Against All Odds: Legacy Of A Football King

The corner flag stood still for a moment before the wind caught it again. AZ Alkmaar players jogged back from the penalty area, their heads held high despite the missed chances.

The crowd's energy hadn't dropped. If anything, it was building.

Mihaylov rolled the ball out to Douglas. The Twente defender trapped it calmly and looked up the field. His teammates were scattered across the pitch, still catching their breath from the wave after wave of AZ Alkmaar attacks.

Douglas played it safe. A simple pass to Wisgerhof in midfield.

Wisgerhof's first touch was loose. The ball bounced off his boot and rolled toward Elm, who was closing in fast.

The AZ Alkmaar midfielder reached the ball first. He turned quickly and spotted Maher making a run through the center.

The pass was crisp and low.

Maher collected it without breaking stride. He had space ahead of him. Lots of space. Too much space for Twente's liking.

Chadli came across to cut off the angle, his long legs eating up the ground. But Maher was already thinking two moves ahead.

He flicked the ball to his right, where Berghuis was lurking.

Berghuis took one touch to steady himself, then looked up. Altidore was making his run. The big striker's timing was perfect, just like they'd practiced a hundred times in training.

The pass was weighted perfectly. It rolled across the grass like it was following train tracks.

Altidore's first touch was sublime. The ball stuck to his foot as he turned away from Janmaat. The fullback tried to get tight, but Altidore was already gone.

Inside the penalty area now.

The crowd rose as one.

Altidore pulled back his right foot.

Mihaylov set himself on his line, his gloves ready.

The shot was low and hard, aimed for the bottom corner.

But at the last second, Altidore spotted Benjamin arriving late at the back post. Instead of shooting, he cut the ball back across goal.

Benjamin was ready. He'd timed his run to perfection.

His foot met the ball cleanly.

But Wisgerhof appeared from nowhere, sliding in with a desperate block. The ball cannoned off his shin and spun high into the air.

For a moment, nobody moved. The ball seemed to hang in the air forever.

Then gravity took over.

It dropped toward the goal line.

Mihaylov scrambled backward, his arms reaching up.

The ball bounced once on the line.

Then again.

And then it rolled safely into his arms.

[What a scramble! How did that not go in?] Peter Walsh's voice was barely controlled excitement. [AZ Alkmaar are doing everything but score!]

The AZ Alkmaar fans couldn't believe it. Some covered their faces with their hands. Others stood with their mouths open. Benjamin dropped to his knees and stared at the sky.

On the touchline, Gertjan Verbeek clapped his hands together and shouted encouragement to his players. His voice carried across the pitch.

"Keep going! It will come!"

Steve McClaren looked like a man under siege. He called Douglas over and spoke quickly in his ear. The defender nodded and jogged back to his position.

The game clock showed fifty-two minutes. AZ Alkmaar had been attacking non-stop for seven minutes but the score still remained 3-1, in favour of FC Twente.

Twente were hanging on, but the pressure was relentless.

Mihaylov kicked the ball long, aiming for Ola John on the left wing. The young forward controlled it well and tried to turn, but Martens was on him immediately.

The tackle was clean but firm. Ola John hit the ground hard, rolling twice before coming to a stop. The referee waved play on.

Martens picked up the loose ball and immediately looked forward. He could see Berghuis making space on the right wing.

The pass was perfect. Forty yards across the field, right into Berghuis's path.

The winger trapped it with his chest and let it drop to his feet. Willems came across to close him down, but Berghuis was already moving.

He cut inside, drawing two defenders with him, then slipped the ball to Elm in the center.

Elm's touch was perfect. He moved the ball to his left foot and looked up.

Altidore was making another run, this time dragging Janmaat out of position.

The space opened up behind him.

Elm spotted it immediately.

He threaded a pass through the gap, right into Benjamin's path.

The young winger was electric. His acceleration was like watching a sports car shift gears. One moment he was jogging, the next he was flying.

Janmaat tried to recover, but Benjamin was too quick.

Into the penalty area again.

This time there was no hesitation.

Benjamin pulled back his left foot and struck the ball cleanly.

It flew toward the near post, rising as it went.

Mihaylov dived across his goal, his body stretching like elastic.

His fingertips touched the ball.

But it wasn't enough.

The ball clipped the inside of the post and bounced back across goal.

Henriksen was there, unmarked at the back post.

An open goal in front of him.

He swung his foot at the ball.

But Chadli appeared like a ghost, sliding in with a tackle that sent both players sprawling.

The ball rolled harmlessly out for a corner.

The crowd exploded. AZ fans were on their feet, waving scarves and flags. The noise was deafening.

[This is unbelievable! AZ Alkmaar are camped in Twente's penalty area!] Michael Harrison shouted over the noise. [How many chances can one team create?]

Martens jogged over to take the corner. The AZ Alkmaar players were already organizing themselves in the penalty box. Altidore and Viergever positioned themselves at the near post. Henriksen and Elm hung back at the edge of the area.

Twente had everyone back. Even Ola John was standing on the goal line, helping his goalkeeper.

Martens raised his arm. The stadium fell quiet for just a moment.

He ran up to the ball and whipped it into the danger zone.

The ball curled through the air, spinning fast.

Altidore rose first, his head meeting the ball at the perfect height.

The header was powerful and accurate, aimed for the far corner.

But Mihaylov was ready. He threw himself across his goal and punched the ball clear with both fists.

It dropped to Elm twenty-five yards out.

The midfielder didn't hesitate. He hit it first time, a clean strike that flew through the crowded penalty area.

Bodies scattered as the ball zipped between them.

It was heading for the bottom corner.

Until Janmaat stuck out his leg.

The deflection sent the ball spinning wide of the post by inches.

Another corner.

This is relentless!] Peter Walsh was almost shouting now. [AZ Alkmaar are throwing everything at Twente!]

The clock showed fifty-five minutes. Eight minutes of pure attacking football. The energy in the stadium was electric.