Against All Odds: Legacy Of A Football King
Chapter 40: Postmatch Saga

Chapter 40: Postmatch Saga

Benjamin barely had time to catch his breath before a swarm of reporters surrounded him just outside the players’ tunnel.

Like a scene of utter chaos, their microphones and cameras pushed toward him, flashes snapping like lightning in his face. He blinked a few times to adjust his eyes to the sudden brightness.

[Benjamin!] called out a woman in a smart gray blazer and holding a microphone with the words Nos Studio Sport written on it. [How does it feel to make your debut for AZ Alkmaar in such an intense game?]

Benjamin hesitated for a moment, obviously not used to being in the spotlight. He glanced toward the tunnel, where the club’s captain, Martens, smiled and gave him an encouraging nod before disappearing inside.

Turning back to the reporter, he adjusted his sweat-soaked jersey and spoke, his voice calm but tinged with exhaustion.

"It’s... a surreal feeling," he admitted, running a hand through his damp hair. "Growing up, you dream about moments like this—stepping onto the pitch, wearing the jersey, hearing the fans chant your name. It’s everything I imagined and more, but it’s also incredibly overwhelming. You want to give everything for the team, and in games like this, every moment feels like it matters so much."

Another reporter, this time from Voetbal International, quickly chimed in. [Your free kick in the final minute—it was inches away from being a spectacular winner. What was going through your mind as you stood over the ball?]

Benjamin let out a small laugh, shaking his head. "Honestly? Too much." He smiled slightly, though it didn’t quite reach his eyes. "When I stepped up, I just focused on the ball and visualized where I wanted it to go. You block out the noise, the pressure, everything. It felt perfect when it left my foot. I thought it was going in, but... the crossbar had other plans, I guess."

[Pasveer was incredible today,] interjected a reporter from De Telegraaf. [Do you think his save made the difference today?]

Benjamin nodded without hesitation. "Absolutely, His touch changed the trajectory just enough. That’s football, though. It’s not just about skill; sometimes, it’s about those tiny margins, and today, he came out on top."

The buzz of the press didn’t stop but instead became more eager as they pushed the microphones to his face. Though, he didn’t let this little moment of spotlight get to him as any snide remarks could be turned against him by this chaos seeking fellows.

[Benjamin!] called a reporter from ESPN Netherlands.

[Your performance today is sure to be widely praised despite the draw. How do you feel about your overall contribution to the game?]

Benjamin paused, his brow furrowing slightly as he considered his choice of words. "I’m happy with how I played," he said carefully.

"But it’s hard to feel satisfied when we didn’t get the win. Football is a team sport, and individual performances only matter if they help the team. I wanted to give the fans something to celebrate—a win. But I’ll keep working to improve and be ready for the next given opportunity."

The previous reporter from NOS Studio Sport raised her voice above the chatter. [Speaking of the fans, they were chanting your name after the full-time whistle. What does that mean to you?]

Benjamin’s expression softened, and he glanced toward the stands, now mostly empty but still echoing with the energy of the game. "It means everything to me," he said quietly. "They’re the heartbeat of this club. To hear their support... it’s a reminder of why we play this game. You want to make them proud. I just hope I can keep giving them reasons to cheer."

A younger journalist from AD Sportwereld squeezed into the circle. [Benjamin, one last question—how do you handle the pressure? A debut like this, a last-minute freekick... most players would crumble under that kind of spotlight]

Benjamin tilted his head slightly, considering his answer. "I think... you don’t handle it," he said honestly. "You feel it and you let it drive you. Feeling the pressure means you care. It means you’re in a moment that matters. The trick is not letting it hinder you. You turn it into fuel to achieve your objectives."

The reporters murmured among themselves, impressed by his maturity at such a young age. Before anyone could ask another question, a member of the club’s media team intervened, gently ushering Benjamin toward the tunnel.

"That’s all for today, folks. Thank you."

As Benjamin walked away, the buzz of reporters discussing his answers followed him. Inside the tunnel, the noise of the outside world faded, replaced by the quieter bustle of the team’s post-match routines.

Verbeek was waiting near the locker room door, his arms crossed. His stern expression softened slightly when he saw Benjamin. "Good answers out there," the manager said gruffly. "You handled yourself well in front of those wolves."

Benjamin nodded with a knowing smile on his face. "Thanks, Coach."

As Benjamin entered the locker room, the voices of his teammates greeted him. Henrikson and Altidore waved him over, laughing about some inside joke, while Martens raised a bottle of water in a mock toast.

"Everyone, listen up!" Verbeek called out, drawing everyones attention to himself.

Gertjan Verbeek’s sharp gaze cut through the air as he stepped forward, instantly drowning out the commotion in the locker room. His hands were firmly on his hips, indicating that he was not there to offer congratulations.

"That was unacceptable," He said in a low, controlled voice.

The players glanced at one another, a mixture of embarrassment and unease descending upon them. No one dared to speak as some fumbled with their boots and others gazed at the floor.

Verbeek continued, raising his voice a little this time around. "We just barely drew against a team sitting in the bottom half of the Eredivisie... A team that we ought to have dispatched by halftime."

His words lingered in the air and the frustration on his face was mirrored in the body language of the players. They knew he was right.

"Where do I even begin?" Verbeek said, pacing slowly in front of them. He stopped near the back of the room, turning sharply to face the group again. "Defensively, we were a mess. How many times did they catch us out of position? How many second balls did we lose? I’ll tell you—too damn many."

He pointed at Overtoom. "You. What were you thinking of when you gifted them their second goal in a silver platter?"

Overtoom’s face turned red from embarrassment as he muttered, "Sorry, coach."

"That’s all you’ve got to say?... Sorry! It doesn’t stop us from conceding goals," Verbeek snapped before shifting his focus. "And the midfield. Elm and Martens—you both are supposed to control the game, dictate the tempo. Instead, you let them run circles around you in the second half. Where was the composure? The experience you supposedly have?"

The players remained silent as their gazes fixed on anything but Verbeek’s piercing eyes, avoiding it like Medusa’s head.

"And up front," he said, turning to Altidore and Gudmudsson. "How many chances did we waste today? How many shots went straight into their keeper’s hands or flew into the stands?"

Gudmudsson played deaf ears and Altidore rubbed the back of his neck but didn’t respond.

"Let me be clear," Verbeek said, his tone dropping to a low degree again, "this kind of performance will not cut it. Not in the Eredivisie, and definitely not in Europe."

He took a deep breath, running a hand through his graying hair. "You’ve got only a day to rest before training starts and that’s it. Because in three days, we fly to Russia for the Europa League qualifier against Anzhi Makhachkala. A team that won’t hesitate to punish us if we play like we did today."

The room remained deathly silent, the weight of his words sinking in.

"I expect every single one of you to show up to training ready to work," Verbeek concluded. "No excuses and definitely no shortcuts. If we want to win, if we want to make something of this season, it starts now."

With that, he stepped back, his eyes scanning the room one last time. "Dismissed."

The players began to move as if ganted pardon in the court room. Some shaking their heads while others muttered quietly to themselves.

Benjamin stayed quiet as he packed his bag, replaying Verbeek’s words in his mind. He couldn’t help but agree with every single one.

"Ready?" Adam Maher’s voice broke through his thoughts.

Benjamin nodded as he slung his bag over his shoulder. The two walked out of the AFAS Stadion together, the cool evening air hitting them as they waved a taxi.