Chapter 18: The Meat Grinder
The tunnel leading from the locker rooms to the pitch smelled of sweat, polish, and fresh paint. Every footstep echoed against the concrete walls. Luuk stayed at the end of the line, silent. The other Jong AZ players chatted, shouted, and pumped themselves up—but he didn't. His silver-grey eyes scanned the pitch ahead, calculating distances, anticipating angles, weighing every defender's likely movement.
Out on the field, FC Den Bosch were already warming up. These weren't academy kids; they were hardened professionals. Each tackle had a story, each sprint carried years of repetition. The center-back Van der Meer spat on the turf near Luuk's boots, his gaze cold and measured, as if he were weighing the kid like a bar of iron.
Luuk didn't flinch. He noted the slight outward tilt of Van der Meer's right ankle, the subtle sway in his hips, the way his elbows hung loosely when he sprinted forward. Small cracks that would become his leverage.
The whistle blew. The kickoff was a gunshot in his ears.
For the first ten minutes, Den Bosch played like predators. Long balls, heavy tackles, constant pressure. Every time the ball came near Luuk, Van der Meer or a teammate was there first, trying to force him into mistakes.
A miscalculated clearance from Mo El Hamdi sent the ball spinning toward the center circle. Luuk's eyes tracked it, his body already moving before the ball landed. Van der Meer surged from a blind spot, shoulder raised, intent clear. A normal fifteen-year-old would have jumped back or braced for pain. Luuk did neither. He dropped his center of gravity, anchored himself, and absorbed the impact as the ball hit his foot.
The ball didn't fly away. It dropped neatly to his control. Van der Meer's momentum carried him past, stumbling. Luuk flicked the ball to the left, into the stride of a midfielder he had already identified as open. The defense scrambled.
No words were exchanged. Nothing needed to be said. The message was clear: he wasn't a boy to be bullied.
Den Bosch adapted quickly. Two defenders shadowed him at all times, cutting off his vision and narrowing his passing lanes. The physical toll was immediate. Every sprint, every shoulder clash, burned Stamina, drove his heart rate higher. Luuk felt the friction of professional-level play—the relentless pace, the impact, the anticipation—but he adjusted.
When Van der Meer launched a long ball from the halfway line, Luuk didn't chase blindly. He paused for a fraction of a second, listening to the rhythm of Van der Meer's stride, feeling the vibration of the turf through his boots. Then he moved, intercepting the ball mid-flight with his chest, cushioning the drop, and flipping it over the rushing defender.
The ball arced into his feet; the defense was flat-footed. With a precise knee snap, he drove it low and fast—past two defenders, past the keeper, into the corner. 1-0.
The stadium reacted instantly—cheers, groans, and whistles—but Luuk didn't. He bent only slightly to catch his breath, silver-grey eyes sweeping the pitch. Van der Meer was rising, cursing under his breath, furious but unable to match the rhythm or timing of this boy.
Jasper de Wit sprinted up to him, eyes wide. "That… that was insane. How did you even—"
Luuk shook his head, letting the play reset. He didn't explain. He didn't need to.
By halftime, the message had spread through Den Bosch. They stopped brute-forcing him and began trying to box him in. But even when crowded, Luuk found the smallest lanes, exploited micro-moments of imbalance, and dictated the pace. He wasn't just surviving; he was asserting control.
As the second half began, he anticipated passes, intercepted mid-flight, and distributed the ball with calm precision. Every action reinforced the first impression: this was a kid who moved like a man, thought like a general, and had instincts beyond his years.
At the final whistle, Jong AZ had won 2-0. Luuk walked off the pitch, boots muddy, lungs burning, but his expression was calm, almost detached. The other players clapped him on the back, some silently impressed, some still skeptical. Daan Visser caught his eye, nodded, and said nothing. That nod said more than any words could: he had survived and earned respect.
Luuk reached into his bag, pulling out a clean towel and water. He took a long drink, wiped the sweat off his face, and let his mind replay the moments that mattered. Every collision, every pass, every pivot had been calculated, tested, and executed.
Then his vision flickered slightly—the familiar overlay of the Status Screen. It didn't announce fatigue or drops in ability. These were absolute values, reflecting his real, trained capacity.
[STATUS SCREEN ]
User: Luuk van den Berg
Height: 183.9 cm
Neural-Physical Lag: 6.9%
Spatial Synchronization: 20.1 / 100
[PHYSICAL]
Pace: 63.4
Acceleration: 65.2
Agility: 61.2
Stamina: 67.2
Strength: 62.8 → 63.0 (+0.2)
Balance: 95.0
Flexibility: 59.8
Jumping: 65.4
[TECHNICAL]
Ball Control: 100
Ball Feel: 100
Ball Sense: 100
Dribbling: 74.2 → 74.5 (+0.3)
Short Passing: 64.1 → 64.4 (+0.3)
Long Passing: 58.2 → 58.5 (+0.3)
Shooting (Power): 56.5 → 56.7 (+0.2)
Shooting (Technique): 81.5 → 82.5 (+1.0)
Curve: 52.3 → 52.5 (+0.2)
Weak Foot: 4 Stars
[MENTAL / SENSE]
Spatial Awareness: 79.2 → 79.6 (+0.4)
Anticipation: 85.1 → 85.3 (+0.2)
Tactical IQ: 74.0 → 74.3 (+0.3)
Vision: 71.0 → 71.2 (+0.2)
Composure: 94.0 → 95.0 (+1.0)
Ego: 89.5 → 90.0 (+0.5)
[DEFENSIVE]
Defensive Positioning: 63.2 → 63.5 (+0.3)
Interceptions: 69.8 → 70.0 (+0.2)
Pressing Intelligence: 71.0 → 71.2 (+0.2)
Tackling (Standing): 58.5 → 58.7 (+0.2)
Tackling (Sliding): 42.0
Heading (Defensive): 66.1 → 66.3 (+0.2)
[SYSTEM LOG: PRO-DEBUT GOAL SECURED — ATTRIBUTES UPDATED]
Luuk exhaled. He didn't celebrate. The victory wasn't a trophy; it was a benchmark. He had stepped into professional football, into the Meat Grinder, and had survived—and more than survived, he had left his mark.
The rest of the players returned to the locker room, discussing missed passes, poor clearances, and strategy. Luuk stayed a moment longer, looking back at the field, imprinting the movements, the patterns, the physics of each collision.
This was only the beginning.