Against All Odds: Legacy Of A Football King-Chapter 340: Team Talk

The halftime whistle had just blown at De Grolsch Veste, FC Twente leading AZ Alkmaar 3-1 in a gripping Eredivisie clash. The players trudged off the pitch, their boots heavy, their breaths visible in the chilly December air.

Twente’s red-clad fans chanted loudly, their banners waving, while AZ Alkmaar’s traveling supporters in red and white clapped their team off, their voices steady despite the scoreline.

The floodlights cast a sharp glow over the empty pitch, the tension lingering as the teams headed to their dressing rooms.

In the AZ Alkmaar dressing room, the air was thick with frustration. The players sat on the benches, their kits soaked with sweat, water bottles scattered around.

Gertjan Verbeek stood at the center with his arms crossed and his face stern but focused. The whiteboard behind him showed a rough sketch of the pitch, arrows and X’s marking Twente’s counterattacking patterns.

Esteban Alvarado leaned back against the wall, his gloves off, his eyes fixed on the floor, while Benjamin sat hunched over, his elbows on his knees, staring at his boots. Altidore took a long sip from his water bottle, his chest heaving, the missed chance off the post still replaying in his mind.

Gertjan Verbeek clapped his hands sharply, the sound cutting through the quiet. "Listen up!" he barked, his voice firm. "We’re not out of this. Not by a long shot. We’ve had chances—good chances—but we’re not finishing. Altidore, you’re getting in the right spots, but you’ve got to bury those. Benjamin, you’re tearing them apart on the left—keep doing that, but get your head up, find the pass earlier."

He pointed to the whiteboard, jabbing at the arrows. "Their counters are killing us. Chadli and Tadić—they’re running the show because we’re leaving gaps. Martens, Adam, and Henriksen—you’ve got to track back faster. We can’t let them break like that again."

Adam Maher nodded, wiping sweat from his brow, his expression determined. Viergever, sitting next to Reijnen, tapped his teammate on the shoulder, his voice low but steady. "We’re solid at the back, but we need to step up quicker. Don’t let Castaignos get behind us again." Reijnen nodded, his jaw tight, his hands clenched.

Gertjan Verbeek paced, his eyes scanning the room, his voice rising. "Second half, we press higher. We take the game to them. They’re comfortable at 3-1—we make them uncomfortable. Benjamin, Altidore, Berghuis—you three keep stretching their defense. We get one goal, we’re right back in this. Fight for every ball. Every single one."

Altidore set his bottle down, his shoulders squaring, a fire in his eyes. Benjamin looked up, his face set, nodding slowly. Esteban Alvarado slapped his gloves together, his voice cutting through. "I’ve got the goal. You lot just get me that ball up top." The room buzzed with renewed energy, the players clapping each other on the back, their heads lifting as Gertjan Verbeek’s words sank in.

Across the tunnel in the FC Twente dressing room, the mood was lighter but focused. The players sat on their benches, their red kits damp, water bottles in hand.

Steve McClaren stood at the front, his arms relaxed, a small smile on his face. The whiteboard behind him showed AZ Alkmaar’s attacking patterns, with circles around Benjamin and Altidore’s positions.

Chadli leaned back, his legs stretched out, a towel over his shoulders, his goal still fresh in his mind. Tadić sat next to him, sipping water, his eyes sharp, while Castaignos wiped his face with a towel, his near-miss still nagging at him.

McClaren clapped his hands once, his voice calm but clear. "Good first half, lads. Really good. We’re 3-1 up because you’re playing smart—Chadli, Tadić, those counters are killing them. Keep that up." He pointed to the whiteboard, tapping the circles. "Benjamin and Altidore—they’re dangerous. We can’t let them get behind us. Rosales, Schilder—you’ve got to stay tight on them. Don’t give them space to run." Rosales nodded, his jaw set, while Schilder adjusted his shin pads, his focus clear.

McClaren paced slowly, his hands in his pockets. "We’re in control, but don’t get comfortable. AZ Alkmaar will come at us hard—they’ve got nothing to lose now. Fer, Brama—keep the midfield tight. Don’t let Henriksen have time on the ball. Chadli, Tadić, Castaignos—stay sharp up top. We get another, we kill this game." He paused, his eyes scanning the room. "But if they score, don’t panic. We stay calm, we stick to the plan. You’re doing well—keep the tempo, keep the pressure."

Chadli nodded, a grin flashing across his face as he glanced at Tadić, who gave him a quick fist bump. Fer clapped his hands, his voice loud. "Let’s finish this, boys!" The room buzzed, the players standing, their energy high, their focus clear. freewebnoveℓ.com

Mihaylov pulled his gloves on, his face set, ready to face AZ Alkmaar’s second-half onslaught. Douglas slapped Wisgerhof on the back, his voice steady. "We’ve got this. No gaps." Wisgerhof nodded, his expression calm but determined.

Back in the commentary booth, the lead commentator and co-commentator flipped through their notes, the stats still flashing on the screen. The crowd outside buzzed, the halftime chatter a low hum as fans grabbed drinks and snacks, their voices carrying through the stadium.

[That was a thrilling first half,] the lead commentator said, his voice warm. [Twente lead 3-1, and they’ve looked lethal on the counter. Chadli’s goal was the highlight—pure quality. But AZ Alkmaar are still in this, aren’t they?]

[Absolutely,] the co-commentator replied, setting his pen down. [They’ve had their chances—Altidore and Benjamin have been dangerous. But they’ve got to be sharper in front of goal. And defensively, they can’t afford those gaps. Twente’s counters are tearing them apart.]

[What do you think Gertjan Verbeek’s saying in that dressing room right now?] the lead commentator asked, leaning back in his chair.

[He’ll be firing them up,] the co-commentator said, his tone thoughtful. [He’ll want them to press higher, take the game to Twente. They need a goal early in the second half to get back into this. And he’ll be telling his midfield to track back quicker—Chadli and Tadić are running riot because AZ Alkmaar are leaving too much space.]

[And McClaren?] the lead commentator prompted, sipping his water.

[McClaren will be keeping his lads calm,] the co-commentator replied, flipping a page in his notes. [He’ll tell them to stay tight, keep the tempo, and hit AZ Alkmaar on the counter again. They’re in control, but he won’t want them to get complacent. AZ Alkmaar can still hurt them if they’re not careful.]

The camera panned across the stadium, showing fans in the stands, some stretching their legs, others waving to the camera, their red scarves bright under the lights.

A replay of Chadli’s goal flashed on the screen, the counterattack unfolding in slow motion—Fer’s pass, Tadić’s run, Chadli’s finish. The crowd cheered as the replay played, the noise a steady hum.

[That goal from Chadli was something special,] the lead commentator said, his voice warm. [The speed of that counter—AZ Alkmaar just couldn’t cope.]

[It’s what Twente do best,] the co-commentator added, nodding. [They soak up pressure and then hit you with pace. Chadli and Tadić have been outstanding—AZ Alkmaar need to find a way to stop them in the second half.]

The players began to emerge from the tunnel, their faces set, their kits fresh after the break. Gertjan Verbeek walked out first, his arms crossed, his expression stern, while McClaren followed, his demeanor calm but focused. The crowd roared as the teams took their positions, the second half moments away.

[Here come the teams,] the lead commentator said, his tone rising with the crowd’s energy. [AZ Alkmaar will kick off the second half—they’ve got a mountain to climb at 3-1 down.]

[They need an early goal,] the co-commentator noted, his voice steady. [If they can get one in the first 10 minutes, this game’s wide open. But Twente will look to manage this—don’t expect them to sit back, though. They’ll want to kill it off.]

The referee signaled for the teams to take their places, the crowd rising to their feet, the anticipation thick in the air. The second half was about to begin, and AZ Alkmaar faced a steep challenge to keep their Eredivisie title chase alive.