Fweeeee!
The referee blew his whistle, and the stadium fell into a tense hush.
All eyes were on Benjamin as he stood over the ball, adjusting his stance with ticulous calm. His teammates peeled away, leaving no doubt about who would take the free kick.
Benjamin exhaled deeply, scanning the wall of Roda JC players. They fidgeted nervously, jumping slightly to test their reactions. The goalkeeper barked instructions to his teammates, pointing to the near post while carefully positioning himself.
The crowd buzzed with a mixture of anticipation and excitent filling the air.
[This is it,] the first comntator said. [Benjamin Rijkaard—a 17 years old boy from Haarlem, on the brink of delivering a mont of magic. Can he do it?]
[He’s got the technique, we’ve seen it all night. But this is pressure of a different kind,] the second comntator replied.
Benjamin took a deliberate five-step run-up, his eyes narrowing as if visualizing the ball’s trajectory. The tension was electric, the faint hum of the crowd a background to his steady breathing.
He began his approach, and his steps were smooth and confident. His planted left foot which struck the turf firmly, and his right leg swung forward with precision.
Thud!
The ball soared off his boot with a crisp thud, spinning violently as it arced toward the top corner.
The Roda JC wall leapt in unison, an attempt to block or deviate the ball from its intended path, but the ball was already beyond their reach, curving gracefully over their outstretched heads.
[It’s over the wall—this looks good!] the first comntator shouted, his voice rising in pitch.
The goalkeeper scrambled, his feet shuffling frantically as he stretched toward the ball. But it was perfectly placed, kissing the underside of the crossbar with a sharp tallic clang before nestling into the back of the net.
GOOAAAALLLLLL!!!~
The stadium exploded in excitent.
[What a goal! Benjamin Rijkaard has done it!] the first comntator yelled, nearly losing his voice. [That’s Beckham-esque! Absolute perfection from the youngster!]
[You couldn’t have written it better! Under the crossbar and in—it’s pure class from Benjamin Rijkaard!] the second comntator added, his voice shaking with excitent.
Benjamin stood frozen for a mont with his arms outstretched as if absorbing the mont.
Then, as the roar of the crowd grew deafening, he turned to his teammates with a triumphant grin breaking across his face.
They rushed toward him, Henriksen and Martens leading the charge, slapping him on the back and shouting praises.
On the touchline, Gertjan Verbeek punched the air, and a rare smile broke through his usually stern deanor.
The AZ Alkmaar fans were on their feet, chanting Benjamin’s na in unison. Even so Roda JC supporters couldn’t help but applaud the brilliance of the strike.
[That’s why the fans love him. He’s a special talent, and tonight, he’s shown exactly why,] the first comntator said.
[And look at Gertjan Verbeek—he’s over the moon. He knows he’s got a gem in this young man. But as we all know, such rare gems are only fit for the biggest stages. It’s only a matter of ti before top clubs co knocking in Alkmaar] the second comntator added.
anwhile, the Roda JC manager shook his head, hands on hips as he exchanged a rueful glance with his assistant.
The Roda JC players looked deflated, so standing motionless while others gestured helplessly toward the referee, as if to argue against the inevitable.
The scoreboard updated to 7-1, and the crowd erupted anew, savoring every mont.
Benjamin jogged back toward halfway line, acknowledging the fans with a slight wave. His composure remained intact, but the fire in his eyes showed he knew the magnitude of what he’d just achieved.
[That might just be the goal of the season,] the first comntator declared. [A star in the making, no doubt about it]
[It’s monts like these that define careers,] the second comntator said. [And Benjamin Rijkaard is only getting started]
Play resud, and the stadium was brought alive with energy, and the echoes of the crowd’s chants filled the night air.
Roda JC, pushed forward in a desperate bid to salvage so a second goal. Their attackers spread out, and the ball moved quickly through their midfield as they searched for one last opening.
[You’ve got to give them credit,] the first comntator said, his tone a mix of admiration and pity. [They’re not giving up, even at 7-1 down. That says a lot about their character]
[Absolutely, but you’ve got to wonder—do they have anything left in the tank? AZ Alkmaar’s defense hasn’t exactly been forgiving tonight,] the second comntator replied.
The ball was worked out wide to their left winger, who darted past Marcellis with surprising pace.
His cross into the box was low and hard, forcing Viergever to slide in with a desperate block. The ball ricocheted back toward the edge of the area, where a Roda JC midfielder was waiting.
[Here’s a chance! Roda JC’s still fighting! Can they make sothing happen?] the first comntator called.
The midfielder controlled it with one touch, his body coiling as he lined up a shot. He struck the ball cleanly, the sound echoing through the stadium as it whistled toward goal.
[That’s a thunderous strike—] the second comntator began, but his words were cut off.
Esteban Alvarado reacted instantly, diving to his left. His gloves t the ball with a satisfying thud, smothering it just as a Roda JC forward lunged in for a rebound.
[And Alvarado saves again! He’s been a rock back there all night,] the first comntator said, relief evident in his voice.
[What a way to end it. That was their best chance in a while, but Alvarado’s not letting anything slip tonight,] the second comntator added.
Alvarado rose to his feet calmly, clutching the ball as he surveyed the field. The stadium collectively exhaled, the final attempt thwarted.
The clock ticked toward the end of the three added minutes.
The referee glanced at his watch, raised his whistle to his lips, and blew three sharp blasts.
Fweee!~ Fweeee!~ Fweeeeee!~
[That’s it! Full-ti at the AFAS Stadion, and what a night it’s been for AZ Alkmaar!] the first comntator exclaid. [A performance for the ages, capped off by a mont of brilliance from Benjamin Rijkaard. A hat-trick of goals and assists for the young winger tonight]
[You’ve got to feel for Roda JC—they ca here looking for a fight, but AZ Alkmaar was simply on another level tonight,] the second comntator said.
The AZ Alkmaar players exchanged handshakes and high-fives, their smiles wide as the ho crowd erupted into cheers and applause.
Benjamin, who was still catching his breath, was quickly sward by his teammates. Martens slung an arm around his shoulder, grinning.
On the touchline, Gertjan Verbeek clapped his hands, nodding toward the fans in appreciation.
The Roda JC manager offered a quick handshake before retreating toward the tunnel, his expression a mixture of frustration and resignation.
In the stands, fans lingered, savoring the mont. Many held their phones aloft, capturing the celebration as chants of "Rijkaard! Rijkaard!" echoed through the stadium.
[Well, tonight belonged to Benjamin Rijkaard, didn’t it?] the first comntator said as the cara zood in on the young midfielder, his face glowing with pride.
[No question about it. Goals, assists, and that free kick—it’s a night he’ll never forget, and neither will these fans,] the second comntator replied.
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