The second leg of the Copa del Rey quarter-final against Atlético Madrid had been framed all week as a true test of character. Laurence Gonzales had emphasized the importance of staying composed, managing crucial moments, and not allowing the occasion to dictate their style of play. He certainly wasn't prepared for a complete breakdown.
From the moment Tenerife stepped out of the tunnel, the Wanda Metropolitano was relentless. The atmosphere was sharp, hostile, and filled with purpose. Simeone was already on the touchline, tense and focused, barking orders before the first whistle even blew.
Tenerife needed to keep their cool, but what they encountered instead was sheer suffocation.
Right from the start, Atlético pressed with intent—in calculated waves. Falcao occupied both center-backs, drifting just enough to pull Koulibaly and Luna apart. Arda Turan moved fluidly between the lines, receiving the ball on the half-turn and forcing Bellvís into uncomfortable decisions. Gabi and Tiago advanced in sync, closing down Kikoto and Kante before they could even think about lifting their heads.
Laurence was up on his feet right away, signaling for width and urging Cancelo and Grimaldo to push higher to stretch the press. But the ball rarely found them cleanly. Every pass from Tenerife felt rushed, every touch was heavy. The midfield triangle that had given them control all season simply wasn't functioning.
The first goal came crashing in before Tenerife even had a moment to catch their breath. In the 14th minute, Arda Turan found himself in a pocket of space on the left, unmarked just long enough. His cross was sharp and delivered early. Falcao, with the instinct that has always set him apart, leaped above Luna and directed a powerful header past Aragoneses. It was a clean and ruthless finish.
Laurence called for calm, clapping his hands sharply to try and refocus his players. But Atlético could sense the opportunity.
Bellvís struggled to step up under pressure, hesitating just enough for Adrián López to slip by him not once, but twice in quick succession. Kikoto's passes started to go sideways, then backwards. Kante was left chasing shadows, caught in the dilemma of whether to press or hold his ground. The gaps between Tenerife's lines widened, then snapped.
Neymar attempted to take charge, dropping deep to bring the ball forward, but every touch was met with contact. He was clipped, leaned on, and tugged back. The referee let it slide. Simeone was on the sidelines, applauding.
Just before halftime, Atlético struck again. Tenerife lost the ball high up the pitch, and within moments, Gabi was charging through the center, unchallenged. His pass sliced through the defense, and Adrián finished with calm precision.
At 2–0, Tenerife still had a glimmer of hope on aggregate, but the players' body language told a different tale. Heads hung low. Shoulders drooped. Laurence paced the technical area, jaw tight, watching a team he barely recognized anymore.
The second half didn't bring any relief. Atlético didn't ease up. They tightened their grip even more. Neymar tried to spark something, weaving through defenders, looking to create magic out of thin air. But each time, he was swallowed up. Joel struggled on the right, feeling isolated and hesitant. Griezmann worked his socks off, pressing and tracking back, but when he finally got the ball, there was no one nearby to support him.
Laurence made some changes, pushing Cancelo higher up the pitch and asking Griezmann to drift wider to escape the congestion in the middle. But it barely made a difference. Atlético were now in control, managing the game with the cold efficiency of a team that knew they had already secured the win.
The third goal came in the 78th minute from a set piece, almost a foregone conclusion. A corner was swung in, bodies clashed, and Falcao soared above Luna once again, his header looping past Aragoneses. The stadium erupted, but the celebration was measured. Like this was just another day at the office for them.
Laurence stood still this time, hands on his hips, staring at the pitch. There was no anger left in him. Just a sense of clarity. They hadn't been beaten by a fluke or a stroke of luck, but by a team that knew exactly who they were and how to dismantle them.
When the final whistle blew, Tenerife's players trudged off slowly. Some glanced toward the traveling fans, while others didn't. Simeone applauded his players, then crossed the touchline to give Laurence a brief nod. No words were exchanged.
The next morning at El Mundialito, the atmosphere was heavy even before a ball was kicked. The players gathered in the dressing room, still sore and silent. Laurence walked in without saying a word. He stood there for a long moment, letting the silence stretch until it became almost unbearable.
Then he spoke.
"You call that football?" His voice sliced through the room, sharp and raw. "You really think that just because you've had a decent run, teams are going to think you are Barcelona or Real Madrid? Do you think they were worried last night?"
He began to pace slowly, his gaze locking onto faces without picking anyone out in particular. "They were at ease. They waited for us to slip up, and we handed them everything they were looking for."
Silence filled the room. Neymar stared down at the floor. Cancelo swallowed hard, and Kikoto clenched his jaw tightly.
Laurence's tone dropped, quieter but more menacing. "This league doesn't give a damn about what you can do. It is about what you did. If you can't match the intensity, if you don't suffer together, you'll end up embarrassed. It's that simple."
Training that day was grueling.
Possession drills with minimal touches, a strict tempo enforced. Pressing sequences with no breaks. Shuttle runs up the incline behind the training ground that left lungs gasping for air. Defensive shape drills repeated until legs gave out.
When Neymar was the first to collapse, hands on his knees, Laurence didn't call off the session. Bony followed suit, then Cancelo. One by one, players fell, exhaustion overtaking their frustration. Victor lingered nearby, concern etched on his face, but he remained silent. Mauro observed from a distance, arms crossed.
By the end, half the squad lay sprawled on the grass, staring up at the sky, chests heaving. Laurence stood over them, breathing heavily himself, sweat darkening his collar.
"If you don't want to fight," he said quietly, "tell me now. I'll play the youth. I'll rebuild from the B team. I don't care about names. I care about standards."
He looked around at them, one last time. "But if you're still with me, then prove it. Because nights like last night can't happen again."