Against All Odds: Legacy Of A Football King-Chapter 299: Offside

Brendan Rodgers was pacing again, muttering to himself. His assistant leaned in, said something into his ear. Rodgers didn’t respond.

Meanwhile, Suárez jogged back slowly, sweat streaming down his face, jersey clinging to his chest. He glanced up at the big screen, saw the replay of his miss, and looked away.

[We’re approaching the 37th minute now, Peter. Time’s running out in this first half.]

[And it’s still AZ Alkmaar holding that 1–0 lead. You’d never guess it watching the game.]

Liverpool won another throw-in, deep in AZ Alkmaar territory. Johnson took it quickly to Gerrard, who slipped it to Henderson, who flicked it forward to Allen.

It was sharp. Quick. Controlled chaos.

Allen cut it back to Gerrard at the top of the 18 yard box.

[He’s lining one up again—]

He struck through the ball, low and hard.

Alvarado saw it late, but he got down—again—strong wrists, sharp hands. Another save.

[ALVARADO! Again and again and again!]

[He’s unbreakable tonight, John. This is getting ridiculous.]

The crowd rose to its feet in applause—genuine applause now—not just for the effort, but the drama, the chaos, the sheer will of the match.

[They’ll head into the break wondering how they haven’t scored.]

[And AZ Alkmaar? They’ll be thanking their stars they still have the lead.]

Sterling tried to burst down the left. He danced between defenders, reached the byline, and cut it back.

But this time, the cross was too close to Alvarado. The keeper stepped forward, snatched it cleanly out of the air, and fell on it like treasure.

Alvarado held the ball a little longer this time. Not to waste time, not yet. Just to breathe. He sat up slowly, glancing around, then sent it long with a flat, driven punt that curled toward Benjamin out wide.

[Look at that for a kick, John. Straight to Benjamin’s feet.]

[He’s been electric all night, Peter. Every time he touches it, something happens.]

Benjamin let the ball run across his body and used his first touch to explode down the flank, brushing past Johnson with a simple shift of pace.

The Liverpool fullback couldn’t catch him—not now, not tonight. Benjamin was on his bike again, head up, eyes scanning.

[Here comes Benjamin again! He’s not waiting for support!]

He cut inside, brushing off Henderson’s lunge with a subtle dip of the shoulder. Gerrard came across, but Benjamin knocked it forward and kept going. The crowd buzzed. Something was building.

[He’s winding up, Peter—he’s going to hit it!]

From thirty yards out, Benjamin opened his body and let fly.

The ball left his foot like a rocket, arcing and dipping through the air like it had a mind of its own.

[That’s got some venom—!]

CLANG!!!~

The shot crashed off the underside of the crossbar with a clanging thud that echoed across Anfield. It dropped down, hard, into the 18-yard box.

[OFF THE BAR! It’s still alive!]

[Altidore’s on it!]

The American striker reacted first, throwing himself at the rebound. Reina was still half-rising, arms outstretched. The shot flew past him into the net.

[Altidore’s scored! That’s two—wait—hold on!]

The linesman’s flag was already up, stiff and clear.

[The flag’s gone up, Peter! Offside!] freёwebnoѵel.com

[Oh, you’re joking! He thought he’d scored!]

Altidore wheeled away in celebration, only to freeze when he spotted the flag. His arms dropped. Disbelief.

The crowd hadn’t even started booing yet. They were still catching up.

[Let’s have another look, John. This is going to be close.]

[It’s very close. Benjamin’s shot hit the bar, bounced down... and there—Altidore’s just half a step ahead of the last man. Just.]

[It’s the right call, but barely.]

On the touchline, AZ Alkmaar’s bench erupted in half-protests, half-laughter. The fourth official stepped between the two shouting coaches.

Brendan Rodgers stood frozen, hands on hips, watching the replay on the screen overhead. He wasn’t smiling, but inside, that flag had bought him a little breath.

[Huge let-off for Liverpool, John.]

[Massive, Peter. That’s the kind of break that can shift momentum.]

Reina took the free kick quickly, rolling it short to Agger. No time to think. Liverpool wanted to strike back, fast.

Agger passed to Skrtel, who pushed it to Johnson. The right-back didn’t waste time—he took off down the wing again, trying to spark something, anything.

[Well, Peter, we’ve had woodwork, a goal chalked off, heroic saves—what’s next?]

[Only thing we haven’t had yet is a goal from Liverpool.]

Johnson played a sharp one-two with Henderson and suddenly had a yard on his man. He reached the corner of the box and whipped in a low cross.

It was dangerous, curling behind the line of defenders, begging for a touch.

Suárez dove, stretching, but it skimmed past his studs.

Sterling, late arriving at the back post, slid—but the ball beat him, too.

[So close! Again!]

[It’s not falling for them, John. They’re doing everything right, but the ball just won’t cooperate.]

The groans around the stadium were starting to sound more like nerves now. Tension was building. Not panic yet, but it was close.

AZ Alkmaar took the goal kick, slower this time. The rhythm of the match had shifted again. They knew they were living dangerously.

Viergever tapped it short to Marcellis, who knocked it long—no messing around. Straight into Liverpool’s half.

[They’re not interested in playing out anymore, Peter. Just get it away.]

[Can you blame them? It’s been a siege.]

Skrtel won the header, nodded it to Agger. He turned, played it inside to Gerrard, and the crowd roared again.

Gerrard didn’t hesitate—he flicked it to Allen, who laid it off to Henderson, who sent it wide to Sterling.

It was smooth. Clean. Like they were in training.

[Here comes Sterling again, John.]

[How many runs has he made in this first half? Endless. He just keeps going.]

Sterling chopped inside, faked, then went wide again. He pulled the ball back to Suárez at the edge of the 18 yard box.

This time, Suárez didn’t shoot. He turned, held it, waited.

[He’s looking for the angle...]

He chipped it toward the far post, where Gerrard had continued his run.

Gerrard rose—unmarked—and met the ball with a clean header.