The celebration felt like it lasted forever. Benjamin's teammates surrounded him near the corner flag, their voices mixing with the roar of the crowd. His hat-trick had turned the ga upside down.
But there was still work to do.
The scoreboard showed 4-3 to AZ Alkmaar. Twenty minutes left on the clock. Enough ti for anything to happen.
Gertjan Verbeek knew his players were running on empty. They'd given everything in the last thirty minutes. Fresh legs were needed.
He looked down his bench and made his second tactical change.
"Henriksen! Co off!" he shouted over the noise.
The fourth official did his thing, raising the board.
The midfielder had covered every blade of grass. His legs were like lead now. He jogged toward the touchline, his head held high.
Guðmundsson jumped up from the bench, already pulling off his warm-up jacket. The Icelandic midfielder was known for his work rate. Perfect for protecting a lead.
"Sit deep," Gertjan Verbeek told him. "Help Maher and Martens."
The substitution made sense. AZ Alkmaar needed to be smart now. No more risks.
Steve McClaren watched from the other touchline. His face was pale. His two-goal lead had beco a one-goal deficit in the blink of an eye.
He called Douglas over.
"Push higher," he said urgently. "We need bodies forward. Take chances. Even if we must, try shooting at every chance you get."
The defender nodded and jogged back to his position.
Play restarted with Twente pushing forward desperately. They had nothing to lose now.
Fer picked up the ball in midfield and drove forward. Guðmundsson closed him down imdiately, but the midfielder managed to slip the ball wide to Brama.
The substitute had fresh legs. He beat Johansson with a neat stepover and whipped in a cross.
Chadli rose at the back post, his header powerful and true.
But Alvarado was ready. The AZ Alkmaar keeper punched the ball clear with both fists.
It dropped to Fer twenty-five yards out.
He hit it first ti. A clean strike that flew toward the top corner.
Alvarado scrambled across his goal line.
The ball flew just over the crossbar.
Close. Too close.
[Twente are throwing everything forward now!] Peter Walsh shouted. [They know ti is running out!]
The clock showed seventy-five minutes. The ga was entering its final phase.
Gertjan Verbeek made another change. Berghuis had worked tirelessly all night, but his legs were gone. He was walking more than running now.
[Steven! Co off!] Gertjan Verbeek called.
Berghuis raised his hand and jogged toward the bench. The crowd gave him a warm round of applause.
Overtoom ca on in his place. Another defensive-minded player. Gertjan Verbeek was clearly trying to shut up shop.
[Help in defense,] he told the substitute. [Stay compact.]
But AZ Alkmaar weren't just defending. They were still dangerous on the counter-attack.
Benjamin picked up the ball on the left wing. His legs felt fresh despite playing the full ga. Adrenaline was carrying him now.
He dribbled toward Willems, who looked exhausted. The fullback's shirt was soaked through with sweat.
Benjamin didn't need tricks this ti. Pure pace was enough.
He knocked the ball past the defender and chased after it.
Willems couldn't keep up.
Benjamin was into space now, racing toward the penalty area.
But instead of shooting, he looked for support.
Altidore was making a run through the center. Beerens was overlapping on the right.
Benjamin chose Altidore. The pass was perfect, rolling across the grass to the striker's feet.
Altidore turned and shot in one movent.
The ball flew toward goal.
Mihaylov dived to his left.
He got there, pushing the ball wide for a corner kick.
[Great save!] Michael Harrison shouted. [AZ Alkmaar nearly put the ga to bed!]
The corner kick ca to nothing. Chadli headed it clear at the near post.
The minutes were ticking by. Eighty minutes gone now.
Twente were getting desperate. They were taking bigger risks. Pushing more players forward.
It left space at the back.
Space that Benjamin was ready to exploit.
The ball ca to him from a throw-in. He was standing thirty yards from goal, just inside Twente's half.
Fer ca to close him down, but he was too slow.
Benjamin flicked the ball over his head with the outside of his boot. A delicate touch that sent the ball spinning through the air.
He ran around the surprised midfielder and collected it on the other side.
Now he was through on goal again.
The crowd rose as one.
Benjamin had only Mihaylov to beat.
But the keeper was already rushing out, trying to narrow the angle.
Benjamin waited until he was close, then tried to chip him.
The ball sailed over Mihaylov's head.
It was heading for the empty goal.
Until Douglas appeared from nowhere, sliding in to clear it off the line.
Another chance gone.
[Unbelievable defending!] Peter Walsh scread. [How many tis can one team co so close?]
The clock showed eighty-one minutes. Nine minutes plus stoppage ti to go.
AZ Alkmaar were awarded an indirect free kick just outside the penalty area. Fer had handled the ball trying to clear it.
Benjamin stood over the ball. The wall was lined up ten yards away. Every Twente player except Mihaylov was in the penalty area.
This was a perfect chance.
Benjamin didn't need to hit it hard. He just needed to place it.
He looked up at the goal. Mihaylov was standing slightly to his right, trying to cover the near post.
The far corner was open.
Benjamin ran up to the ball and struck it cleanly.
It curled around the wall, dipping and spinning as it went.
Mihaylov saw it late. He threw himself across his goal, his gloves stretched out desperately.
His fingertips touched the ball.
But he couldn't hold it.
The ball spilled from his grasp and bounced toward the goal line.
Altidore was there, unmarked at the back post.
An empty goal in front of him.
He just needed to nod it in.
The striker jumped forward, his head eting the ball perfectly.
But sohow, he guided it wide of the post.
Wide!
The crowd gasped in disbelief.
Altidore put his hands to his head and stared at the goal.
How had he missed that?
[NOOO! Altidore misses an open goal!] Peter Walsh's voice cracked with shock. [Benjamin's free kick beat everyone, and sohow it's still 4-3!]
Benjamin couldn't believe it either. He stood with his hands on his hips, staring at his striker.
The perfect cross. The perfect setup.
And sohow, no goal.
Football could be cruel sotis.
But there was still ti, still chances. The ga wasn't over yet.
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