Arghana had no time to think. After throwing the ball into play for his teammate, he sprinted forward, eyes scanning for a gap in the opponent's defensive line.
Sparta Rotterdam were still ahead by a goal and looking to extend their lead through a quick counterattack. But their sharpness had started to fade. Golden chances slipped through their fingers, forcing them to be more cautious in the closing minutes.
By the eighty-third minute, the Sparta coach made his move. He pulled off a striker and brought on a defensive midfielder. The message was clear. Hold the lead.
Meanwhile, the Go Ahead Eagles supporters at De Adelaarshorst sat in silence. They watched the game like it was a replay of something they had seen too many times before. A familiar story with a bitter ending.
The commentators followed their script. Their voices flat. No emotion. No surprise.
But on the field, one player moved unscripted.
Arghana.
The young Indonesian striker kept running. Kept pushing. Always trying to find space, always calling for the ball. But since the first whistle, his teammates had looked the other way. They passed around him. Chose the safer option. The more experienced players.
And Henk Dijkhuizen, the Sparta defender, stayed close to Arghana like a shadow. He knew Arghana was the weak link. Or at least, he thought he was.
Then came the eighty-eighth minute.
Go Ahead Eagles earned a corner kick. The ball flew into the box, chaos followed. It bounced back out to the edge of the area, where Deniz Türüç struck it with venom. A shot that looked dangerous.
But it struck a Sparta defender and deflected toward the left side of the penalty area.
And Arghana was there.
He brought the ball down with his right foot, smooth and controlled. Dijkhuizen charged forward, confident he could shut him down just like every time before.
But this time, something was different.
In a fraction of a second, the world shifted. Time slowed. The pitch stretched out in perfect clarity. Arghana saw everything. Every twitch of Dijkhuizen's body. Every fake. Every intention.
And he moved.
With a featherlight touch, he slipped the ball past the defender. Dijkhuizen lost his balance. One second too late. One step behind.
Arghana broke free.
Inside the box now. Marnix Kolder shouted for the ball. Deniz Türüç waved from behind, calling for the pass.
But Arghana saw none of them.
All he saw was the goal.
He planted his left foot, swung his right, and let it fly.
The strike sliced through the cold air, curving into the top right corner.
The Sparta goalkeeper leaped but caught only wind.
Goal.
The net rippled.
And the silence shattered.
De Adelaarshorst erupted in disbelief.
Sparta players froze. Dijkhuizen stood still, unable to move. Arghana's teammates turned toward him, stunned by what they had just witnessed.
But Arghana did not celebrate.
He ran straight into the goal, grabbed the ball, and carried it back to the center circle. His face was tense, serious. He did not care about the beauty of the goal. He was not thinking about glory.
There was only one thing in his mind.
They had to win.
From the touchline, Eric ten Hag stood still, watching the kid who had just scored a goal out of nothing. His brow furrowed. He turned to his assistant and asked, "What's his name?"
The assistant scrambled through the player sheet, then gave him the answer.
Ten Hag repeated the name under his breath. Then he clapped his hands and shouted new instructions toward the pitch.
Back on the field, Arghana still did not understand what had just happened. How he had controlled the ball so cleanly. How he had escaped Dijkhuizen. How the shot had found the perfect angle.
Maybe it was luck.
Or maybe something inside him was changing.
But there was no time to think.
The referee blew the whistle.
Sparta restarted the game.
And Arghana ran again.
The match was not over.