The players settled onto the benches in the dressing room, their jerseys clinging to their sweat-soaked backs. So grabbed bottles of water while others toweled off their faces.
Despite the commanding lead at halfti, no one was resting on their laurels. Not with the aggressor, Gertjan Verbeek, pacing the room.
The manager clapped his hands sharply, demanding attention. Conversations fizzled out, and the room fell silent except for the faint creak of boots shifting on the tiled floor.
"Alright, listen up," Gertjan Verbeek began, his voice sounded calm but was edged with intensity. His piercing gaze swept across the room, lingering on each player as if daring them to lose focus. "First off, that was a fantastic half. That’s how you play football."
He pointed toward the whiteboard where the score, 4-0, was scribbled in bold, red marker.
"But don’t think for a second this ga is done. I don’t care if it’s four-nil, ten-nil, or thirty-nil—you switch off, and they’ll punish you. Got it?"
A collective murmur of agreent rippled through the room, but Verbeek wasn’t satisfied. He slamd his fist against the table, jolting everyone upright.
"Got it?!" he barked.
"Yes, boss!" ca the unified response, louder this ti.
Gertjan Verbeek nodded with a satisfied expression, and turned to the whiteboard.
With quick, deliberate strokes, he drew two lines, representing AZ Alkmaar’s defensive and midfield blocks. "Heerenveen’s trying to push their midfield higher to get de Roon and van den Berg more involved in the ga. They’ll co out swinging in the second half—they have no choice."
He underlined de Roon’s na twice. "They’re going to look for quick transitions, and target Finnbogason or maybe use longer balls. That ans we need to be disciplined. We keep our shape, we stay compact, and we don’t give them an inch of space."
The defenders exchanged glances and Viergever leaned forward while nodding intently. "We’ll cut off the supply to their frontline and make sure they get no clean touches."
"Good," Gertjan Verbeek said, his expression softening slightly. "But don’t just sit back. We press high and we win the ball early. Let’s suffocate them in their own half. They’ll panic and do wonders for our cause."
He turned to Martens and Elm next with his finger jabbing toward them like a drill sergeant pointing out recruits. "Martens, Elm—you two keep up the tempo in midfield."
"Make quick triangular passes to keep them chasing shadows. If we play too slow, we give them hope. And I don’t want them leaving here with a scrap of hope. Understood?"
Both players nodded. Martens was already visualizing the rhythm of play, and Elm chewing on the cap of his water bottle with his brows furrowed in concentration.
"And Benjamin," Gertjan Verbeek said, turning toward the young winger.
The room energy seed to shift slightly as all eyes moved to the young star who had been a thorn in Heerenveen’s side all evening.
Benjamin looked up with steady breaths, though, his chest still rose and fell from the first half’s exertion.
"You’re doing everything right, kiddo. Keep running at them. Zuiverloon’s on his last legs, and Zor’s a yellow card away from seeing red. If you can, keep frustrating the duo and make them commit. Keep pushing, and the gaps will co."
Benjamin gave a firm nod to Gertjan Verbeek who stepped closer, his voice dropping a notch. "But don’t get too greedy. If the pass is on, play it. We’re not here for solos; we’re here to bury them as a team."
"Yes, boss," Benjamin replied with a calm but resolute tone .
Gertjan Verbeek stepped back while surveying his squad. "One more thing. We don’t stop at four. We don’t stop at five. We don’t stop until that final whistle blows. I want blood, lads. We send a ssage tonight—not just to Heerenveen, but to the whole league."
A murmur of agreent turned into a roar as the players rose to their feet, adrenaline coursing through them from the hype.
Altidore encouragingly slapped Benjamin on the back, and Berghuis grinned as he adjusted his shin pads. The atmosphere of the dressing room was electric.
"Let’s go finish this," Gertjan Verbeek growled, his voice low and nacing.
As they filed out of the room, the distant roar of the crowd grew louder, beckoning them back to the pitch.
Heerenveen might’ve survived the first-half onslaught, but Gertjan Verbeek’s AZ Alkmaar weren’t done yet.
***
The second half was monts away, and the stadium buzzed with anticipation as the players erged from the tunnel.
The floodlights bead down on the pitch, casting long shadows that danced with every step the athletes took.
The cara panned across the line of players, showcasing the myriad of expressions etched on their faces. So determination, and others, frustration.
Up in the comntary box, the familiar voices of the comntators, Dirk and Martin cut through the din.
[Here they co,] Dirk began, leaning forward as he adjusted his headset. [AZ Alkmaar leading by a commanding four-nil, but if you know Gertjan Verbeek’ personality, Martin, you’ll know he won’t let them relax]
Martin chuckled while tapping his pen against the desk. [Relax? Not in his vocabulary. Look at him down there] He gestured to the touchline, where Gertjan Verbeek strode out, barking instructions to his players before they even reached the field. [He looks like he’s ready to lace up and join them]
[Wouldn’t put it past him,] Dirk replied with a smirk. "And you can see why. Heerenveen’s got a mountain to climb, but don’t write them off just yet. Finnbogason up top can turn a ga on its head if he gets the service]
[Big ’if,’ though,] Martin countered, shifting in his seat. [De Roon and van den Berg have been stifled to non-existent in midfield, and AZ Alkmaar’s backline has been rock-solid. Viergever and Reijnen aren’t letting anything through]
As the players spread out on the field for their warm-ups, the cara lingered on Benjamin, who was jogging toward the sideline. The young winger stretched his arms above his head with a calm and focused expression on his face.
[And there’s the man of the first half,] Dirk said, his voice rising slightly. [Benjamin Rijkaard. What a performance so far—caused all sorts of problems for Zuiverloon and Zor]
Martin nodded, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. [He’s been electric, hasn’t he? Fast, direct, and clever with the ball. Zuiverloon might be having nightmares tonight]
[Zuiverloon will need more than a halfti break to recover,] Dirk quipped. [But credit to Benjamin—he’s showing maturity beyond his years. The decision-making, the composure—it’s all there]
The players from both teams took their positions on the field, with Heerenveen’s captain rallying his teammates for one last push.
Finnbogason clapped his hands, shouting words of encouragent to his teammates as the referee signaled for the ga to restart.
[This is it,] Dirk said, the excitent in his voice palpable. [Forty-five minutes for Heerenveen to salvage so pride—or for AZ Alkmaar to drive the nail in deeper]
[Place your bets, Dirk,] Martin teased lightly with a playful edge to his tone. [Are we in for a coback or a bloodbath?]
Dirk laughed, shaking his head. [Oh, I think I know which one Gertjan Verbeek’s aiming for. But let’s see if Heerenveen has anything left in the tank]
Fweeee!~
The whistle blew, and the second half was underway.
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