The tension inside the stadium reached an all-ti high as Benjamin drew back his foot, ready to unleash the shot that could seal the mont as his.
But he didn’t blast it as anticipated by everyone in the Philips Stadion, including those watching through the TV in the comfort of their hos.
Benjamin’s foot paused for just a split second before sliding under the ball with an elegance that belied the chaos around him.
He chipped it—soft, deliberate, and so precise it seed to hang in the air for three heartbeats too long.
[He’s gone for the chip! Oh, my days—] Mike’s words caught in his throat, overwheld by the sheer audacity of the attempt.
Waterman leapt, his arms stretched out to the limits and flailing desperately above his head, but the ball floated gracefully past him.
The trajectory was perfect, arching just enough to clear the goalkeeper before descending toward the goal.
The crowd held its breath as the ball kissed the underside of the crossbar, emitting a sharp tallic clang that echoed through the stadium.
It bounced down, brushing the goal line for a fraction of a second, and then nestled into the back of the net.
[Amazing! Absolutely amazing!] Mike roared, his voice barely audible over the eruption of cheers. [Benjamin Rijkaard has done it! AZ Alkmaar lead 4-3 in the dying monts!]
[That’s pure class! The nerve to chip the keeper in a mont like this!] the co-comntator added, his voice laced with awe. [This kid has ice in his veins!]
GOOOAAAAAALLLLLLLL!!!~
The Philips Stadion erupted in a mix of ecstasy from the away fans and despair from the ho fans.
The AZ Alkmaar fans behind the goal were losing themselves in wild celebration, their arms stretched high as they jumped and scread Benjamin’s na.
The PSV supporters sat stunned in silence with their hands hanging on their heads, unable to process what had just happened.
On the pitch, Benjamin stood frozen for a mont, his wide eyes staring at the net as though he couldn’t quite believe it himself.
Then, the realization hit him...
He wheeled away, sprinting toward the corner flag with his arms outstretched, and his teammates chasing after him like a tidal wave.
[Look at him, Mike! Seventeen years of age, and he’s just scored that goal to win the ga!] the co-comntator said, his voice still tinged with disbelief. [What a mont for the young man from Haarlem!]
Benjamin slid to his knees near the corner flag, his face alight with pure joy. Henriksen reached him first, lifting him off the ground in a bear hug as the rest of the team piled on.
[What composure, what technique,] Mike continued, his voice shaking with excitent. [Benjamin Rijkaard has just written his na into AZ Alkmaar history tonight. What a way to win it!]
The scoreboard at the Philips Stadion now read 3-4, and the noise was deafening.
Benjamin’s na flashed repeatedly on the big screen, alongside the words "HAT-TRICK HERO," but even that didn’t seem enough to capture the magnitude of what he had just done.
[You have to feel for PSV,] Mike said after finally catching his breath. [They’ve fought tooth and nail tonight, but Benjamin Rijkaard has been unstoppable]
[Two hat-tricks in five league matches, Mike,] the co-comntator said, shaking his head. [Against PSV, no less. That’s not just talent—that’s superstar potential]
The replay of the goal played on the screen, the comntators montarily pausing as the cara zood in on Benjamin’s calm expression just before the chip.
The young winger’s eyes were locked on the ball, his body completely relaxed despite the weight of the mont.
[Look at that composure,] Mike said, almost whispering now. [He didn’t panic, didn’t rush it. He had the confidence to try a chip in that situation. Who does that at seventeen?]
[Benjamin Rijkaard does, apparently,] his partner replied with a laugh. [And I’ll tell you what, Mike, I don’t think we’re going to stop talking about this kid anyti soon]
The cara cut to the AZ Alkmaar fans in the away section, bouncing in unison as they belted out songs in praise of their young star.
A few fans waved scarves above their heads, while others simply jumped up and down, arms around strangers as if they’d known them for years.
[And look at the AZ Alkmaar fans,] Mike said, his voice warm. [This is why we love football. These monts don’t co around often]
On the pitch, Benjamin finally broke away from his teammates, his grin still wide as he clapped toward the fans and blew imaginary kisses. His chest rose and fell rapidly, his lungs working overti to match the adrenaline coursing through him.
Henriksen jogged alongside him, draping an arm around his shoulder. The two exchanged a few quick words before bursting into laughter, the pressure of the ga montarily forgotten.
[And let’s not forget, Mike,] the co-comntator chid in, [he’s done it away from ho, in one of the toughest stadiums in the league. It doesn’t get more impressive than that]
The PSV players stood frozen, disbelief etched into their faces. Bouma stared at the ground, hands on his hips, while Waterman shook his head, clearly replaying the goal in his mind.
[For PSV, this is a hard one to take,] Mike said sympathetically. [They’ve given everything tonight, but sotis, you just run into a player who’s having the ga of his life]
Fweeee!~
The referee’s whistle pierced the air, signaling the restart, but the ga now felt like a formality.
AZ Alkmaar’s players were brimming with energy, chasing every loose ball and pressing high.
[Benjamin’s hat-trick has completely turned this ga on its head,] Mike observed. [It’s going to be a long ride ho for PSV fans tonight]
Fweeee!~ Fweeeee!~ Fweeeeeee!~
As the final whistle blew, the AZ Alkmaar bench erupted in celebration. Players, coaches, and staff flooded onto the pitch, their voices blending into the chaos of cheers and chants.
[And there it is! Full ti in Eindhoven, and AZ Alkmaar take all three points! What a performance from this young team—and especially from Benjamin Rijkaard!]
[Mark my words, Mike, this is the kind of performance people will talk about for years. Tonight, Benjamin didn’t just win a ga—he announced himself to the football world]
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