My Footballing Legend

The lights were flickering slightly above Laurence, old bulbs whined laboriously at the ceiling. The whiteboard in front of him had more eraser tracks and smudges, hastily scribbles, and strange formations conjured and crossed out at least half a dozen times. He stood with his arms crossed, forehead splayed in fatigue at the whiteboard. Outside, the sun had long since dipped beneath the horizon. The only sound that filled the small room was the rhythm of his pen scratching against his thumb as he tapped it lightly.

Laurence had just spent the last three hours arguing with himself. 

Could gegenpressing actually function? 

In theory, absolutely. In fact, it would be turned upside down by Jürgen Klopp in just a few short years. High pressing, intense counterpressure the moment possession was lost, quick vertical passes: he could only remember watching Liverpool and the blueprints that were used with Klopp's early teams in Dortmund. 

The proposition was fascinating.

It was a tempting thought.

It wasn't like Tenerife had the stars – but they had youth. Neymar, Omar, Casemiro—players who could move, run, bite. Even Natalio, despite being raw, had the engine to put in the work. If he could teach them to be a pressing machine, then maybe they could suffocate teams that were possession based and turn that chaos into an advantage.

But then came the doubt.

This wasn't the 2020s.

Teams here still had other priorities—structure. Compact defending. Deep blocks. You were not going to see high defensive lines unless you were Barcelona. If he started to gegenpress now—in 2010, when La Liga was still much slower and methodical—wouldn't he just burn out his players? Would they just look like headless chickens chasing shadows?

Laurence's back ached. His eyes stung. That wasn't the issue anymore.

Time was.

With a grunt he threw the pen down on the table, slipped on his coat, and stepped out into the warm Tenerife night.

____

The bar was a small, tucked away spot close to the edge of Santa Cruz. Not a tourist trap. Not a place for football fans. Just a place where locals sat after work, having a beer and arguing about everything - politics, weather, and once in a while, CD Tenerife.

Laurence was perched at the very end of the bar, asking for a small glass of red wine and a plate of salted almonds. The bartender didn't know him - or perhaps didn't care. That was just fine by Laurence.

He took a slow sip of his wine and let the noise of the bar wash over him.

At the far end, three men in their forties sat around a chipped table, nursing their beers, having an animated conversation. He wasn't attempting to eavesdrop on them, just tired, tuned out, but a few words that they had exchanged caught his attention.

"....el chico nuevo.....Neymar. El brasileño."

Laurence's ears perked up.

"¿Y tú crees que un niño nos va a salvar contra el Sevilla?" one of them laughed. "El Madrid nos mete seis y no pasa nada, yo simplemente no quiero quedar en ridículo."

("And you think a kid is going to save us against Sevilla?" one of them laughed. "Madrid scores six goals against us and nothing happens. I just don't want to look ridiculous.")

"Pero es que al menos hay ilusión, ¿no?" another replied. "Con ese entrenador nuevo... ¿cómo se llama? González. Dicen que tiene ideas modernas."

("But at least there's enthusiasm, right?" another replied. "With that new coach... what's his name? González. They say he has modern ideas.")

"Modernas o locas," the third chimed in. "Jugamos bien el año pasado. ¿Para qué cambiar?"

("Modern or crazy," the third chimed in. "We played well last year. Why change?")

Laurence stared at his glass and slowly swirled the wine.

They weren't wrong.

There was expectation now. Hope, yes—but fragile. Born from mystery, rather than something tangible. Neymar had lifted something. But for most supporters, they still really didn't know and to some extent, still don't really know what to think about him. And certainly they didn't know what to make of Laurence's ideas.

Gegenpress.

Mid-block.

False nine Natalio.

That was a lot.

Too much?

He finished his wine and stood up, leaving some euros on the counter. As he walked to the door, he glanced back at the three men. One of them was now animatedly explaining something with his hands, miming a football pitch and laughing.

They weren't dreaming of finishing in the top four.

They were dreaming of dignity. Of surviving. Of not being a disgrace.

Laurence moved out into the night air and took a deep breath.

That might have been the clarity he needed.

He didn't need to play like 2025. He didn't need to be Klopp before Klopp had won a trophy at Dortmund.

He needed something real. Something that was right for this team, for this moment in time.

Tactical clarity would not be crystallized in an instant of brilliance. It would evolve with each day—on the training ground, with chats with Víctor, in matches that pushed every instinct.

For now?

He was going to keep it simple.

Structured press.

Quick transitions.

Discipline at the back.

Freedom for Neymar.

No fantasies.

Just football.