On hat night, the Atlantic wind was sharp, slicing through the floodlights as CD Tenerife were gearing up for another challenge: Real Madrid, again. The players were still euphoric after their comeback against Athletic Bilbao in the Copa del Rey: there was just about enough time to utter a shocked "Oh wow!" before the next opportunity for embarrassment, and La Liga didn't have to wait.
The fixture list could be ruthless.
Laurence Gonzalez stood in the dressing room in front of the whiteboard, jacket still on, feeling the roles of winter and responsibility resting on his shoulders. The players sat in quiet and tense anticipation: the anticipation was buzzing.
Laurence began quietly with a throaty voice. "We'll play just as we did in the Bernabéu. A mid-block. An off-side trap. A high line. Pressure at opportune moments. But most importantly—no fear."
There was silence. Some glanced at each other.
The last experience of Madrid had been an embarrassing 4–0, but they all remembered that second half. The discipline. The ten off-side calls. Ronaldo's growing vexation. That was the Tenerife Laurence wanted to see.
He indicated the magnets on the board. "Casemiro and Kitoko hold. Fullbacks do not over-expose themselves. If the flanks are blocked, we go through middle. Keep your shape. Let them make the mistake."
The cracks were beginning to show.
Bellvís was slightly knocked, although he said he was fine. He was not saying much in-depth. Laurence had actually considered taking someone from the B team... against Real Madrid?
Laurence turned to Victor after the players left the room and said, "We need another full-back. Just one. Some human legs." Victor mirrored his look, but smiled sadly, "We said that in September." Laurence rubbed his forehead and Victor said, "We would survive until summer", a lie he also told himself the last time.
Outside on the pitch, the Heliodoro Rodríguez López was radiant, alight whilst staring into yet another field under lights. The stadium wasn't large, but it was alive, crackling with island panic.
On the other side of the touchline, José Mourinho stood with his arms behind his back, enveloped in his long coat and inscrutable. But this time Laurence knew the tactical master had done his research.
The opening twenty minutes required more patience than might. Madrid did not press intentionally. They poked. Ronaldo went deep, drawing Luna in before spinning into the resulting space. Özil dropped between the lines like spun silk threading through cloth. Xabi Alonso, the metronome, was lofting balls over the top, testing Tenerife's courage.
But Tenerife held—sometimes, The line was disciplined, compact, and held itself (the players) together. Casemiro and Kitoko barking instructions, Aragoneses conducting the players from the back with his flailing arms always moving. At each offside flag for Madrid there was a huge cheer of defiance from the crowd. Laurence, standing there on the sideline with his arms crossed, with the focus of a paranoid general, took it all in, gripping everything.
And then it happened. In 26 minutes, a misunderstanding between Bellvís and Luna opened a gap. Özil saw it a split second before everyone else. One touch, one pass, straight through them like a scalpel. Ronaldo, on one touch, continuing to move was gone. Cut inside, boot smashed through, into the near post, zipping past Aragoneses.
Real Madrid up 1-0.
Laurence turned and kicked the ground. He knew it was coming. He had yelled seconds before "hold the line!!!" Every player was tired, every players reaction was dull. One moment of uncertainty, against a team like Madrid, is an impossible challenge.
"Just one fucking full back," he said under his breath back to the dugout.
Mourinho, the attention-hog, strolled towards Laurence, gave him a slight nod, and said loud enough for the players warming up to hear, "Last time you surprised me. I'm not surprised tonight."
Laurence gave a wistful grin. "Then let's see if you enjoy staying comfortable."
The game tightened. Madrid began to press and smell blood. Their defenders pushed up, their wide players tucked in. Joel and Natalio chased shadows to get a little relief. Griezmann tried to hold on to the ball, draw defenders in, try to earn fouls—anything to stop the bleeding.
Then, a moment of indignation.
In the 39th minute Kitoko stole the ball off the half, saw an opening and took off. He rolled it left, Joel went wide, then slotted Griezmann inside, Griezmann didn't have to think, one plant and he lashed a low drive to the far post. Casillas went full stretch, punching it out.
The bench erupted. Laurence clapped. "That's it! If the wings are closed then go through them!"
Madrid nearly punished them before halftime. Marcelo found space on the overlap, crossed it high, and Higuaín rose to meet it—but headed just wide. The halftime whistle came like a breath of air. They were behind, but not broken.