Against All Odds: Legacy Of A Football King-Chapter 314: Europa League Group Stage 5

The AFAS Stadion’s lights still glowed in the minds of AZ Alkmaar’s fans, the 4-2 win over Liverpool was a fire that wouldn’t fade.

The Europa League Group A table told the story: Liverpool and AZ Alkmaar locked at nine points after four matches, with AZ Alkmaar’s goal difference trailing by three.

Udinese limped behind at three points, while Young Boys sat pointless, their campaign all but buried. A draw against Udinese in two weeks could punch AZ Alkmaar’s ticket to the knockout rounds, but the road ahead was tight.

November’s chill settled over Alkmaar. The schedule was relentless—Eredivisie matches squeezed between European nights.

Gertjan Verbeek with his sleeves rolled up despite the cold, stood on the training pitch with a clipboard in hand. His breath puffed in the crisp air as he watched his squad jog through cones.

The Liverpool win had lifted spirits, but he knew better than to let complacency creep in. Saturday’s league clash with FC Groningen loomed, just two days away, and Udinese waited after that.

Benjamin, still buzzing from his heroics, sprinted through drills. His boots kicked up damp grass, eyes sharp, focused. He weaved past orange markers, ball glued to his foot, teammates shouting encouragement.

Gertjan Verbeek’s whistle cut through the noise. "Good, good—keep it tight!" he barked, then scribbled a note.

In the locker room later, Gertjan Verbeek pulled Benjamin aside. The kid’s shirt was soaked, hair plastered to his forehead. "You’re sitting out Groningen," Gertjan Verbeek said, voice low but firm. "We need you fresh for Udinese. Train hard, but don’t push it."

Benjamin nodded, wiping his face with a towel. He didn’t argue—knew the stakes. The Europa League was one of their shot to Silverware this season, and Udinese wasn’t a team to sleep on.

Friday morning broke gray and damp. The training ground hummed with activity. Benjamin jogged laps with his teammates, their laughter cutting through the drizzle.

Gertjan Verbeek watched from the sideline, arms crossed, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He liked the kid’s energy, but he’d seen burnout ruin too many talents. "Pace yourself," he muttered under his breath, though no one heard.

Drills kicked off at ten. Benjamin paired with Maher for passing sequences, the ball zipping between them, crisp and clean.

"Sharp!" Maher called, grinning as Benjamin fired one back, low and hard. Across the pitch, Henriksen worked on crosses, his deliveries curling toward Martens, who nodded headers wide.

Gertjan Verbeek clapped twice. "Again—get it right!" he shouted, then turned to Benjamin. "You—join the attack. Show me something."

Benjamin didn’t hesitate. He darted forward, taking a pass from Elm in stride. Skipped past a cone—meant to mimic a defender—then chopped the ball right, Ronaldo’s trick still fresh from Liverpool.

Altidore, playing target man, peeled off an imaginary marker. Benjamin’s pass was perfect, curling into Altidore’s path. The striker trapped it, spun, and rifled a shot into the net’s corner. The keeper didn’t move.

Gertjan Verbeek’s whistle stayed silent. He just nodded, scribbling again.

After the training session, the team sprawled into the canteen. Benjamin sat with Viergever, picking at a plate of chicken and rice. "You see Udinese’s last game?"

Viergever asked, fork hovering. Benjamin shook his head. "They’re physical," Viergever said. "Di Natale’s still a snake up top."

Benjamin smirked, sipping water. "We’ll be ready," he said, voice steady.

Afternoon brought film study. The squad crammed into a dim room, Gertjan Verbeek at the front with the remote in hand. He played Udinese clips—Di Natale’s clever runs, Badu’s crunching tackles, their wingers stretching defenses thin.

"They’ll press here," Gertjan Verbeek said, pausing on a frame where Udinese swarmed midfield. "Benjamin, you’ll have space if you stay wide early. Pull them out, then cut in." Benjamin leaned forward, elbows on knees, soaking it in.

***

Saturday’s match against Groningen came fast. The stadium buzzed, but Benjamin watched from the stands, tracksuit zipped to his chin. His legs itched to play, but Gertjan Verbeek’s orders were clear.

On the pitch, Altidore bullied defenders, nodding in a header off Henriksen’ cross in the 23rd minute. Groningen equalized before halftime with a scrappy tap-in.

The second half dragged with both sides trading punches but no knockout. Final whistle: 1-1. Gertjan Verbeek’s face was stone as he left the field, already thinking about Udinese.

***

Sunday’s session was recovery. Benjamin hit the gym, cycling easy to keep his legs loose. He traded jokes with Henriksen, who grunted through stretches. "You’re gonna run circles around Di Natale, yeah?" Henriksen teased.

Benjamin laughed, tossing a towel at him. "Just wait and watch," he said.

Monday’s training turned intense. Gertjan Verbeek set up a small-sided game, starters against reserves. Benjamin, back in the mix, played left wing.

He took a pass from Maher, feinted past a reserve defender, and whipped a low ball across. Altidore missed the tap-in, skying it. Benjamin clapped anyway, shouting, "Next one, next one!" Gertjan Verbeek’s eyes followed him, approvingly.

Days blurred with drills, ice baths, more film. Benjamin’s focus didn’t waver. He studied Udinese’s backline, their habits, their gaps.

By Thursday, November 15, the squad felt the Europa League’s weight again. Training was lighter, tactical. Gertjan Verbeek walked them through set pieces, Benjamin’s corners and freekicks were weapons he wanted primed.

"Put it where they can’t reach," Gertjan Verbeek said, tapping the six-yard box on a whiteboard.

Benjamin practiced, his deliveries curling wickedly, Altidore and Henriksen rising to meet them. One clipped the bar, another sailed wide, but the intent was clear.

Off the pitch, Alkmaar buzzed. Fans in red and white packed pubs, replaying Liverpool’s collapse on grainy TVs.

Benjamin’s name was everywhere—posters, newspapers, kids mimicking his chop in the streets. He felt it but kept his head down, dodging reporters outside the training ground.

***

Monday, November 19, brought a closed-door scrimmage. Gertjan Verbeek split the squad, starters in bibs. Benjamin tore down the left, skinning a reserve right-back with a quick La Croqueta, then firing a shot that stung the keeper’s palms.

Gertjan Verbeek clapped once, loud. "That’s it!" he called. Benjamin jogged back, fist bumping Maher.

Tuesday was recovery again—massages, light runs. Benjamin sat with his teammates, talking tactics over coffee.

Wednesday, November 21. Final preparations. The team ran through Udinese’s shape, Gertjan Verbeek barking orders. "Press high, but don’t chase shadows!" he shouted.

Benjamin worked on one-twos with Martens and Henriksen, their rhythm clicking. A cross-field pass from Elm found him wide; he controlled it, chested it down, and sprinted, only stopped by a sliding tackle from Viergever. "Good," Viergever grunted, helping him up.

That evening, Gertjan Verbeek gathered the squad. No whiteboard, just words. "We’re close," he said, voice steady. "One point, maybe three, and we’re through. Play like you did against Liverpool—fearless."

Benjamin sat near the front, eyes fixed on his coach. Altidore nudged him, whispering, "You’re carrying us tomorrow." Benjamin smirked but said nothing.