Against All Odds: Legacy Of A Football King-Chapter 306: Spectacular

He hit the halfway line and didn’t slow. Gerrard moved in. Benjamin dipped his shoulder, cut inside.

[Gerrard can’t stop him!]

Now he was at full stride. Space opened. Skrtel stepped up. Benjamin feinted left, cut right, and breezed by.

[FOUR players left behind!]

Peter’s voice broke a little.

[This is electric!]

He reached the edge of the 18 yard box. Johnson came in late, lunging to recover. Benjamin saw him, dropped low, took the touch wider—

—and Johnson clipped him.

Fweeeee!

[Free kick!]

[Oh, he’s brought him down. Twenty-five yards out. Slightly right of centre.]

Benjamin stayed down for a second. The referee blew again, waving away protests.

Reina was barking instructions now. Skrtel organizing the wall.

[He’s gone from his own box to winning a free kick just outside Liverpool’s. That is... something else.]

[You talk about individual moments. That was one. That was all him.]

Martens jogged over to him, helped him up.

The crowd stood, applauding. Benjamin nodded, wiping sweat from his brow.

[And listen to that, John. They know what they’ve just seen.]

AZ Alkmaar lined up over the free kick. Adam Maher stood with Martens. Benjamin, hands on knees, still catching breath.

[He won’t take it—but he’s earned it.]

[Now, what do you do here? Shoot? Or curl one in for a header?]

[Adam Maher can hit them. So can Martens.]

The wall stood tense. Reina adjusted his gloves.

[Still 1-1. But AZ Alkmaar have a golden chance here. Thanks to Benjamin Rijkaard’s run.]

Adam Maher placed the ball carefully, adjusting its angle with one fingertip. Martens stood a few feet back, pointing to his left, whispering something quick. But Benjamin didn’t move.

He was still standing nearby, just outside the circle of it all, hands on hips now, head bowed. His chest rose and fell heavy, rhythm still racing from the sprint that left four red shirts chasing shadows.

[He’s not walking away, Peter.]

[You think he’s taking it?]

[He’s not looking for a cross, that’s for sure.]

Martens and Maher glanced at each other. Then both stepped aside.

Benjamin stepped forward.

[Oh, he is taking it.]

[What a moment this could be.]

Reina crouched low behind the wall, peeking over his gloves. He barked again—two quick shouts, then pointed. Skrtel and Agger shifted half a step right.

Four men in the wall. Skrtel, Gerrard, Suso, Johnson. All staring straight ahead, unmoving.

Benjamin stared at the ball. Then at the top right corner. Then back down.

One step back.

Two.

He stood still for a beat, waiting.

The crowd behind Reina fell silent. Phones went up. Every eye locked.

[Twenty-five yards out. Slight angle. Right-footed.]

[This kid has no fear.]

[Or no sense.]

[We’re about to find out.]

Benjamin took a breath. One, slow inhale. Then ran up—

—and struck it.

Clean. Curving. The contact was perfect. No dip of the head. No stumble. Just smooth, rising, curling flight.

The ball climbed over the wall and bent late, like it had changed its mind mid-air.

Reina moved.

But not fast enough.

He stretched—

[It’s bending—]

[REINA’S BEATEN—]

The ball whipped into the top corner.

Clink. Net.

Goal.

Silence.

Then the away end erupted.

[OH WHAT A HIT!]

[BENJAMIN RIJKAARD! TAKE A BOW!]

Arms flew up. The AZ Alkmaar bench leapt. Benjamin turned—just once with his fist clenched, and teeth gritted.

Then teammates were on him. Martens first. Then Henriksen. Then the keeper, Alvarado, sprinting the length of the pitch.

[What have we just seen, Peter?]

[That is outrageous. That’s a kid. Seventeen. And he’s just curled one past Pepe Reina like he’s been doing it for a decade.]

[You talk about big moments... That’s a big moment.]

Reina sat back, still on his knees, eyes following the replay on the big screen.

It showed everything.

The wall. The bend. His fingers—close but not close enough. The ball kissing the underside of the bar and diving in.

[You don’t stop those.]

[You don’t even see those until they’re past you.]

Gerrard punched the turf. Suárez stood still, chewing his lip. Brendan Rodgers turned away from the pitch and stared at the ground, motionless.

[2-1. AZ Alkmaar. And it’s all from one man.]

[From his own half, Peter. That whole move started at his own penalty box.]

[That run. That foul. And now that free kick.]

Benjamin pulled away from his teammates finally, walking back to the halfway line on his own.

He glanced to his right—caught the eyes of Gerrard for half a second.

No words exchanged. Just the moment.

[What do Liverpool do now, John?]

[Same as before. They’ve got to dig deep.]

[But that one will sting.]

The restart came quick.

Gerrard tapped it back to Agger. No ceremony. No pause. Just a kickstart.

The crowd found voice again—part fury, part fear, part defiance.

Johnson stormed forward down the right, arms waving.

[And look at this—Liverpool aren’t wasting time.]

They weren’t.

Agger played it to Skrtel. Skrtel to Allen. Allen spun quickly, slipped a ball between two markers.

Downing. Just inside the final third.

He stopped. Waited. Then dinked a clever pass to Suárez, who had peeled off his marker.

Suárez took it on the half-volley—left foot—slicing across it.

[Hit early—]

—but it bent wide. Not close. Not wild. Just wrong.

Suárez groaned.

[It’s not falling. And now they’ve got a mountain.]

[There’s time. But this is dangerous territory.]

AZ Alkmaar slowed it down now.

Reina retrieved the ball and placed it quickly, but Maher stood over it. Didn’t move. Just waited.

The referee walked over, motioned him back.

The crowd booed.

[Here comes the clockwork, Peter.]

[Every tick matters now.]

[Every second.]

Alvarado took the goal kick. A big one. Altidore went up again, battling with Agger. He didn’t win the header—but the ball dropped awkwardly.

Skrtel tried to clear. Missed.

Martens scooped it up and fired a ball toward Benjamin again.

The winger took it. Stopped. Then started.

Gerrard came. He flicked it past.

Johnson came. He went the other way.

But this time—Sturridge tracked back.