As the second half started, there were plenty of doubts for the players to overcome, and despite the sun shining brightly over the Estadio Heliodoro Rodríguez López, the Tenerife faithful were doing everything they could—purposeful chanting, clapping, scarves thrashing in the air. Still, on the pitch—all eleven players were shackled. Nervous. They were completing 5-yard passes, moving under scrutiny, burdened by the importance of a Copa del Rey quarter final.
On the touchline, Laurence González was resolute, arms folded across his back. His half time intervention had not been tactical, he had stripped it back to belief. He had looked into the eyes of each player and told them: "This is our moment, but only if we take it. Don't play to not fail, play to demand your glory." Laurence had spoken from the heart rather than referring to his clipboard.
And yet, watching the sluggish midfield exchanges and jittery touches, the message had clearly gone over the heads of every player.
"They didn't hear a word I said," Laurence spat angrily.
Victor stood at his side; arms crossed, frowning, hoped to keep it positive, "They're trying, but maybe it won't be enough."
On the field, Athletic Bilbao had no reason to risk anything. They were ahead 2-0 on aggregate, and their overall experience shone through. In the midfield, Javi Martínez and Iturraspe were like wall sentinels, cutting out passing lanes before Tenerife could end their thinking. Muniain lurked in the channels, waiting to pounce on any minor mistake. Bilbao didn't dominate, but they didn't need to. They simply modulated.
Tenerife didn't look like a team afraid of the opponent, but afraid of the moment. The fear wasn't in their faces; it was in their feet. Passes a fraction too slow. Shots half-hearted. Movement simply one step too tentative.
Then came the moment that turned everything.
In minute 76, Tenerife had made an exerted push of the ball forward; not through skillful quality play, but through sheer tenacity. Juanlu, tenaciously persistent, won a second ball near the box and slipped it to Kitoko.
Twenty-five yards out. Somewhat unmanned. No pressure. Nothing expected.
Kitoko didn't think. He simply struck.
The ball exited his boot like a rocket. It dramatically dipped and bent through the air, a vicious projectile.
It ricocheted off the top-left corner with a metallic crack, grazing post on its way into the net.
For a heartbeat, the stadium went completely still.
Then the roar hit like a tidal wave.
Laurence turned in circles, fists high above his head, a primal screech escaping from his throat. "That's the fucking spark!"
Kitoko raced to the corner flag, pumping his fists, a scream that came straight from the gut. No bouncing, no pointing, only the raw ecstasy of abandoning gravity and fate.
Tenerife 1 – 1 Athletic Club (1–2 on aggregate)
In that second, everything changed. The players stood taller. The passes had venom. Juanlu was up the left side with renewed energy. Casemiro, who had been a nervous wreck, now snapped into tackles like a man possessed. Even the backline pushed higher, unwilling to cede space.
And the fans—oh, the fans—were a hurricane. They didn't sing. They roared.
Laurence leaned in to Victor. "Now they believe."
Bilbao had lost their polish. Their control had faltered. Passes went astray. Their fullbacks stopped overlapping. Even Llorente—a presence of a man at the top—was flicking away at long balls now, isolated and spasming.
In the 84th minute, Griezmann unlocked Natalio with a disguised, reversed pass. Natalio took it first time--low, across the goal--but his shot grazed the far post and curled wide.
Two minutes later, Omar was fouled just off the edge of the box. Juanlu stood over the ball. The shot curled into the top corner--only just poked over by Gorka Iraizoz.
Time was slipping by. 89th minute. 90th minute.
Laurence was now pacing the edge of the pitch, jaw tightened, fingers living in their own world. The fourth official raised the board; +3.
Three minutes.
Then came a final corner I turned just in time to see Aragoneses racing up the pitch (he's a goalkeeper as well, remember?), gloves raised, shirt flapping, the crowd howling with laughter and disbelief.
Victor's eyes widened. "He's going up?"
"He's the tallest player we've got. Let him have his moment," Laurence said.
Juanlu stood the ball down. The crowd were collectively holding their breath.
The delivery was sublime--fast, flat and dangerous.
Griezmann flicked it at the near post. The ball pinged off a defender. Bedlam.
And then amidst the chaos, Sergio Aragoneses leapt above the rest, made clean contact with his forehead, and hammered the ball into the roof of the net.
Goal.
Time splintered.
Tenerife 2 – 1 Athletic Club (2–2 on aggregate)
The stadium erupted. Total, earth-shattering eruption. It was not even celebration—it was catharsis. Shirts tossed into the air. Complete strangers hugging. Tears. Screams. An entire island screaming through their blood.
Aragoneses ran wild, his teammates clinging to him, pulling him to the ground in a pile of disbelief. He could hardly breathe through laughing. "I don't even head the ball in practice!" he yelled, half-crying, half-laughing.
Laurence stood frozen, and then spun and tackled Victor in a full-body hug. "He's our bloody keeper!" he laughed, eyes glistening.
Victor gasped, "You can't write that."
The referee blew the whistle only a few seconds later. Full time.
It was 2–2 on aggregate.
Tenerife were not out. They were very much alive.
The stadium swelled again, fans stomping, chanting, demanding more.
Laurence looked at his players as they walked back, sweaty, elated, but not done. Kitoko nodded to him. Aragoneses flashed a tired grin.
And then Laurence turned to Victor.
"Get ready," he said, voice low. "They thought we were done."
Victor raised an eyebrow. "Are we not?"
Laurence smiled. "We're just getting started."