The video room at De Toekomst was dimly lit, the screen casting long shadows across the faces of the Ajax U-23 squad. Coach Bakker stood in front of them, remote in hand, frozen frame of PSV Eindhoven U-23's last match projected behind him.
"PSV plays vertical," he began. "High press. Aggressive lines. They want chaos. And they usually get it."
The footage rolled. PSV pressed in waves, suffocating opponents with intensity. The players watched, silent, absorbing every detail.
"We'll counter this with quick passing triangles and overloads out wide. Play through the lines. Stay calm."
Femi sat near the front, scribbling in his notebook. A flicker of excitement lit his eyes. He loved these moments—when football became a chessboard and every piece mattered.
But training told a different story. The drills were relentless. Diego struggled under tight marking, Souleymane found himself isolated more often than not. Bakker stopped a session mid-way, frustration creeping into his voice.
"Again. Faster transitions. Think. Move. Then pass."
On the far side of the pitch, Josip van der Berg was back.
The sound of his boots thudding against the turf was unmistakable. Sharp cuts, tackles with intent—he was hungry. During a water break, he locked eyes with Femi. A nod. Not cold. Not warm. Just acknowledgment.
Later, alone in the changing room, Josip leaned against his locker.
*It used to be mine. That left flank. That roar from the sidelines when I surged forward. Then I got injured. Now it's him. Femi. He's good. Too good to ignore. But I'm not here to watch. I'm here to take back what I lost.*
Coach Bakker, meanwhile, sat alone in his office, tactics board in front of him. The magnets shifted back and forth under his fingers. Femi's name. Josip's name.
"They're so different," he muttered. "Femi reads the game like he's studied it for years. Josip… plays like it's war. One is a scalpel. The other a hammer."
He leaned back, sighing. "Is there a way to use both?"
Across town, PSV's coach, Jeroen Smets, paced his training pitch with a different philosophy.
"Ajax lives off rhythm. Movement. They thrive when pressed because it opens space," he told his assistants. "So we won't press."
The assistants looked at each other, surprised.
"We sit back. Compact. Let them have the ball. Frustrate them. We counter when they're stretched. It's not pretty. But it'll work."
Kickoff.
The stadium buzzed with anticipation. The air hung heavy, clouds threatening rain. Ajax in red and white, PSV in their deep navy away kit. Before the whistle, Bakker and Smets embraced briefly on the sideline—a mark of mutual respect, and the storm to come.
As the match began, something felt... wrong.
Ajax had the ball. Plenty of it. But PSV didn't chase. They dropped into a 5-4-1 shell, lines tight, gaps non-existent. Ajax passed and passed, probing like a locksmith without the right tool.
Femi hugged the left touchline, overlapping often, but every cross was met by a towering centre-back. Timo and Yassine tried quick one-twos at the edge of the box, but PSV's midfield clogged the lanes.
Femi wiped sweat from his brow, glancing at the scoreboard. 23 minutes. Still 0-0.
*This isn't the PSV we studied. They're not trying to win. They're trying not to lose. It's like passing into a wall.*
Diego dropped deeper to collect, but even he found no rhythm. Every pass was sideways. Souleymane barely saw the ball.
The fans were restless.
On the sideline, Bakker barked instructions. "Move it quicker! Patience! Pull them out!"
But nothing worked.
Then—danger. A long ball over the top. PSV's striker broke loose. Ramon Dekker misjudged the bounce. One touch, two—shot.
Daan Visser dove full stretch and tipped it wide. Ajax exhaled. A warning.
Femi had a brief moment to gather himself. His mind raced as he sprinted down the flank once more, this time forcing a cross to Souleymane, but it was met with a heavy clearance. PSV had one goal: stop the game from being played.
As halftime approached, Femi surged down the flank again. He tried cutting inside this time. Skipped past one. Then two. But as he made his move into the box, the PSV defense closed him down instantly.
The half ended with the scoreboard unchanged. 0-0.
Halftime.
In the dressing room, the air was tense.
Coach Bakker paced slowly. "They want you to get desperate. Don't give them what they want."
He looked each player in the eye.
"One chance. That's all we need. Stay disciplined. The goal will come."
On the bench, Josip leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
They need edge. Not just possession. Let's see if the golden boy cracks.
Outside, the rain finally began to fall.
The second half awaited…