peter’s voice lifted. [Benjamin’s over the ball. He’s been a menace all night, hasn’t he?]

John chuckled. [Oh, absolutely. Liverpool can’t get a grip on him. This is dangerous]

Benjamin took a step back, eyes scanning the crowded penalty area. The whistle blew. He swung his right foot, sending the ball curling high, a wicked arc that dipped toward the six-yard box.

Reina punched the air, shouting orders, but the 18 yard box was a mess. Bodies collided. Elbows flew. Altidore jumped, twisting mid-air, but Skrtel leaned into him, both men tumbling.

The ball grazed Agger’s shoulder, popping loose. Henriksen lunged, missed it by inches. It bounced once, then spun awkwardly off Johnson’s shin.

Peter’s voice spiked. [It’s loose!]

John jumped in. [Oh, it’s pinball in there!]

The ball squirted toward the penalty spot. Adam Maher darted in, swinging a boot, but Allen threw himself in the way. The block sent the ball spinning again, this time toward the far post.

Reina scrambled, off-balance, shouting at his defenders. Martens, unmarked for a split second, met it with a desperate lunge.

His toe caught it—wild, uncontrolled.

The ball skewed upward, looping high, then dropped like a stone.

Right onto Altidore’s chest.

He didn’t think. Just reacted by swinging his leg.

Crack.

The net shook.

The stadium exploded.

GOOAAAAALLLLLLL!!!~

Peter roared into the mic. [GOAL! It’s in! AZ Alkmaar, in the 87th minute!]

John’s voice overlapped, laughing in disbelief. [What a mess! What an absolute mess! Altidore’s there—Altidore’s got it!]

Altidore wheeled away with his arms spread wide, sprinting toward the home fans. The stands were a sea of red and white, scarves swinging, voices breaking.

Benjamin caught up, jumping onto his back. Henriksen piled in, fists pumping. Gertjan Verbeek leaped from the bench, coat flapping, screaming something no one could hear.

Peter caught his breath. [Oh, that’s massive, John. That’s absolutely massive. 3-2 ahead and they’re level on points with Liverpool in Group A as it stands]

John was grinning, his voice buzzing. [Look at this place! It’s bedlam! But you’ve got to say, Peter—what was Liverpool’s defense doing? It’s a comedy of errors in there]

Peter laughed. [Comedy? It’s a full-on circus! Skrtel’s on the floor, Agger’s lost his man, Reina’s nowhere to be seen. Benjamin’s corner caused all sorts of havoc]

On the pitch, Liverpool’s players stood stunned. Reina kicked the post, yelling at no one in particular.

Skrtel dragged himself up, shaking his head, grass stains smeared across his shorts. Brendan Rodgers paced the touchline, arms crossed tight, lips moving fast.

The referee pointed to the center circle. No arguments. The goal stood.

John’s tone shifted, analytical now. [You know, Peter, that’s what Benjamin does. He puts it in the mixer, and something always happens. Liverpool just switched off]

Peter nodded, though no one could see. [They did. And AZ Alkmaar deserve that. They’ve been relentless. But there’s still time here, John. Liverpool won’t go quietly]

The game restarted. Gerrard clapped his hands, barking at his teammates. The away fans, packed tight in one corner, found their voices again, urging a response.

Suárez dropped deep, hunting the ball. Sturridge made a run, pulling Henriksen wide.

Minute 88.

Liverpool pushed forward. Allen sprayed a pass to Sturridge, who took it on the turn and darted down the left. He cut inside, past Adam, and flicked a short ball to Suárez.

The Uruguayan spun, one touch to control, another to slip past Viergever. He was in space now, 25 yards out.

Peter’s voice tightened. [Suárez—here he goes]

John leaned forward. [He’s got that look, Peter. You know the one]

Suárez glanced up. Alvarado had stayed rooted, guarding his line. The angle was narrow, but Suárez didn’t care. He struck it—low, venomous, skidding across the wet grass.

Alvarado dove with his arms stretched.

The ball zipped past his fingers and clipped the post.

CLANG!!!~

A collective gasp ripped through the stands.

Peter exhaled. [Oh, my word! So close!]

John’s voice was high, almost a shout. [That’s inches, Peter! Inches! Alvarado’s nowhere near it!]

The ball rolled out for a corner. Suárez dropped to his knees, hands over his face. Sturridge ran over, pulling him up, shouting something in his ear.

The away bench was on its feet, Brendan Rodgers waving his arms, urging them to stay focused.

John chuckled. [That man’s a magician, isn’t he? Suárez nearly steals it back]

Peter’s tone was serious now. [Nearly, John. But nearly doesn’t cut it. AZ Alkmaar are holding firm]

Liverpool’s corner came to nothing. Gerrard swung it in, but Viergever rose highest, thumping a header clear.

The ball landed with Maher, who took no chances, booting it long. Benjamin chased, but Johnson tracked him, shepherding it out for a throw.

Minute 90.

The fourth official’s board went up. Five minutes added.

Peter’s voice carried a grin. [Five more minutes of this? My heart can’t take it]

John laughed. [Buckle up, Peter. It’s not over yet]

Liverpool threw everything forward. Skrtel even jogged up for a long throw. Johnson hurled it into the 18 yard box, but Altidore headed clear, chest puffed out, roaring to the crowd. The noise swelled again, a wall of sound.