Three days after a physically and emotionally draining Copa del Rey loss to Real Madrid, CD Tenerife returned to league play against Real Sociedad. The game was back at the Heliodoro Rodríguez López but the team certainly didn't feel at home with there current state of mind. They simply felt tired as a group.
Tired is not defeated. Tired is not demoralized. Tired is just... tired.
It was something Laurence González recognized immediately that morning as the pre-match training session began. Even before they began warming up, the players arrived with an unsettling silence and seemed to go through their normal warm-up routines in a very rigid way.
Casemiro, who was regularly the first player to shout instructions during the rondo was also unusually quiet. Neymar trained with his jaw clenched and was moving sharply but without joy. Aragoneses barked at a young defender when working on simple corner kick routine -- this was not much like the Aragoneses Laurence had become accustomed and comfortable with as the team's emotional fulcrum.
Victor noticed it too. He exchanged looks with Laurence from the sidelines as the short session wound down.
"We left more than just energy on the pitch against Madrid," Laurence said. "They've got nothing left."
"More mentally than physically," Victor replied.
In the dressing room before the match, Laurence attempted step in and inject some energy.
"Sociedad doesn't care that you are tired," he told the players. "They are not thinking about Real Madrid, they are thinking about three points. They are thinking about overtaking us."
He allowed silence for a moment, the last part of his sentence hanging in the air before he added, "You want to play in Europe next year? This is what it takes. You have to play through it."
Victor took over next, a little softer tone.
"We don't need to win every game," he said. "We need to be smart. Stay in the hunt. And that means points, single points, even right now."
They listened, but there was not a lot of fire in their eyes, a few were nodding, others still looking down, fiddling with tape or loosening their boots.
On matchday, the field filled in the stadium as usual, but the energy coming from the stands could not lift the team. From the start of the match Real Sociedad played with more intention. They pressed high, quick in their transitions, compact with or without the ball, Xabi Prieto and David Zurutuza were active between the lines, discovering little gaps of space in front of Tenerife's midfield that unsettled them.
Casemiro found it hard to assert himself. Whenever he got on the ball, there was someone there to close him quickly, Zurutuza, De la Bella, occasionally even Griezmann's old buddy Illarramendi. Tenerife was out of rhythm.
Laurence tried to adjust from the sideline, yelling in frustration.
There was a delay, a lag in their response that hadn't been apparent earlier in the season. A lack of aggression.
Griezmann looked out of sorts. Maybe it was the fact that he was up against the club that, although he had left, still officially held his contract; or maybe it was minutes catching up with him. He was hesitant on the ball, making less explosive runs, and too many backwards passes.
Natalio was also isolated; sandwiched between Inigo Martinez and Mikel González, and they both didn't give him enough time to breathe.
Then came the goal.
In the 29th minute, Sociedad broke quickly down their right. A diagonal ball caught Joel and Ricardo León not in sync. Prieto ghosted in and took a crafty touch inside, bent a low shot past the helpless Aragoneses.
0-1
Laurence slapped his palm on the dugout. "Wake up!" he yelled, his voice hoarse from frustration. "They're playing their game, and you're letting them!"
But it was already slipping away.
Sociedad didn't over-commit; they didn't chase a second goal recklessly; they did a great job of managing the game, confidently changing possession and keeping Tenerife chasing. By half-time, the home side hadn't had even one shot on target!
Laurence walked straight to the whiteboard and stood there looking at it for several seconds. He then picked up the eraser and wiped off everything he had written earlier that day.
He swung around to the players.
"Forget the patterns. Forget the rotations. We go direct."
He pointed quickly: "Neymar, you stay central. Joel - take him on and cross. Griezmann, far post every time. Ricardo - if you see the goal - shoot! Don't think about it."
He then turned to Casemiro, who was being re-taped on his knee by the physio.
"Can you keep going?"
Casemiro gave a nod. "I'll manage."
Laurence gave a satisfied nod. "We need some fight. We'll start with that."
The second half began brighter. Tenerife played with a little more bite. Not neater, but there was more urgency. There was less concern for buildup and more intent with the ball to test Sociedad's back line.
The fans noticed it too. With every forward run made, with every loose ball chased, the noise grew.
In the 68th minute, the moment arrived.
Joel had been quiet all game, and he finally found half a yard on the right and curled in a low cross. Natalio darted in front of his marker, got the faintest touch, and the ball spilled to Neymar's feet.
One touch, then clean strike.
Goal.
The stadium erupted. Neymar didn't celebrate, just picked up the ball and jogged back to the center circle. Laurence was pumping his fists and shouting words of encouragement—half relief, half command.
"Let's go! We can win this!"
But the team didn't find another gear.
Sociedad, to their credit, didn't panic after conceding. They compacted, slowed the pace, and reasserted control in midfield. Illarramendi dropped deeper, helping shield the center-backs, while Prieto and Vela played conservatively to avoid risky turnovers.
Tenerife pressed on, but there wasn't a whole lot left in the tank.
When the final whistle blew, there was a smattering of applause from the stands. Certainly there was some frustration, but the fans knew they had eked something out of a poor first half.
Laurence didn't address the players on the field. He marched straight down the tunnel past familar cameras and waiting microphones and into the dressing room.
He sat down.
Stared at the white board.
Minutes later Victor walked in and quietly closed the door behind him.
"Are you going to say anything to them?" he asked.
Laurence looked at the league table on the wall. Tenerife had slipped to eighth, Sevilla sat one point above them. Valencia, after their own late season run were chasing them, and Getafe had momentum now, too.
There was no buffer. The margin was now razor thin.
Victor sat beside him, arms crossed.
"It's not over," he said.
Laurence exhaled slowly. "No. But we can't keep playing like this."