Against All Odds: Legacy Of A Football King-Chapter 323: Training Session

The morning after AZ Alkmaar’s 2-1 triumph over Udinese, Alkmaar buzzed with quiet pride.

Cafes along the Waagplein hummed with chatter, red and white scarves draped over chairs as locals sipped coffee, grinning over replays of Altidore’s goal on their phones.

Shop windows displayed AZ Alkmaar jerseys, Benjamin’s number 21 prominent, while kids kicked balls in the streets, mimicking his Skills.

The win had clinched a spot in the Europa League’s round of 32, with one group stage game left, and the city felt alive, its heartbeat tied to the team’s success.

At the AFAS Training Complex, the squad gathered under a gray November sky, the air crisp and sharp. Grass glistened with dew, and the distant hum of Alkmaar’s canals faded against the thud of boots on turf.

Gertjan Verbeek stood on the sideline with a clipboard in hand, his whistle glinting as he barked orders. The next challenge loomed: Feyenoord, away, in the Eredivisie, Sunday at 6:45 PM. No time to bask in glory.

Benjamin jogged onto the pitch, laces tight, breath puffing in the cold. He stretched, hamstrings pulling, and exchanged a nod with Altidore, who was bouncing a ball on his knee, grinning.

The striker’s goal had sealed the Udinese win, and his confidence showed in every step. Henriksen joined them, rubbing his hands, still buzzing from his screamer. The mood was light but focused, the team hungry to carry their momentum.

Gertjan Verbeek clapped, sharp and loud, pulling the squad to the center. His voice carried, gruff but steady, as he pointed to a whiteboard scrawled with Feyenoord’s formation.

Players leaned in, sweat already beading despite the chill. Benjamin’s eyes flicked to the diagram, noting Feyenoord’s wingers, his mind already mapping runs to exploit their full-backs.

Training kicked off with a passing drill. Elm fired a ball to Martens, who one-touched it to Maher. The young midfielder spun, threading it to Benjamin, who trapped it clean and flicked it to Guðmundsson.

The winger sprinted, crossing low, where Altidore dummied, letting Henriksen tap it in. Gertjan Verbeek nodded, scribbling, but shouted for tighter marking. No slacking, not with Feyenoord’s pace waiting.

The squad split for a small-sided game, six versus six, on a half-pitch. Benjamin darted down the left, chopping past Reijnen with a quick La Croqueta. He crossed, but Viergever headed clear, sparking a counter. Berghuis sprinted, feeding Johannsson, who fired wide.

Gertjan Verbeek’s whistle stopped play, his finger jabbing at Berghuis for not tracking back. The winger nodded, jaw tight, and jogged to reset.

In the stands, a few academy kids watched, whispering about Benjamin’s footwork. One mimicked his chop, earning a laugh from his mates.

Below, Altidore wrestled with Gorter in a duel, both grinning as they shoved, the striker’s strength winning out. He rolled the ball to Maher, who curled a shot just over the bar. Gertjan Verbeek clapped, but his eyes stayed sharp, scanning for weaknesses.

The session shifted to set-pieces. Benjamin stood over a corner, hands on hips, eyeing the 18 yard box. He swung it in, a curling dart, and Viergever rose, nodding it wide.

Gertjan Verbeek shouted for better timing, waving Altidore to the near post. The striker adjusted, his next header clipping the bar. Benjamin jogged back, fist-bumping Viergever, both panting but locked in.

Lunch came, the squad piling into the canteen. Plates clinked, piled with chicken and rice, as players sprawled across tables.

Benjamin sat with Henriksen, both laughing over a story Altidore told about slipping on the Udinese turf. Adam and Martens joined, sipping water, his voice low as he mimicked Gertjan Verbeek’s halftime rant. The room buzzed, camaraderie thick, but the Feyenoord match hung over them, a quiet weight.

Afternoon brought tactical work. Gertjan Verbeek gathered the squad in a meeting room, projector humming. Clips of Feyenoord’s last game flickered—Pellè’s hold-up play, Clasie’s through balls.

Gertjan Verbeek paused the tape, pointing at their left-back, Mathijsen, slow to recover. Benjamin leaned forward, elbows on knees, picturing his runs. Gertjan Verbeek’s voice was firm: exploit the flanks, press high, no mercy.

Back on the pitch, the squad ran a full scrimmage. Benjamin tore down the left, chopping past Marcellis, who played Feyenoord’s right-back. He crossed low, Altidore lunging, but Gorter intercepted, mimicking Mathijsen’s style.

The striker clapped, undeterred, and reset. On the other side, Guðmundsson sprinted, his cross finding Adam Maher, whose shot rattled the post. Gertjan Verbeek nodded, scribbling, but called for faster transitions.

The scrimmage heated up. Henriksen snapped a tackle, stealing from Elm, and fired a pass to Benjamin. The winger feinted, drawing Reijnen, then slipped it to Altidore.

The striker spun, firing low, but Esteban dived, gloving it wide. The keeper sprang up, shouting, pumping his fist like it was match day.

Gertjan Verbeek’s whistle paused play, his voice cutting through: "Good, but Feyenoord won’t wait for you to settle. Move quicker!"

As dusk settled, training wound down with sprints. Benjamin led, legs pumping, sweat soaking his shirt. Altidore trailed, grunting but pushing, while Maher, lighter, kept pace. Gertjan Verbeek watched, stopwatch in hand, his nod subtle but approving.

The squad gathered, hands on knees, breath steaming in the cold. Gertjan Verbeek’s final words were short: "Feyenoord’s tough, but we’re tougher. Rest, then we go again."

In Alkmaar’s streets, the buzz continued. Pubs filled, fans toasting the Udinese win, their chatter turning to Feyenoord. A butcher hung an AZ Alkmaar flag in his window, grinning at a customer who mimicked Henriksen’s strike.

Kids in the park replayed the match, one shouting "Benjamin!" as he chopped past a friend. The city’s pride was tangible, each cheer a thread tying it to the team.

At home, Benjamin sprawled on his couch with ice pack on his shin, phone buzzing with messages. A teammate’s text popped up—a photo of Altidore’s goal, captioned "Post’s still crying." He laughed, typing back, but his mind drifted to Feyenoord.

Saturday dawned, the squad back at the complex. Gertjan Verbeek ran light drills, focusing on movement. Benjamin weaved through cones, boots quick, while Altidore practiced hold-up play, shrugging off Gorter.

Maher fired passes, crisp and sharp, as Gertjan Verbeek watched, whistle silent but eyes keen. The session ended early, players jogging off, minds turning to Rotterdam.

Alkmaar’s streets stayed alive, flags waving, pubs packed. A baker handed out pastries shaped like AZ Alkmaar’s crest, laughing with customers about Benjamin’s skills.

At the complex, Gertjan Verbeek packed his clipboard, glancing at the pitch. His squad was ready, hungry, the Udinese win fuel for the road ahead.