Against All Odds: Legacy Of A Football King-Chapter 313: Take A Bow; Full-time

AZ Alkmaar slowed it down. Martens took the ball in midfield, shielding it from Allen’s press. He rolled it back to Elm, who clipped a pass to Benjamin.

The young winger didn’t sprint this time. He held it, drawing Suso in, then tapped it back to Maher.

Peter’s voice softened. [They’re managing this well, AZ Alkmaar. Eating up seconds]

John agreed. [Smart. Very smart. Liverpool’s desperate, but they can’t get near it]

The clock hit 92.

Liverpool won it back. Henderson snapped a pass to Suso, who darted forward, slipping past Henriksen. He crossed low, aiming for Sturridge, but Viergever slid in, sending the ball spinning out for another corner.

Peter’s voice rose again. [Last chance, maybe?]

John’s tone was tense. [Got to be now, Peter. Got to be]

Gerrard stood over the corner. The 18 yard box was packed. Reina stayed back, but every outfield player was in there, red shirts against white. The whistle blew. Gerrard floated it—high, hanging.

Alvarado leaped, fists swinging, but the ball slipped through his gloves, grazing his fingertips. It dropped into the chaos of the six-yard box.

Skrtel shoved Altidore, both men stumbling. Agger jumped, head flicking the ball onward. It spun, wild and unpredictable, toward the back post.

Peter’s voice cracked with excitement. [It’s anyone’s ball now!]

John leaned into the mic, almost shouting. [Scramble! Absolute scramble!]

Suso reacted fastest. He darted through the tangle of legs, eyes locked on the bouncing ball. Henriksen lunged, too slow. Suso swung his left foot, catching it clean. The strike was fierce, rocketing upward.

CLANG!!!

The crossbar rattled.

The crowd gasped, a single sharp breath.

Peter’s voice spiked. [Off the bar! Oh, my word! That should have been 3-3]

John’s tone matched him, breathless. [Suso’s so close! That’s got to be it—wait, hold on!]

The ball dropped, spinning awkwardly in the air. Reina yelled, waving his arms, stranded in his 18 yard box. Altidore swung a boot, missed. Skrtel slipped, grass staining his shorts. Benjamin, lurking near the edge of the chaos, saw it fall.

His eyes widened and instinctively, he pounced.

One touch to control, then he was off, sprinting toward the halfway line. The pitch opened up before him, like a green runway.

Only Carragher and Skrtel stood between him and Reina, who stayed rooted in his 18-yard box, gloves flexing, watching.

Peter roared. [Benjamin’s away! He’s got it!]

John’s voice trembled with anticipation. [Look at this! It’s three against one—Carragher and Skrtel are charging!]

Carragher, legs pumping, angled to cut Benjamin off. Skrtel, a step behind, spread his arms wide, trying to block the lane.

The crowd rose, a wall of noise, red and white scarves blurring in the stands. Benjamin’s boots churned the turf, ball glued to his foot.

He didn’t slow.

Carragher closed in, ten yards out, eyes narrowed. Benjamin grinned, just a flash. He dropped his shoulder, feinting right.

Carragher bit, leaning hard. Then Benjamin rolled his foot over the ball, performing a Snake Bite by dragging it left in a smooth, slithering motion. Carragher’s boots skidded, too late, his body twisting as he hit the grass.

Peter laughed, voice soaring. [He’s gone! Carragher’s on the deck! That’s the third time tonight]

John clapped his hands, mic shaking. [That’s filthy, Peter! Absolutely filthy!]

Benjamin didn’t pause. Skrtel loomed now, charging like a bull, arms wide to force him wide. The winger slowed, just a touch, letting Skrtel commit.

Then, quick as a spark, he nudged the ball right with his toe—La Croqueta—sliding it past Skrtel’s lunging leg. Skrtel swung his hips, desperate, but Benjamin was already gone, darting left, leaving the defender grasping air.

John’s voice hit a new pitch. [Oh, he’s done him! Skrtel’s lost!]

Peter was half-standing now. [This kid’s a little magician! He’s through!]

The halfway line was a blur under Benjamin’s feet. Reina crouched low, eyes locked on the ball, hands twitching. The keeper edged forward, shrinking the angle, but Benjamin kept coming.

The crowd’s roar was deafening, a tidal wave of sound. Gertjan Verbeek bounced on the touchline with his fists clenched. Brendan Rodgers froze, hands on hips, lips tight.

Benjamin hit the edge of the 18 yard box. Reina was close now, too close. Benjamin slowed, ball rolling gently under his right foot. He glanced up, saw Reina’s weight shift left.

Then, with a flick—Ronaldo’s Chop—he snapped his foot down and across, chopping the ball right. It skipped past Reina’s outstretched arm, a blur of white against the green.

Peter screamed. [He’s round him! He’s round Reina!]

John’s voice broke. [No way! No way! It’s an open goal!]

The net loomed, unguarded. Benjamin didn’t rush. He took one touch, steadying, then slotted it home with his left. The ball kissed the net, soft and sure.

GOOOAAAAALLLLLLL!!!~

The stadium erupted, a volcano of noise. Benjamin sprinted to the corner, arms wide, sliding on his knees. Altidore tackled him, laughing, teammates piling on. The stands shook, fans jumping, scarves flying.

Peter exhaled, voice hoarse. [Goal! Benjamin! What a goal!]

John was grinning, shaking his head. [I can’t believe it, Peter. That’s a masterclass—Snake Bite, La Croqueta, Ronaldo’s Chop. He’s just humiliated Liverpool’s defense collectively for the second time tonight!]

On the pitch, Reina sat on the grass, gloves over his face. Carragher stood, hands on knees, staring at the turf. Skrtel jogged back, shaking his head, muttering.

Brendan Rodgers turned to his bench, clapping sharply, trying to rally his shell-shocked team.

Peter’s tone softened, still buzzing. [That’s got to be it, John. 4-2, AZ Alkmaar, in the 94th minute. What a moment]

John nodded, voice warm. [This kid’s a star, Peter. He’s torn Liverpool apart single-handedly. Two goal and one assist. Look at that celebration—pure joy]

The game restarted, but the air had changed. Liverpool pushed, desperate, but AZ Alkmaar held firm. Gerrard snapped a pass to Suárez, who spun and shot, but Alvarado palmed it wide.

The corner came to nothing—Viergever headed clear, chest thumping as he roared to the crowd.

Liverpool tried again. Sterling darted down the right, crossed low, but Henriksen intercepted, booting it long. Benjamin chased, drawing a foul from Johnson.

Fweeee!

The whistle blew, and AZ Alkmaar slowed it down, passing between Adam and Martens, letting seconds bleed away.

Peter chuckled. [They’re in no hurry now, are they?]

John’s voice carried a grin. [Why would they be? They’ve got this in the bag. Liverpool’s got nothing left]

The clock hit 95. One last push.

Allen lobbed a ball into the 18 yard box. Skrtel rose, but Altidore muscled him off, heading clear. The ball landed with Maher, who shielded it, drawing another foul. The whistle blew again.

Peter’s voice was calm now. [That’s got to be it, John]

John agreed. [Full time’s coming. AZ Alkmaar’s done it]

The referee checked his watch. One more pass. Martens to Elm, then back to Viergever. The whistle shrieked.

Fweeee!~ Fweeeee!~ Fweeeeeee!~

Full time in the AFAS Stadion.

The stadium exploded again, louder than before. Benjamin dropped to his knees, arms out, soaking it in. Altidore pulled him up, laughing, slapping his back.

Gertjan Verbeek sprinted onto the pitch, hugging anyone in sight. The home fans sang, voices raw but unbroken.

Peter let out a long breath. [AZ Alkmaar 4, Liverpool 2. What a finish]

John’s voice was soft, almost reverent. [Benjamin’s the hero, Peter. That run, those skills—it’s the stuff of dreams. Liverpool fought, but AZ Alkmaar wanted it more]

The cameras caught Brendan Rodgers shaking Gertjan Verbeek’s hand, quick and stiff, before walking off, head focused on the celebrating Benjamin with a thoughtful look.

Benjamin jogged to the stands, tossing his shirt into the crowd. The fans roared back, a sea of red and white.

Peter signed off. [A night to remember here in Alkmaar]

John added one last note. [And a name to remember—Benjamin Yinka Rijkaard. Take a bow, son]