My Footballing Legend

The early sun spread gold across the tarmac at Tenerife North Airport. A small number of people had gathered there, largely out of curiosity. There had been a couple of small articles in the local newspapers and a few hastily written blogs, which had been sufficient for a rumor to spread that CD Tenerife had done something crazy. When the young man stepped off the plane from São Paulo, his only possession a rucksack, a few friends in his company, and a sleepiness across his smile, the phones came out, the reporters leaned in, and a dull din of incredulity flew through the crowd.

Neymar da Silva Santos Júnior had arrived.

Not quite the household name he is today, but his name was now spoken of varying levels of respect and skepticism among footballers. His highlights had gone viral in South America; he had been compared to other celebrities by his abilities; he was coined as Robinho with more flair, but nobody in Spain thought he would choose Tenerife.

Mauro was the one waiting at terminal gate to the airport – hands in his pockets, face unreadable. 

"You really came," was the first thing he said when Neymar reached him.

Neymar shrugged and a crooked smile slowly came to his face. "He said I would play. That was good enough for me."

They exited the airport without incident, slipping out the back so as not to draw attention. Neymar received a lift to his new flat a short distance from the stadium - inoffensive, a questionably white-walled apartment block with a view of the sea - it was a short walk from the training grounds, too. His family would arrive in a week.

That afternoon, he was introduced to the squad - unofficially, away from the cameras. A lot of players were still coming back from their break, and some just blinked. A few players had to be convinced that he wasn't a look-alike or a prank, but Neymar, to his credit, didn't act like a star at all. He shook hands, laughed, listened. He was still a boy, excited to play.

Laurence was standing on the sun-drenched training pitch, cones in hand, with a light sheen of sweat already beading on his brow. A whiteboard was positioned on an easel a couple of paces away, scribbled over with lines, arrows, zones.

He was standing next to Víctor Ortega, arms crossed, as Laurence yelled instructions at the staff setting up drills.

"Double pivot," Laurence said, indicating the boards. "I want a 4-2-3-1, compact midblock, fast transitions. Natalio stretches the line, Neymar and Omar invert and cut in, fullbacks are conservative unless we are chasing."

"Um." Víctor raised a brow.

"You do know we got promoted last season playing a 4-4-2? Just a simple shape. Organized press. Quick counter-attacking through the width with the wide men and Nino."

Laurence was still adjusting the position of a marker cone and not even looking up. "That was Segunda."

"And?"

"And this is La Liga. You think a flat 4-4-2 is going to hold against David Villa or Messi? Or even the midfield of Sevilla? We will get cut to pieces. We need to protect the middle. We need to be organized."

Víctor still didn't move, examining Laurence for just a few seconds longer.

"I think changing the shape is plausible. But you are asking a bunch of kids from Segunda to play like a mid table, Champions League side."

Laurence was finally standing, hands on his hips, and frowning at the board. The heat of the day was pressing against his temples, and without thinking about it, he lightly banged his head on the whiteboard once—thud—then again. 

Víctor flinched. "That won't help, mister."

"I know," Laurence muttered. "It just feels right."

"What feels right?"

"This whole setup. I see it in my head. The movement. The spacing. Neymar drifting down from the left—dragging two men. Casemiro intercepting passes before they break. Natalio slipping in behind."

Víctor scratched his chin, unconvinced. "And what when it doesn't work?"

"Then we adapt," Laurence said simply. "But I'm not sending these kids out there to drown in someone else's ideas, I want to give them something real. Something we can aim to grow into."

Víctor did not press the point further. He recognized the look on Laurence's face. He was not guessing. He was set in his mind. Even so, he could not help but mutter moan as he walked away toward the physio tent. 

"Sometimes I feel like you are trying to make Barcelona out of a cardboard boots budget."

Elsewhere, Mauro was buried in phone calls and contracts.

With Neymar and Casemiro registered, the remaining transfer labour was primarily going to be to ease back on the salary cap and fill some depth. One more winger had been shipped out on loan. Back up goalkeeper from B team was going to jump up the line, sit on the bench. The board stopped all spending. They were not even doing a loan with an option.

Mauro had made one last deal: a free agent signing for a journeyman left back Javier Modrego who was a hardworking veteran and had played in the reserves for Valladolid. He was not going to win any matches—but he was not going to lose them either.

It was not glamour.

But it was balance.

Back on the training pitch, Neymar slipped away from a marker, chipped a mock shot over a mini-goal and laughed when the ball smacked off the far post. He looked toward Laurence on the sideline, received a thumbs-up, and no words were exchanged.

Neymar's laugh fell short as he jogged back.

He was beginning to feel like this was not a dream.

No glitz, no private chefs, no VIP lounges.

But there was something here, underneath the drills, behind the tactics, inside the voice of a man banging his head against a whiteboard, that could possibly take him not just to Europe, but beyond.

Maybe...just maybe...

This man could take him the greatness.

Even if it had to start in Tenerife.