[Another save. Another heartbeat skipped.]
[He's not just stopping shots, John. He's reading the rhythm. He knows what's next before it happens.]
Alvarado rose slowly, wiped his gloves on his shorts, and glanced at the fourth official.
The board was up now—red digits lit: +3.
[Three more minutes, Peter. Just three. But it feels like a lifetime.]
[For AZ Alkmaar, it probably is.]
Alvarado launched the ball long again, over halfway. This time, Jozy Altidore went up for it—alone, muscling between Skrtel and Agger.
He won it. Flicked it down.
[Hang on, John. They've got something here.]
Henriksen caught up to it, barely, and turned. He wasn't going backward. He drove toward the edge of the 18 yard box, ignoring the roar behind him.
Allen tracked back, tight to him.
Henriksen feinted left, cut right, and then—just as space opened—pulled the trigger.
[Shot!]
It bent toward the near post—but Reina had seen it early. He stepped and caught it comfortably.
