The clock ticked to the 87th minute. The air in Rotterdam's De Kuip buzzed, electric with tension. Both sides pushed, stretched thin, chasing a breakthrough. The scoreboard still read 1-0, AZ Alkmaar clinging to Altidore's first-half strike, but the game felt alive, teetering on the edge of chaos.
Jon's voice crackled through the commentary booth, steady but urgent. [This is it, Rob. Late, late drama. Both teams throwing everything at it now.]
Rob leaned closer to the mic, his tone sharp. [You can feel it, Jon. One mistake, one moment—it's all it takes.]
On the pitch, AZ Alkmaar won a corner. The crowd roared, a hoarse wave of noise that hadn't let up all night. Benjamin jogged to the flag, wiping sweat from his brow. He raised one hand, signaling to his teammates. Altidore and Henriksen muscled their way into the box, jostling with Mathijsen and Martins Indi. Maher lingered on the edge, ready for scraps.
