Time seemed to stand still. The ball spun, gliding toward Aragoneses' far post. The crowd surged to their feet. Even Laurence was momentarily frozen in place.
Just wide. A matter of inches.
The stadium collectively gasped. Tenerife exhaled, coming back to life.
Laurence's fists tightened, his jaw set like granite. That had been the warning — the hint of what was to come.
"Keep your lines!" he shouted, his voice raw with urgency.
But the ghosts were everywhere now. His players were slowing down. Their legs felt heavy, their minds clouded. Barcelona's passing wasn't just football — it was a spellbinding trance. Sooner or later, they would find a way through.
Unless something changed.
And then, it did.
It wasn't Messi. It wasn't Xavi. It was Piqué. The great Catalan defender, who had been so composed for so long, finally faltered. Tenerife's relentless pressure had been gnawing at him all night, forcing him into unnecessary touches. One touch too many, one moment of hesitation — and Natalio seized the opportunity.
He darted in, poked the ball free with his toe, and suddenly he was off, racing into open space.
"¡Natalio!" Martínez shouted, his voice rising in disbelief. "He's taken it! This could be the moment!"
Valdés rushed out, desperate to close down the angle.
Natalio didn't hesitate. One quick glance, one steady breath, then the most delicate of chips.
The ball floated through the air, as light as a feather, before dropping neatly into the net.
"¡GOOOOOOOOOOL DE TENERIFE!" Julio Maldonado's voice soared with excitement. "Natalio! They've done it again!"
It was pure chaos. Unfiltered, exhilarating chaos.
The Tenerife bench exploded with energy, players and staff rushing onto the pitch, fists pumping, faces painted with disbelief. Victor leaped so high he almost toppled into the dugout.
Laurence turned, arms wide open toward the crowd, his face glowing with an emotion he couldn't hide. It was joy, sure — but also shock. Shock at the audacity of their actions and the reality of what they had achieved.
In the VIP box, Miguel Concepción stood up, tears brimming in his eyes. For years, he had fought just to keep the club afloat. And now, here it was, thriving in a way he had never dared to imagine. Around him, even the neutral fans were clapping, caught up in the whirlwind of this underdog tale unfolding before them.
Next to him, Mauro Pérez muttered, "This is insanity." But his grin told a different story.
Back on the pitch, Natalio fell to the ground, hands covering his face as his teammates swarmed him. Joel jumped onto Griezmann's back, both of them shouting in excitement. Casemiro raised his fists in the air, too exhausted to celebrate but too alive to stop.
But Laurence wasn't in a celebratory mood. He was already sprinting down the line, arms flailing.
"Back! Everyone back!" he shouted. "Ten minutes! Defend with everything you've got!"
Pep cleared his bench. Pedro. Bojan. Jeffrén. Dani Alves stopped pretending to defend and transformed into a winger in every sense. Piqué completely abandoned his position, now standing shoulder to shoulder with Messi as a striker.
The pitch tilted dramatically, with Barcelona charging forward like a tidal wave.
Tenerife bent but refused to break. Joel threw himself into challenges as if he were twice his size. Luna battled Dani Alves like a man chained to a post. Casemiro, his legs spent, snarled and snapped at anything wearing blue and red. Aragoneses, the seasoned warrior, punched crosses away with fists of steel.
"Barcelona are throwing everything they've got!" Martínez shouted.
"But Tenerife…" Maldonado's voice softened with awe. "…Tenerife are standing taller than they ever have before."
Every second felt like torture. Each pass seemed like it could be the last. Yet, the white shirts kept swarming, lunging, tackling, and clearing.
Eighty-eight minutes.
Ninety.
The fourth official raised the board: Five added minutes.
The Mestalla erupted — Barcelona's fans clung to desperate hope, while Tenerife's supporters were gripped by fear.
Pep's team surged forward once more, Messi dropping deeper to take control of the rhythm. Neymar was back defending. Griezmann's legs trembled but still carried him into tackles.
Then came the moment.
Ninety-six minutes in, Messi picked up the ball just past the halfway line, gliding effortlessly past Kitoko and slipping between Casemiro and Joel like they were mere training cones. The atmosphere in the stadium was electric.
"Messi!" Martínez's voice cracked with excitement. "Still Messi — cutting inside—"
Laurence stood frozen, unable to look away.
Messi shifted to the left, opened up his body, and let loose a shot.
The entire stadium seemed to hold its breath.
The ball rocketed toward the top corner. Aragoneses leaped. The net was ready.
And then — the whistle blew.
It pierced the warm Valencian night like a gunshot.
The scoreboard flashed the unbelievable: Tenerife 3 – 1 Barcelona. Full Time. Copa del Rey Champions.
For a brief moment, there was silence. Not because it was quiet, but due to sheer disbelief. A thousand hearts were grappling with the reality of what they had just witnessed.
And then, the eruption.
The Tenerife fans erupted — few in number, but immense in spirit. Flags waved, scarves twirled, and voices strained in chants of victory. Some supporters cried openly, while others shouted until they were hoarse.
Laurence remained motionless on the touchline, staring at the field as if afraid to blink and wake from this dream. Then, as if possessed, he took off running. Arms wide open, sprinting with a joy he had never experienced before.
Victor sprinted after him, laughing and shouting, "We did it! We bloody did it!"
Laurence crashed into his players, first landing in Neymar's embrace. He held him tightly, shaking his head in disbelief. "You genius," he exclaimed. "You absolute magician!"
Neymar, with tears in his eyes, laughed through it all. "I told you I'd win you something."
Around them, the players collapsed to the ground, caught between exhaustion and sheer joy. Kitoko sank to his knees, fists tightly clenched. Casemiro was punching the air, his face a mask of triumph. Natalio lay flat on the turf, tears streaming down his face as he buried it in his hands. Joel wrapped his arms around Griezmann, both of them shouting until their voices were hoarse.
In the stands, the Tenerife fans were singing their hearts out. Farmers, workers, and kids in worn-out shirts — they sang like they were on top of the world, their chants ringing out across Spain: "¡Tenerife! ¡Tenerife campeón!"
Miguel Concepción was openly weeping. Mauro Pérez was clapping, laughter breaking through his voice. "Messiah, huh?" he said quietly to himself. "They weren't wrong."
On the other side, Barcelona was left in shock. Messi stood silent, staring at the ground. Iniesta and Xavi offered applause to their rivals, tired but respectful. Guardiola stepped onto the pitch, his eyes locking onto Laurence's. For a fleeting moment, two coaches — so different in stature — shared a look. Pep nodded once. Respect.
Laurence returned the nod.
The trophy was brought to the podium, shining brightly under the lights. For Tenerife, it was more than just a piece of silverware. It was a testament. A testament to their place in the world, to the significance of their journey, and to their ability to etch their name into the annals of history.
As his players gathered around, hoisting the cup high above their heads, champagne spraying into the night air, Laurence felt a fire ignite in his chest.
It wasn't just pride.
It was belief.
They hadn't just beaten Barcelona. They hadn't just won a cup.
They had rewritten what was possible.
And from this night forward, CD Tenerife would be etched in history.