There was a unique kind of tension in the Tenerife dressing room before their league match against Atlético Madrid. It was something colder, something more calculated. The memory of their Copa del Rey second-leg collapse still lingered in the air like a thick fog — that painful 3–0 defeat in Madrid, the way the game slipped through their fingers, the feeling of helplessness.
Stefan de Vrij was still sidelined, sitting in the stands in his club jacket, wishing he could be out on the pitch. Each player carried that sense of unfinished business into training all week. You could see it in their body language — fewer laughs, fewer careless passes, and a heightened focus during every rondo and positional drill. Atlético might have taken the cup battle, but this was the league. And in the league, Tenerife were still dominant.
Now, Laurence stood in the center of the dressing room, hands clasped behind his back, his voice stripped of any theatrics.
"Today," he said softly, making eye contact with each player, "is about respect. For the badge. For the shirt. For every hour we've dedicated to this."
He took a moment to let it sink in.
"Let's take back what they took."
As the players stepped out into the Heliodoro Rodríguez López, the noise enveloped them instantly — loud. It was the kind of sound that resonated deep in their chests. Atlético Madrid, under Diego Simeone, arrived with their usual trademarks: tight formations, discipline, and a refusal to give their opponents any breathing room.
But Tenerife wasn't the same team they had bullied in the Copa. Laurence's 3-4-3 had evolved. The automatisms — those little patterns — now flowed naturally.
Casemiro made his way back to midfield alongside Kikoto, and that shift alone brought a sense of balance to the team. Cancelo and Grimaldo held their positions wide, effectively stretching Atlético's defense horizontally. Neymar kicked off with a sharpness that was evident in his first touch.
Griezmann drifted between the lines, skillfully finding pockets of space. And then there was Bony — solid, grounded, and reliable — providing a physical presence that can rattle even the most disciplined center-backs.
From the very start, Tenerife pressed with purpose. When the ball was played out to the full-back, Cancelo was quick to step in. When Koke dropped back, Kikoto stayed close, shadowing him instead of lunging in recklessly.
The first goal came from a straightforward play. Neymar dropped into the left half-space, received the ball, and turned sharply, creating just enough space to slip past Juanfran, thanks more to his timing than his speed.
Stefan Savić stepped up to challenge him, but Neymar cleverly used the defender's momentum against him — a quick touch inside, a body feint, and suddenly the passing lane was wide open. Instead of blasting the ball, he calmly rolled it into the six-yard box.
Bony found himself with two defenders close by, but he remained composed. One touch to set himself up, and another to slot it low past Sergio Asenjo.
As the net bulged, the stadium erupted in cheers.
Laurence pumped his fists and hugged Victor. Bony performed a knee slide.
Simeone was quick to react. He stepped right up to the edge of his technical area, palms out, urging his players to stay calm. They tightened their formation, compacted their shape, and pushed Tenerife back into the wide areas once more. You could see the shift — they were intent on stifling the center.
But this time, Tenerife didn't just fold in on themselves. Casemiro dropped deeper, providing cover for the back three, while Kikoto created options even under pressure. Grimaldo, instead of just whipping in crosses, patiently recycled the ball. And when Tenerife did break forward, they did so with real precision.
About halfway through the first half, Neymar won a throw-in high up the pitch. It seemed like a minor moment, just a routine reset. But Laurence's team treated it like a set-piece. Cancelo made an overlapping run. Griezmann quietly slipped between Godín and Savić. Neymar, receiving the return pass, held the ball just long enough to mask his intentions — then sent a looping cross toward the penalty spot.
Griezmann didn't hammer it home. A subtle touch, just enough to steer the ball past Asenjo and into the far corner.
Laurence moved to the edge of his area, placed a hand on Griezmann's shoulder as he jogged back, and said something that made the Frenchman smirk.
On the other touchline, Simeone's expression barely changed. His jaw clenched. He turned to his staff, gesturing emphatically with his hand, demanding that his midfield tighten up even more. He wasn't upset about the goal — he was frustrated with the space that allowed it to happen.
Atlético made an effort to respond, and for a while, they managed to keep Tenerife on the back foot. Falcao, always a danger, was snapping at half-chances. Arda Turan was weaving through the lines, looking to make an impact.
A few scrambles in the box led to frantic clearances and some tense moments in the stands. But Tenerife remained calm. Koulibaly was organizing the defense, Luna was covering well, and Bellvís was doing his job. Aragoneses made a crucial save low to his right and then directed his teammates with the kind of authority that only comes with experience.
The second half found a rhythm that favored Tenerife. Neymar started to find his groove—playing with that confidence where he can receive the ball with his back to goal and still keep possession. Casemiro became more composed. The back three grew bolder, stepping into midfield.
Atlético's structure remained intact, still tight under Simeone, but Tenerife was now playing with a freedom that comes when the game plan is firmly in the players' minds.
Then came the moment that would be talked about long after the fans left the stadium.
Joel picked up the ball near the halfway line on the right. At first glance, nothing seemed to be on.
A defender was right on him, and another was covering the channel. But he deftly shifted the ball inside, then back out, leaving the first defender off balance. He charged forward, weaving past another challenge, and the noise from the crowd grew with each touch.
Two Atlético players closed in on him in the box, and Joel executed a quick double-touch that made half the stadium gasp.
Instead of taking a shot, he hesitated for just a split second. Then, with the outside of his foot, he squared the ball across the goal to Bony—a perfect setup.
And somehow, against all odds, Bony leaned back and sent it soaring over the bar.
Laurence's hands flew to his head in disbelief. Joel fell to the ground, laughing and groaning at the same time, as teammates rushed over to comfort him. Even Simeone turned away with a wry half-smile, as if to say that some moments are just beyond explanation.
But the miss didn't hurt Tenerife at all. If anything, it seemed to ease the pressure on them. They just kept on playing.
The fourth goal came from a quick corner. Instead of launching the ball into a packed box, Tenerife cleverly worked it along the edge.
Grimaldo got the pass, took a quick touch, and unleashed a powerful strike through a maze of legs. Asenjo saw it too late — way too late. The ball hit the back of the net, and the roar from the stands was a mix of joy and disbelief.
This time, Laurence let himself celebrate a bit more — a double fist pump, followed by a glance at the scoreboard, as if he needed to confirm that this was really happening.
Simeone was fired up now. He was gesturing, giving instructions, pacing his technical area with quick, purposeful steps. He'd stop to shout a correction, then move on again. He wasn't the type to scream at his players — that wasn't his way — but the intensity was clear. His team was losing their battles. Losing their shape. Losing the argument.
The fifth goal felt more like a conclusion than an act of cruelty. Quaresma had come off the bench late, drifting to the right side, searching for spaces to exploit.
When the ball found him at the edge of the box, it felt like everyone in the stadium knew what was about to happen. He positioned himself, wrapped his foot around the ball, and sent a curling trivela arcing past Oblak's desperate dive and into the far corner.
The stadium savored the moment. The sound lingered, stretching out. People hugged strangers, while others stood frozen in shock.
Laurence didn't sprint or jump. He crossed his arms again and watched quietly, his eyes steady, as if he were trying to absorb the moment rather than celebrate it. Victor walked up beside him, shaking his head in disbelief.
When the final whistle blew, the noise continued long after. Players embraced, some laughing, some simply relieved. Neymar hugged Joel, still teasing him about the assist that should have been. Bony held his hands up toward the fans, half-apology, half-thanks. Koulibaly and Aragoneses shared a long, quiet handshake — two men satisfied with a clean sheet.
In the away technical area, Simeone stared at the stat sheet thrust into his hands. He looked at it for a long time, jaw clenched, committing the lesson to memory.
A 5-0 thrashing of Athletic Madrid- that was the headline next day.
They would have preferred to use a more adult word instead of 'thrashing' but didn't due to legal reasons.