The PSV players mobbed Matavž near the corner flag, their faces lit up with joy. Strootman sprinted to join them, pumping his fists in triumph.
[Look at the reaction from Strootman,] Mike observed. [That’s what it ans to this PSV team. They’ve been relentless since conceding the equalizer]
On the AZ Alkmaar bench, Gertjan Verbeek was a picture of frustration, pacing the touchline with his arms crossed tightly. He barked instructions at his players, his voice barely audible over the roar of the ho crowd.
[Gertjan Verbeek won’t be happy with the marking there,] the co-comntator said. [Matavž was given far too much space to rise and head that in]
[Absolutely,] Mike agreed. [It’s a simple ball into the 18 yard box, but AZ Alkmaar’s defense switched off for just a second, and that’s all it took]
The AZ Alkmaar players trudged back to the center circle, their heads down.
Benjamin, still catching his breath after his stunning equalizer just monts earlier, clenched his fists, his face set in determination.
[There’s still ti, though,] Mike said, sensing the mood shift. [AZ Alkmaar have shown they can hurt PSV. It’s not over yet]
As the PSV fans celebrated, waving their scarves and chanting Matavž’s na, the AZ Alkmaar faithful in the corner of the stadium rallied their team with their own songs, refusing to be silenced.
Fweeee!~
The referee’s whistle pierced through the noise, signaling the restart. The match was back underway, the pace as frantic as ever.
[Well, folks,] Mike said, settling back into his comntary. [If you thought this ga was done, think again. AZ Alkmaar will throw everything they’ve got at PSV now. Buckle up]
The ball rolled back into play, and imdiately AZ Alkmaar pushed forward, determined not to let PSV’s montum hold sway.
Henriksen received the ball in the middle of the pitch and raised his head up, scanning for options to push an attack.
The PSV midfield pressed him aggressively, but he shielded the ball well, forcing them to back off slightly.
[They’ve got to respond quickly here, Mike,] the co-comntator said. [No ti to dwell on that goal. AZ Alkmaar need to keep their heads and go for it]
Henriksen played a short pass to Elm, who quickly turned to evade his marker, Van Boml, and sprayed the ball out wide to Berghuis on the right flank.
The young winger’s movent was a blur of motion as he darted forward, cutting inside past Willems once again.
[Berghuis, ever the danger man,] Mike noted. [He’s been a handful all ga for Willems]
Berghuis drove toward the edge of the 18 yard box, his eyes darting between Benjamin and Altidore, who were both making runs into the box.
With a deft flick, he threaded the ball into the path of Benjamin, who was stationed just outside the 18 yard area.
[Benjamin again! He’s in space—what can he do here?] Mike’s voice grew louder with anticipation.
The youngster took a steadying touch, setting himself up for a strike. The PSV defenders closed in fast, but Benjamin, brimming with confidence, didn’t hesitate.
He unleashed a thunderous shot that curled through the crowded box, heading straight for the top corner.
[Oh, what a hit! Benjamin’s let fly—]
The ball swerved wickedly, leaving Waterman scrambling. It seed destined for the back of the net, but then—CLANG!—it struck the inside of the right post.
The ball ricocheted across the goalmouth, brushing the opposite post before Bouma, who was alert and desperate, slid in to clear it off the line.
[Oh my word! Off both posts... AGAIN!] Mike shouted, his voice tinged with disbelief. [How has that not gone in?]
[That was inches away, Mike,] the co-comntator said, equally stunned. [What an effort from Benjamin! That had goal written all over it]
The AZ Alkmaar fans, already on their feet, let out a collective groan of disbelief. On the bench, Gertjan Verbeek threw his arms up in frustration, turning away in anguish before spinning back to bark more instructions.
[You’ve got to feel for the lad,] Mike continued. [He did everything right there—caught it cleanly, beat Waterman, but the woodwork denies him!]
The corner was awarded, and Benjamin jogged over to take it, the AZ Alkmaar players crowding the 18 yard box in preparation.
Bouma, who was still catching his breath after his clearance, organized the PSV defense, waving his arms to direct his teammates.
[Well, AZ Alkmaar aren’t done yet,] the co-comntator said. [This corner’s another chance to put the pressure on]
Benjamin delivered a wicked, outswinging cross that curled dangerously toward the penalty spot.
Altidore muscled his way through a physical challenge from Bouma, rising highest to et it. His header which connected cleanly was powerful and precise, and was aid for the far corner.
[Altidore!—]
But Waterman, who had already proven his amazing reflexes, reacted quickly, diving low to his left with his arms outstretched to the limits and pushed the ball wide with his fingertips.
[What a save by Waterman!] Mike shouted. [He’s keeping PSV in the lead!]
[That’s two massive stops in the span of minutes,] the co-comntator added. [AZ Alkmaar must be wondering what they have to do to beat him]
The ball rolled out for another corner, the pressure mounting on PSV as the AZ Alkmaar players regrouped and prepared to strike again.
In the stands, the AZ Alkmaar fans roared their support, their chants echoing through the stadium as their team refused to back down.
[You can feel the energy in this ga,] Mike said, his voice filled with excitent. [AZ Alkmaar are throwing everything at PSV now. This is relentless!]
Benjamin adjusted the ball on the corner flag, taking a deep breath as the players jostled for position in the box..
[This is it, Mike,] the co-comntator said, his voice steady but brimming with tension. [The pressure is mounting. PSV can only hold out for so long]
Benjamin glanced up, scanning the cluster of bodies near the six-yard box. With a swift motion, he delivered a sharp, inswinging cross that whipped toward the near post.
[It’s another brilliant delivery!] Mike exclaid. [Benjamin has been spot on tonight]
The ball curled wickedly into the danger zone, where Altidore once again wrestled free of his marker.
But just as he leapt to et it, Willems threw himself into the path of the ball with his arms flailing in an attempt to disrupt the play.
There was a sudden pause in the chaos—a collective intake of breath from the spectators and players—as the ball struck Willems squarely on the forearm, deflecting away from goal and sending PSV scrambling to clear.
[Handball! That’s a handball this ti around! Surely!] Mike’s voice cracked with urgency.
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