Against All Odds: Legacy Of A Football King

Martens stepped up to the corner flag again. His jersey was soaked with sweat. The scoreboard still showed 3-1 to Twente, but the story of the second half was being written by AZ Alkmaar.

And Benjamin Rijkaard was holding the pen.

The young winger stood twenty yards from goal, his chest rising and falling as he caught his breath. His touch had been perfect all night. His movement was poetry. But the ball just wouldn't go in.

Martens raised his arm once more. The crowd held its breath.

The ball curled into the penalty area like a guided missile.

Altidore went up with three defenders. Bodies crashed together in mid-air. The ball bounced loose, dropping toward the edge of the box.

Benjamin saw it coming.

Time slowed down.

He adjusted his position with tiny steps, reading the ball's flight like he was born to do it. His left foot was already drawn back when the ball reached him.

The strike was pure silk.

The ball flew through the air, dipping and curving as it went. It kissed the crossbar and dropped toward the goal line.

Mihaylov threw himself upward, his fingertips just brushing the leather.

The ball rebounded and hit the inside of the post.

It bounced back again.

Hit the other post.

And somehow stayed out.

The crowd gasped as one. Twenty-four thousand people couldn't believe their eyes.

Benjamin stared at the goal in disbelief. His hands went to his head. How was that possible?

[Oh my word! Benjamin Rijkaard with the strike of his life, and somehow it doesn't go in!] Peter Walsh's voice cracked with emotion. [That ball hit both posts!]

The AZ Alkmaar fans were going wild. They were on their feet, singing louder than ever. Their team was losing 3-1, but they could see magic happening on the pitch.

Real magic.

Mihaylov grabbed the ball and looked relieved. His gloves were muddy now. His jersey was grass-stained. He'd made six saves in ten minutes.

He rolled the ball out to Willems on the left. The fullback trapped it and immediately looked up field, searching for Ola John.

But Benjamin was already there.

The young winger had read the play before it happened. He intercepted the pass with his first touch, then flicked the ball through Willems's legs with his second.

Nutmeg.

The crowd roared.

Willems spun around, but Benjamin was gone. The winger's feet moved like lightning across the wet grass.

Chadli came across to help, sliding in with a tackle that would have stopped most players.

Benjamin saw him coming.

He lifted the ball over the sliding challenge with the outside of his right foot. A delicate touch that sent the ball spinning through the air.

It dropped perfectly on the other side.

Benjamin collected it without breaking stride.

Now he was one-on-one with Janmaat.

The Twente defender backpedaled, trying to stay on his feet. His eyes never left the ball.

Benjamin smiled.

He dropped his shoulder to the left.

Janmaat shifted his weight.

Then Benjamin exploded to the right, the ball glued to his boot.

Janmaat was left grasping air.

Into the penalty area now. The crowd was on its feet again.

Benjamin had options. Altidore was making a run across the keeper. Henriksen was arriving late at the back post.

But Benjamin had other ideas.

He cut the ball onto his weaker left foot and looked up at Mihaylov.

The keeper was already diving before Benjamin had even shot.

Wrong way.

The knuckle-ball curled into the opposite corner, spinning off Benjamin's boot like it was following a string.

The net bulged.

GOOOOOOOAAALLLLL!!!

The crowd erupted. Benjamin wheeled away with his arms spread wide like he was flying.

[GOAL! Benjamin Rijkaard! What a magnificent individual effort!] Peter Walsh screamed. [He's torn Twente apart single-handed!]

The scoreboard changed: Twente 3, AZ Alkmaar 2.

Game on.

Benjamin's teammates mobbed him near the corner flag. Altidore lifted him off his feet. Berghuis ruffled his hair. Even the usually calm Maher was jumping up and down.

On the touchline, Gertjan Verbeek punched the air. His voice carried across the pitch as he shouted to his players.

"More! We need more!"

Steve McClaren looked worried now. He called his captain over and spoke urgently in his ear. Douglas nodded and jogged back to organize his defense.

But they couldn't organize against magic.

The restart was quick. Ola John tapped the ball to Chadli, who immediately played it back to Mihaylov.

The keeper looked up field, trying to find a safe pass.

There wasn't one.

AZ Alkmaar had pushed everyone forward. They smelled blood now.

Mihaylov kicked it long toward the halfway line. Viergever was there first, heading it back toward Benjamin.

The young winger controlled it with his chest, letting it drop to his feet. Wisgerhof was charging toward him, but Benjamin was already thinking ahead.

He backheeled the ball to Elm, who was following up behind.

Elm took one touch and played it wide to Berghuis on the right.

The move was flowing like water.

Berghuis crossed early. A low ball skimming across the wet grass.

Altidore was there, but so was Douglas. The defender got his body in the way, blocking the striker's shot.

The ball spun loose toward the penalty spot.

Benjamin arrived like lightning.

His first touch was perfect, taking the ball away from two defenders.

His second touch was better.

He rolled the ball around Janmaat, who slipped on the wet grass trying to turn.

Now Benjamin was through on goal again.

Mihaylov rushed out to narrow the angle. His gloves were spread wide.

Benjamin stayed calm.

He waited until the keeper was close enough to touch, then chipped the ball delicately over his head.

The ball arced through the air, spinning slowly.

It dropped toward the empty goal.

Chadli sprinted back, his legs pumping like pistons.

The ball bounced once on the goal line.

Chadli slid in desperately.

His boot connected with the ball just as it was about to cross the line.

He hooked it clear with his toe.

The crowd groaned in unison.

Benjamin put his hands on his hips and smiled. He wasn't frustrated anymore. He was enjoying this. Every touch. Every move. Every close call.

This was what football was about.

[Benjamin Rijkaard is playing out of his skin tonight!] Michael Harrison shouted. [He's got Twente on the ropes!]

The game clock showed sixty-two minutes. The second half was flying by. AZ Alkmaar had pulled one back, but they needed two more.

Benjamin walked back toward the halfway line, his head held high. His teammates were looking at him differently now. Like they believed anything was possible.