The floodlights obliterated the pitch with their stark white glow at Heliodoro Rodríguez López Stadium, but the atmosphere that night was anything but cold. The atmosphere pulsed--it was raw, electric, volcanic. Every seat was filled, and every supporter stood roaring draped in blue and white, their voices already hoarse with eager anticipation. Flags warped through the air as the drum beats from the south end felt like war drums. This was not just another matchday in Tenerife's history-making season--this was the Copa del Rey semifinal, the first leg, and Real Madrid was here.
In the locker room, the noise from the outside had been degraded to a kind of ominous pressure, like the heartbeat of something growing just beyond the walls. Laurence González had remained in the center of the noise, still like a rock. His players were suiting up, taping wrists, lacing boots, murmuring instructions to each other. No one was joking. There was no music. They didn't need it.
The memory of Sevilla was still roiling in the corners of Laurance's mind, like smoke. Not the loss itself, though that had stung. No, it was the outburst after the match. The way he'd exploded in frustration and sensed helplessness, screaming at players who had already spent everything on the pitch.
He had been walking alone on this occasion that night, and sat on the dilapidated training fields, and smoked for the first time in years. Nevertheless, when he returned to the group the next day, he didn't give them drills or tactics. He gave them…
An apology.
And now - standing there before them at the biggest night of their season - he gave them something more.
"I was wrong to lose my head in Sevilla," he said, his voice steady, relaxed, purposeful. "You did not deserve that. You have taken this team father than anyone thought was possible. And tonight…" He looked up and surveyed the room, "…tonight we have something beyond what is in press conferences or in stats. We have each other. We have this island at our back. And as for Real Madrid? They bleed too."
A couple of players smiled. A few others twisted away faint grins from exhausted faces.
Laurence stepped to the whiteboard. All the holdovers of previous cautious formations - low blocks, compact mid-blocks, any double pivot - were all gone. Instead, he had something bolder. Lawrence studied Mourinho´s Real Madrid for weeks. More importantly, he rewatched them getting tanked by Barcelona earlier in the season - the b-team masterclass that was a 5-0 slaughter that change the bar of what control is supposed to look like.
"I'm not Pep," he said. "And we're not Barça. But ideas aren't owned by a team."
He displayed his vision, a free-flowing 3-4-3, with wide overloads to force Madrid to stretch, midfield rotations to create space, and Neymar high and wide on the left, ready to isolate and destroy.
"Griezmann," Laurence pointed, "you float between the lines. Draw Alonso out. Make Ramos look over his shoulder."
"Casemiro, Ricardo, you are our spine. Don't force it. Play through their pressure, don't play into it."
He turned back to the group, voice softer now.
"Don't play the badge. Play the moment. One pass at a time."
The tunnel walk was long and skinny, the lights hum above like a lullaby. Laurence found himself next to José Mourinho. The Portuguese manager was in all black, coat buttoned, expression unreadable except for the familiar hint of arrogance in his eyes.
"You have done well," Mourinho said. "Most promoted managers don't live long enough to be nervous in a semifinal."
Laurence offered a thin smile. "We are not here to survive tonight."
Mourinho chuckled quietly. "Strong words. Now let's see how noble your team is."
Then they stepped out.
The roar was instantaneous, deafening. The Tenerife players jogged onto the pitch with their chests out, feeling the noise of the fans wash over them like a tide. The fans stood shoulder to shoulder, yelling, singing, clapping. The Estadio Heliodoro may not have been a cathedral, a palace of gold or marble, but it had a moat of hearts.
And then the Real Madrid showed up. All in white. Ronaldo, Özil, Alonso, Pepe. Giants. They entered the arena like gods used to being worshiped.
Not tonight, though. No worshipers. Only challengers.
The whistle went.
Laurence stood at the edge of his technical area, arms wrapped tight across his chest, eyes following every pass. The first few minutes were fire-testing nerves—but Tenerife didn't just sit back. They passed short, and crisp. Casemiro and Ricardo León were like surgeons: they took the sting out of the pressure, then sliced parts of it up with a crisp pass out wide.
In the sixth minute, Neymar received his first ball wide left. He dropped his shoulder, glided past Ramos as if he were not even there, and whipped in a cross to the near post. Natalio dove and missed it by inches. The fans gasped.
Griezmann danced around the midfield like a vapor, never still long enough for someone to catch him. He just stuck to the wrong side of the defenders enough to open pockets of space for Neymar and Joel who were starting to grow into the game with every touch. The plan was working. Madrid were uncomfortable—they were having to react rather than dictate.
But Real Madrid are never dormant for long. In the 19th minute, Özil played a diagonal ball to Ronaldo who was adjusting his body as he struck it. Ronaldo pushed the ball past Luna slipping it low across goal. Aragoneses dove full-stretch; he just touched it wide with his fingertips.
Laurence exhaled through his teeth. There was the margin. A foot wrong. A second late. 0–1.
But they didn't collapse.
Joel, the 17-year-old La Masia product, sprinted at Marcelo. He flicked the ball over him once drawing applause from the supporters, and a few moments later he was awarded a corner. Casemiro met it at the delivery—his header just going over.
Neymar drew fouls, time and time again. He toyed with Khedira on the edge of the box, he played a one-two with Griezmann, and was eventually brought down by Arbeloa just outside the D. The crowd rose. The referee pointed.
Neymar stood over the free kick. The noise dipped into a breathless hush. He took three paces, curled it over the wall and forced Casillas to make a fingertip save that sent the ball crashing off the bar.
Laurence punched the air. So close.
Madrid started to get cynical. Di María left a foot in on Joel. Pepe clattered Natalio at midfield. The crowd hissed, howled, rattled the stadium with discontent—but Tenerife didn't back down. They fought with fire and guile and grit.
Ronaldo had one more moment of magic late in the half, sending a volley just over, but Tenerife's defensive trio—Kitoko dropping in, plus the ever-resilient Prieto—seemed resolute.
When the whistle rang for halftime, it was still 0–0. But for anyone watching it didn't feel like level. It felt like something had been shaken. Like Madrid had dented their armor.
Laurence turned toward the tunnel, clapped once, vigorously. His players jogged in, heads high.
Mourinho, walking past, offered him a faint nod. It could've been condescension. Or respect. It didn't matter. Laurence had seen what he needed.
His team wasn't overawed. They weren't passengers in a fairytale.
They belonged.
And the second half was coming.