Martens stepped up to the corner flag again. His jersey was soaked with sweat. The scoreboard still showed 3-1 to Twente, but the story of the second half was being written by AZ Alkmaar.
And Benjamin Rijkaard was holding the pen.
The young winger stood twenty yards from goal, his chest rising and falling as he caught his breath. His touch had been perfect all night. His movement was poetry. But the ball just wouldn't go in.
Martens raised his arm once more. The crowd held its breath.
The ball curled into the penalty area like a guided missile.
Altidore went up with three defenders. Bodies crashed together in mid-air. The ball bounced loose, dropping toward the edge of the box.
Benjamin saw it coming.
Time slowed down.
He adjusted his position with tiny steps, reading the ball's flight like he was born to do it. His left foot was already drawn back when the ball reached him.
The strike was pure silk.
