Against All Odds: Legacy Of A Football King-Chapter 326: Offside

Feyenoord pushed again. Immers passed to Verhoek, who darted past Gorter, crossing low. Pellè lunged, but Reijnen threw himself across, the ball smacking his shin and rolling out.

The veteran striker spun, hands on hips, muttering to Clasie. Koeman shouted from the touchline, waving for more.

[Rob’s voice sharpened. Pellè’s lurking, Jon! Reijnen’s just keeping him out!]

[Jon exhaled. AZ Alkmaar’s defense is working overtime, Rob. They need to stay switched on!]

AZ Alkmaar struck back. Martens fired a pass to Berghuis, who sprinted down the right, outpacing Nelom. His cross was sharp, Altidore rising, but Mathijsen matched him, heading clear.

The ball landed with Clasie, who broke, feeding Boëtius. The winger’s shot sailed high, the crowd groaning.

[Jon’s voice surged. Berghuis is lively, Rob! But Mathijsen’s a rock!]

[Rob chuckled. Feyenoord’s fighting back, Jon. This game’s wide open!]

#24th minute.

AZ Alkmaar kept pressing. Benjamin picked up a loose ball, chopping past Janmaat with a Snake Bite. He slipped it to Henriksen, who darted forward, firing from 22 yards.

The shot dipped, but Mulder tipped it over, the bar shaking. The corner fizzled—Martins Indi headed clear.

[Rob gasped. Mulder again, Jon! Henriksen’s so close to doubling it!]

[Jon’s tone lifted. AZ Alkmaar are pushing, Rob! Feyenoord’s defense is creaking!]

Feyenoord threw everything forward. Clasie passed to Vilhena, who darted past Maher, crossing deep.

Pellè leaped, outjumping Viergever, but his header looped wide, landing in the stands. The home fans roared, urging one last chance before the break.

[Rob’s voice surged. Pellè’s not giving up, Jon! He’s inches away!]

[Jon’s voice tightened. AZ Alkmaar are living dangerously, Rob! They need to see this out!]

AZ Alkmaar countered. Maher fired a long ball to Benjamin, who sprinted, chopping past Nelom with a step-over. His cross was low, Altidore lunging, but Mathijsen slid, deflecting it out.

The throw went to Henriksen, who passed to Berghuis, whose shot sailed high.

[Jon’s voice lifted. Benjamin’s relentless, Rob! Mathijsen’s just holding on!]

[Rob’s tone buzzed. But AZ Alkmaar need to be clinical, Jon. They’re wasting chances!]

The De Kuip crackled with intensity, the crowd’s roar a relentless tide as the 24th minute ticked over.

AZ Alkmaar clung to their 1-0 lead, Altidore’s strike a fresh wound, but Feyenoord’s hunger for an equalizer kept the match teetering. The floodlights gleamed off the slick pitch, every sprint and tackle a spark in the Rotterdam night.

Feyenoord pushed forward, their fans a sea of red and white scarves, chanting louder with each attack. Clasie, calm in the midfield, collected a loose ball from Immers, his eyes scanning for gaps.

He turned, shrugging off Maher’s press, and fired a crisp pass to Vilhena, who darted toward AZ Alkmaar’s defense. The young midfielder held the ball, waiting, as Verhoek made a diagonal run, pulling Gorter wide.

[Jon’s voice lifted. Clasie’s pulling strings, Rob! He’s carving AZ Alkmaar open!]

[Rob’s tone buzzed. That’s his game, Jon! Feyenoord’s engine’s purring now!]

Vilhena rolled it wide to Verhoek, who trapped it clean and sprinted, boots chewing turf. Gorter lunged, but Verhoek’s quick step-over left him grasping air.

The winger looked up, spotting Pellè jostling with Reijnen near the penalty spot. His cross was low, skimming the grass, but Viergever slid in, deflecting it to Esteban. The keeper scooped it, rolling it quick to Johansson, sparking an AZ Alkmaar counter.

[Rob whistled. Verhoek’s got jets, Jon! Viergever’s just holding the line!]

[Jon exhaled, tense. AZ Alkmaar got lucky there, Rob. Feyenoord’s knocking hard!]

AZ Alkmaar broke through in the 27th minute. Johansson passed to Henriksen, who fired it to Benjamin on the left. The winger took off, chopping past Janmaat with a Snake Bite, drawing a roar from the away fans.

He darted toward the 18 yard box, Nelom trailing, and slipped it to Altidore. The striker spun past Martins Indi, firing low, but Mulder dove, gloving it wide. The corner came—Benjamin’s delivery curled, but Mathijsen rose, heading clear.

[Jon’s voice surged. Benjamin’s running riot, Rob! Mulder’s on fire!]

[Rob clapped, mic crackling. That’s four saves, Jon! AZ Alkmaar are relentless!]

Feyenoord regrouped, their fans urging them on, the chant rolling like thunder. Martins Indi scooped a long ball to Clasie, who chested it down, evading Maher’s lunge.

The midfielder’s head was up, spotting movement ahead. Pellè dropped deep, pulling Reijnen with him, creating space. Clasie’s pass was sharp, finding Immers, who held it, waiting for runners.

Boëtius sprinted down the left, outpacing Johansson, while Vilhena made a late dart into the 18 yard box, unmarked.

[Rob’s voice sharpened. Clasie’s at it again, Jon! He’s slicing AZ Alkmaar apart!]

[Jon’s tone tightened. AZ Alkmaar need to track those runs, Rob! Vilhena’s sneaking in!]

Immers rolled it wide to Boëtius, who took it in stride, his boots flashing under the floodlights. Gorter rushed out, but Boëtius feinted left, then cut right, leaving the left-back sliding.

The winger looked up, Pellè now wrestling with Viergever near the six-yard box, Vilhena lurking at the back post. Boëtius’s cross was pinpoint, curling over Reijnen’s leap, dropping perfectly for Vilhena.

The midfielder timed his run, slipping behind Henriksen, and struck it first-time—a clean volley, rocketing past Esteban Alvarado’s dive, bulging the net.

GOOOAAAAAAALLLLLLLL!!!~

The De Kuip erupted, a deafening roar, scarves flying, fans leaping from their seats. Vilhena sprinted to the corner, arms wide, teammates piling on.

Pellè clapped his back, grinning, while Koeman pumped his fist on the touchline, the home crowd’s chant shaking the stands.

[Jon shouted. Goal! Vilhena! Feyenoord are level!]

[Rob roared, mic shaking. What a hit, Jon! Boëtius’s cross, Vilhena’s finish—De Kuip’s on fire!]

But the roar faltered. The linesman’s flag shot up, stark against the floodlights, his arm rigid. Vilhena froze, hands on hips, as the referee pointed to the offside call.

The big screen flashed a replay—Vilhena’s run, a fraction ahead of Henriksen when Boëtius crossed.

The home fans groaned, boos raining down, scarves slumping. Koeman threw his hands up, shouting at the fourth official, while Gertjan Verbeek exhaled, clapping Viergever.

[Jon exhaled, voice dropping. Hold on, Rob! Linesman’s flag is up—offside!]

[Rob groaned, leaning back. Oh, that’s harsh, Jon! Vilhena timed it so close, but the call’s right!]