The Fire Before the Storm - (REWRITEN & REUPLOADED)
The tunnel was silent, but it wasn't empty. The air inside was thick and charged with anticipation. It clung to their skin, settled in their lungs, and made every breath feel heavier than it should. The only sounds that were made were the quiet scuff of boots against concrete, the occasional sniffle, and the deep, controlled inhales and exhales of players trying to calm their nerves. The hum of distant floodlights buzzed faintly, and a low electric whisper was above them.
Beyond the tunnel's mouth, just past the thin strip of artificial warmth, lay the frozen battlefield of Sportcomplex De Toekomst, Ajax's sacred proving ground. Amani could feel the cold from here even with the heavy jacket he had on, it was a biting presence waiting to sink its teeth into them when they were to step outside.
He stood near the back, arms crossed over his chest, watching his teammates in silence waiting for them to cross the tunnel. Tijmen was at the front, he rolled his shoulders like he was shedding invisible chains, his face unreadable. Sofyan, behind the goalkeeper, bounced on the balls of his feet, his breaths slow and measured. Some players clenched their fists, others rocked from side to side, burning nervous energy in small, quiet movements.
Amani exhaled.
He could feel the nerves pressing against his ribs, a familiar tension winding through his limbs. But he wouldn't let it rule him. Not yet. He wouldn't be stepping onto the pitch in the first half, which meant he had time... time to watch, to study, to prepare.
The whistle would blow. The match would start. And when his moment came, he would be ready.
A sharp voice cut through the heavy silence.
"Ready?"
The referee's question didn't need an answer. The players moved as one, stepping forward, shoulders squared, jaws set.
The moment they crossed the threshold, the world shifted.
Blinding stadium floodlights swallowed them whole, a stark contrast to the dim tunnel. Even though it was empty, the tension was still there. The frozen air slammed into their skin, sharp and unforgiving. The pitch stretched out before them, vast and pristine, its perfect grass hiding the scars of past battles.
Ajax.
Red and white kits, perfectly fitted. Postures loose, effortless — like they had already won.
Because that was what Ajax did. It wasn't arrogance, it was certainty.
They expected to win.
They carried themselves like kings because their history told them they were. This wasn't just a team — it was a dynasty. A club that had dominated Dutch football for generations.
The factory of legends.
Cruyff. Van Basten. Sneijder. Bergkamp.
Their ghosts lingered here, in the very grass beneath Amani's boots.
And now?
Now, the next generation of Ajax stood before them, calm, assured, looking at FC Utrecht like they were just another opponent to dispatch.
Like they weren't even worth remembering.
Amani felt it in his chest — that silent insult, that dismissal.
But Utrecht?
Utrecht was not here to be forgotten.
They were here to fight.
Because this wasn't just another match.
This was Ajax vs. FC Utrecht.
A rivalry carved in blood and defiance.
Some called it a one-sided rivalry, a battle Ajax barely acknowledged, but Utrecht cared.
Their fans lived for this fixture. They circled it on calendars, packed the stands, and screamed until their throats bled, just to remind Ajax that they existed and that they would one day take their place.
And this season?
Utrecht had done the impossible.
Twice. They had won twice in the Eredivisie which was a miracle.
October 3rd, 2010 – Utrecht 2-1 Ajax.
January 23rd, 2011 – Ajax 0-3 Utrecht.
Their senior team had brought Ajax to their knees twice in one season.
And the Ajax U17s?
They hadn't forgotten.
This was more than a game now.
This was revenge.
The referee raised the whistle to his lips.
The world held its breath.
And then —
The whistle sliced through the frozen air.
The war began.
***
The opening whistle sliced through the cold air, a sharp signal that set everything into motion.
And within seconds, Ajax struck first.
Not with a goal.
But with control.
The match had barely begun, but already, the red and white jerseys moved with effortless precision, spreading out, opening up the field, dictating the tempo like they had been doing this for decades. Each pass was crisp, calculated, and deliberate, pulling Utrecht's black and orange shirts out of position like chess pieces being maneuvered toward checkmate.
Ajax played like they had practiced this exact game a hundred times before.
Quick, sharp passing. One-touch movement. Each touch was like a brushstroke on an invisible canvas, crafting something beautiful yet ruthless. They stretched the field wide, making the pitch feel twice as big as it was, forcing Utrecht to chase, to react, to fight for every inch.
The red and white jerseys moved like a blur, their crisp home kits standing out under the harsh stadium lights. Their precision was fluid, disciplined, and almost mechanical. Utrecht, in their black and orange away kits, scrambled to adjust, their movements just a step behind.
The difference between the two teams wasn't just skill. It was belief.
Ajax played like they expected to win. Like the victory had already been written, and they were just following the script.
Utrecht played like they were trying to prove they belonged.
Amani clenched his jaw, watching from the bench, feeling every misplaced step from his teammates like a personal sting. He could hear the Ajax players calling for the ball, their voices calm, assured like they had all the time in the world.
Utrecht's calls, by contrast, were sharper, more urgent — players barking instructions, trying to plug the gaps that kept opening between them.
"Close him down!"
"Drop deeper!"
"No space! NO SPACE!"
But there was always space.
Ajax was making sure of that.
8th minute. The midfield was suffocating.
Utrecht's midfield was under siege. Every time they tried to put a foot on the ball, Ajax swarmed. The press was suffocating and relentless. One second, a Utrecht player had possession, the next, a red and white jersey was on top of them, forcing a rushed pass, a heavy touch, a mistake. It wasn't wild, reckless pressure. It was coordinated. Calculated. Deadly.
One player pressed the man on the ball. Another cut off the passing lane. A third lurked in the shadows, waiting to pounce on the next mistake.
One second too late.
One step behind.
Possession lost.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Sofyan Amrabat was fighting everything.
He lunged into tackles, threw his body in the way, and read the game two steps ahead. His voice never stopped roaring — directing, commanding, demanding more. His black and orange jersey was already streaked with grass stains, and his socks were already coated in dirt, but he never slowed.
He was like a dam trying to hold back a flood.
But even he couldn't stop everything.
Amani leaned forward on the bench, elbows on his knees, his breath fogging in the cold. His legs twitched with pent-up energy. Watching his teammates fight for control but never quite getting it — it burned.
14th minute. The crack of a well-timed pass sliced through the cold night. A perfect ball threaded between Utrecht's center-backs.
Too dangerous.
Too precise.
The Ajax striker was already in motion, his red and white jersey flashing under the floodlights as he darted into the gap. Utrecht's keeper saw it too late. He rushed out... too slow.
A single touch from the Ajax forward.
A cold, clinical finish.
The net rippled.
1-0.
For a second, everything was silent except for the sound of the ball hitting the back of the net. No roaring crowd. No music.
The Ajax players didn't celebrate. No wild cheers, no fist pumps, no screaming.
Just nods.
A couple of pats on the back. A quiet reset. It looked like they were angry but from afar Amani couldn't tell.
Amani's fingers dug into his sleeves. He could feel it already — the shift. The momentum was tilting in Ajax's favor, the pressure rising. Utrecht wasn't just playing against a team; they were fighting against an expectation against a team with a history of dominance. And right now, they were losing.
Coach Pronk stalked the sidelines, hands stuffed into his jacket pockets, his sharp eyes locked on the field. He wasn't shouting. He was watching, calculating.
Then, for the briefest moment, he turned slightly, glancing toward the bench.
Toward Amani.
Amani met his gaze.
A silent understanding passed between them. I'm ready.
Not yet.
But soon.
22nd Minute. Another dangerous attack from Ajax.
Ajax's No. 10 picked up the ball on the edge of the box. He took a steadying breath, eyes locked on the far corner.
Amani leaned forward.
He knew.
The shot was coming.
And then — BOOM.
A curling strike, hit with precision, bending toward the top corner.
The keeper was beaten.
But Sofyan wasn't.
From nowhere, Amrabat threw himself into the path of the ball.
His body twisted mid-air — BAM! The shot cannoned into his ribs, the impact sending him sprawling across the frozen turf.
The force of the strike ripped the air from his lungs.
He lay there for a moment, unmoving it looked like he was dead.
But then — he got up.
Slowly. Shaking his head.
Like he had just walked through fire.
No celebration. No shouting.
Just a look.
A look that told Ajax they would have to do more than that to break him.
Amani stared.
One day, Sofyan Amrabat would be throwing himself in front of shots against the best in the world.
But right now?
Right now, he was just a kid putting his body on the line for a game that mattered
Even though he looked slow, he was everywhere, he never slowed down and never hesitated.
26th minute. Another sharp pass cut through the midfield, aimed at Ajax's No. 10, the kind of player who usually glided through defenses untouched. But not this time.
A blur of black and orange crashed into him.
Sofyan was there as he met him with full force, shoulder to shoulder, boots scraping against the frozen turf. The impact sent Ajax's playmaker stumbling, the ball was knocked loose. Before anyone else could react, Sofyan had already claimed it. No panic, no wasted motion. He took one touch, then another, before launching a pass upfield.
The ball arced through the air, perfectly weighted, dropping just beyond Ajax's defensive line. The Utrecht striker bolted after it, chasing what could have been their breakthrough moment — but Ajax's defense, disciplined as ever, swallowed the attack before it could become dangerous.
Amani exhaled, rocking forward on the bench, his breath fogging in the cold. He could see it now, Ajax wasn't invincible just like Amrabat said. They were structured and relentless, but not untouchable. Every team had cracks, small ones, barely visible under the surface.
38th minute. Finally, a spark.
Tijmen, who had been bottled up all game, suddenly found space. He dipped his shoulder, feinted inside, then exploded past his marker down the wing.
Amani shot to his feet on the bench.
Tijmen surged forward, cutting inside with a burst of pace, his black and orange jersey billowing slightly in the icy wind. One step, two — he had just enough room. He pulled back his foot.
Shot!
The ball whipped through the air, curling toward the far post.
For a split second, it felt like time slowed. The Ajax keeper sprang into action, fully stretched, fingertips grazing the ball — just enough.
A deflection.
The ball skidded wide of the post.
But the scoreboard still read 1-0.
Amani exhaled sharply. Close. Closer than they had been all game. Utrecht was creeping into dangerous territory now, forcing Ajax to adjust.
Utrecht was creeping into dangerous territory now.
Just as Utrecht began to settle back, Ajax struck again with a quick counter.
No warning. No time to react.
One moment, Utrecht was shifting back into position, bodies still catching their breath. The next? They were wide open.
A single pass that was brutal, a diagonal switch that cut through the frozen night like a blade.
The ball soared over Utrecht's defense, curling toward the right wing, where an Ajax player had peeled away into acres of space. Unmarked. Dangerous. Deadly.
Utrecht's left-back saw it too late, he turned and he sprinted after the winger. Desperation in every step.
But the damage was already done.
The Ajax winger let the ball roll perfectly into his stride, took one touch to steady himself, and then glanced up.
He wasn't even thinking about shooting.
He was waiting. Calculating.
Then... the cutback pass to the striker who was free.
A dagger across the box. Low. Fast. Perfect.
The Utrecht defense scrambled, boots skidding on the icy turf, but it was useless. Too late.
The Ajax striker was already there.
One step. One clean strike.
Bottom corner.
2-0.
The net bulged.
For a moment, everything felt still.
The whistle blew for halftime.
Amani sat stone-still on the bench.
This wasn't just a test anymore.
It was survival.
On the sideline, Coach Pronk took a step forward, hands deep in his coat pockets. His eyes flicked toward the bench, scanning his options, before settling on Amani.
His voice cut through the wind.
"Hamadi! Start warming up."
Amani didn't hesitate.
He shot to his feet, rolling his shoulders as he stepped away from the bench, stretching out his legs. Blood pumped faster through his veins, the cold fading from his limbs. His moment had arrived.
Time to shift the rhythm.
Time to write his own name with his feet onto Ajax's sacred pitch.
And this time?
Ajax wouldn't be dictating anything.
***
***
I reread the chapter I uploaded yesterday, it was kind of disappointing. You could call this a better version, Sorry for wasting your time on it and probably soiling your eyes. Thank you for not dropping it because of it.