Against All Odds: Legacy Of A Football King
Chapter 329: Full-time

Chapter 329: Full-time

The clock ticked to the 87th minute. The air in Rotterdam’s De Kuip buzzed, electric with tension. Both sides pushed, stretched thin, chasing a breakthrough. The scoreboard still read 1-0, AZ Alkmaar clinging to Altidore’s first-half strike, but the game felt alive, teetering on the edge of chaos.

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

Rob leaned closer to the mic, his tone sharp. [You can feel it, Jon. 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 box, jostling with Mathijsen and Martins Indi. Maher lingered on the edge, ready for scraps.

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

[Rob chuckled. Oh, absolutely, Jon. Janmaat’s had nightmares. 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. Mulder shouted orders, fists clenched, but the box was chaos. Bodies collided, elbows flew. Altidore jumped, twisting mid-air, but Mathijsen leaned into him, both men stumbling.

The ball grazed Martins Indi’s shoulder, popping loose. Henriksen lunged, missing by inches. It bounced once, then spun awkwardly off Janmaat’s shin.

[Rob’s voice spiked. It’s loose!]

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

The ball squirted toward the penalty spot. Maher darted in, swinging a boot, but Immers threw himself across, blocking it. The deflection sent the ball spinning again, this time toward the far post. Mulder 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, swinging his leg. Crack. The net shook.

The De Kuip fell silent for a heartbeat, then the away fans erupted, a pocket of red and white scarves exploding in the stands.

GOOAAAAALLLLLLL!!!~

[Jon roared into the mic. GOAL! Altidore! AZ Alkmaar, in the 87th minute!]

[Rob’s voice overlapped, laughing in disbelief. What a mess! Altidore’s there—Altidore’s got it! 2-0!]

Altidore wheeled away, arms spread wide, sprinting toward the AZ fans. The stands were a sea of chaos, voices breaking. Benjamin caught up, jumping onto his back. Henriksen piled in, fists pumping. Verbeek leaped from the bench, coat flapping, shouting something lost in the roar.

[Jon caught his breath. Oh, that’s massive, Rob. That’s absolutely massive. AZ are cruising now!]

[Rob was grinning, his voice buzzing. Look at this place, Jon! It’s stunned! But what was Feyenoord’s defense doing? That’s a shambles!]

[Jon laughed. A shambles? It’s a circus! Mathijsen’s on the floor, Janmaat’s lost, Mulder’s nowhere. Benjamin’s corner caused havoc!]

On the pitch, Feyenoord’s players stood stunned. Mulder kicked the post, yelling at no one. Mathijsen dragged himself up, shaking his head, grass stains smeared across his shorts. Koeman paced the touchline, arms crossed tight, lips moving fast.

The referee pointed to the center circle. The goal stood. The scoreboard flicked to 2-0.

[Rob’s tone shifted, analytical. That’s what Benjamin does, Jon. He puts it in the mixer, and something happens. Feyenoord switched off.]

[Jon nodded, mic close. They did, Rob. And AZ deserve that. They’ve been relentless. But there’s still time—Feyenoord won’t go quietly.]

The game restarted. Clasie clapped his hands, barking at his teammates. The home fans, deflated but defiant, found their voices again, urging a response. Pellè dropped deep, hunting the ball. Boëtius made a run, pulling Reijnen wide.

Minute 88. Feyenoord pushed forward. Vilhena sprayed a pass to Boëtius, who took it on the turn and darted down the left. He cut inside, past Gorter, and flicked a short ball to Pellè. The striker spun, one touch to control, another to slip past Viergever. He was in space, 25 yards out.

[Rob’s voice tightened. Pellè—here he goes!]

[Jon leaned forward. He’s got that look, Rob. You know the one!]

Pellè glanced up. Esteban stayed rooted, guarding his line. The angle was tight, but Pellè didn’t care. He struck it—low, venomous, skidding across the wet grass. Esteban dove, arms stretched. The ball zipped past his fingers, clipping the post.

CLANG!!!~

A collective gasp ripped through the stands.

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

[Rob’s voice was high, almost a shout. That’s inches, Jon! Esteban’s nowhere near it!]

The ball rolled out for a corner. Pellè dropped to his knees, hands over his face. Boëtius ran over, pulling him up, shouting in his ear. Koeman waved his arms, urging them to stay focused.

[Rob chuckled. That man’s a beast, Jon! Pellè nearly pulls one back!]

[Jon’s tone was serious. Nearly, Rob. But nearly doesn’t cut it. AZ are holding firm.]

Feyenoord’s corner came to nothing. Clasie swung it in, but Viergever rose highest, thumping a header clear. The ball landed with Maher, who booted it long. Benjamin chased, but Janmaat tracked him, shepherding it out for a throw.

Minute 90. The fourth official’s board went up. Five minutes added.

[Jon’s voice carried a grin. Five more minutes, Rob? This place is on edge!]

[Rob laughed. Buckle up, Jon! Feyenoord’s got one last push!]

Feyenoord threw everything forward. Mathijsen jogged up for a long throw. Nelom hurled it into the box, but Altidore headed clear, chest puffed out, roaring to the crowd. The noise swelled, a wall of sound. AZ countered, Benjamin sprinting, chopping past Immers with a La Croqueta. His cross was low, but Mulder dove, smothering it.

[Rob’s voice surged. Benjamin’s still going, Jon! He’s relentless!]

[Jon’s tone buzzed. AZ want to seal it, Rob! Feyenoord’s defense is creaking!]

Minute 92. Feyenoord pushed again. Clasie fired a long ball to Pellè, who held off Reijnen, laying it back to Vilhena. The midfielder darted forward, firing from 20 yards. The shot dipped, but Esteban tipped it over, the bar rattling. The corner fizzled—Viergever headed clear.

[Jon gasped. Esteban’s a hero, Rob! Vilhena’s so close!]

[Rob’s voice tightened. Feyenoord’s throwing it all, Jon! AZ are hanging on!]

Minute 94. AZ Alkmaar broke. Maher passed to Berghuis, who sprinted down the right, outpacing Nelom. His cross was sharp, Altidore lunging, but Mathijsen slid, deflecting it out. The throw went to Henriksen, who fired it long, eating seconds. The De Kuip groaned, sensing time slipping.

[Jon’s voice lifted. AZ are managing this, Rob! They’re so close!]

[Rob chuckled. Smart play, Jon! Feyenoord’s running out of steam!]

Minute 95. Feyenoord made one last push. Clasie scooped a pass to Boëtius, who darted past Johansson. His cross was low, Pellè leaping, but Viergever matched him, heading clear. The ball landed with Maher, who took no chances, booting it into the stands. The whistle loomed.

[Rob’s voice surged. One last chance, Jon! Feyenoord’s fighting!]

[Jon exhaled. AZ are holding, Rob! What a performance!]

The final whistle blew. AZ Alkmaar 2, Feyenoord 0. The away fans erupted, scarves flying, voices hoarse.

Altidore jogged to them, fists pumping, Benjamin beside him, grinning. Pellè walked off, head high, muttering to Clasie. Gertjan Verbeek shook Koeman’s hand, a quick nod between them.

[Jon leaned back, warm. Full time, Rob! AZ Alkmaar take it 2-0! Massive win!]

[Rob clapped, grinning. Altidore’s brace, Benjamin’s magic, Jon—what a night for AZ Alkmaar!]

AZ Alkmaar’s players lingered, clapping their pocket of away fans, scarves twirling in the stands. Benjamin jogged over, tossing his wrist tape into the crowd, while Altidore raised both fists, his brace the night’s defining mark.

Feyenoord’s players trudged off, Pellè’s head high but shoulders heavy, Clasie muttering to Vilhena, their fight snuffed out.

In the commentary booth, Jon leaned back, headset loose, while Rob flipped through his notes, coffee cold. The big screen flashed replays of Altidore’s goals, the crowd’s buzz a mix of AZ’s joy and Feyenoord’s frustration.

[Jon’s voice was warm, reflective. What a night, Rob. AZ Alkmaar take all three points, 2-0, and they’ve earned every bit of it. Altidore’s brace, Benjamin’s wizardry—this was a masterclass.]

[Rob nodded, grinning. Spot on, Jon. AZ Alkmaar were clinical. Feyenoord had their chances—Pellè hit the post, Vilhena’s offside goal—but AZ’s defense held firm. Verbeek’s got them purring.]

The pitch cleared, Gertjan Verbeek shaking hands with Koeman, their exchange brief but respectful. The AZ Alkmaar coach’s face was calm, a faint smile betraying his pride. Koeman’s jaw was tight, his eyes already on the next match.

In the stands, Feyenoord fans filed out, scarves tucked away, while AZ’s supporters lingered, their chants echoing in the emptying stadium.

[Rob leaned forward, analytical. Let’s break it down, Jon. AZ Alkmaar’s game plan worked perfectly. Benjamin tore Janmaat apart—how many times did he chop past him?]

[Jon chuckled, counting on his fingers. At least five, Rob! Janmaat was chasing shadows. But it’s not just Benjamin. Altidore’s hold-up play, his finishing—two goals from two chances. That’s the difference.]

On the monitor, a replay showed Altidore’s first goal: Benjamin’s dart, the cut-back, the striker’s low strike kissing the post. The second was messier—Benjamin’s corner, the pinball chaos, Altidore’s instinctive volley.

The booth’s screen flicked to stats: AZ Alkmaar with 12 shots, 5 on target; Feyenoord with 15 shots, 7 on target. Possession was near even, 51-49 to Feyenoord, but AZ Alkmaar’s ruthlessness shone through.