My Footballing Legend

The preseason also began with more sweat than ceremony.

By eight o'clock, the CD Tenerife squad -- some familiar faces, a few optimistic academy call-ups, and two new players hailing from Brazil -- stood in a wobbly half-circle on the main training pitch. The sun was already climbing, and was baking the artificial edge of the turf. Shirt collars were drenched before any warm-up exercises started. The air was redolent of cut grass, the smell of a freshly applied sunblock, and all the physiological tension of men understanding that their time off was well and truly over.

Laurence stood before them wearing a plain white tee and dark navy shorts, a whistle pinched between his fingers. Víctor stood a few steps behind, arms crossed, scanning the group while playing his own game of watching closely. Mauro was on the sidelines, watching quietly, already thinking about logistics for the first away fixture.

Laurence scanned the squad.

Casemiro stood beside Ricardo León; he was shy but paying attention. Neymar was all smiles, juggling the ball on his thigh while nodding along to instructions. Natalio was stretching his hamstrings in silence while stealing glances at the goal posts. Omar Ramos leaned on one leg, looking at his new Brazilian teammate with an expression of unspoken curiosity.

"Listen up," Laurence called, his voice sudden and sharp. "Now you all know where we are in the league. This isn't just about another season. Every time we mess about in training it will be a goal we concede in the second half of a real game. This isn't about showing me the fastest player, or the one who scores the best volley. This is about brains. Movement. Hard work."

He started the training with a warm-up, then moved onto possession, followed by small-sided games. Laurence started to take them through the first ideas of his system - a compact 4-2-3-1 shape with dual pivots in the midfield playing a simple but effective style that involved quick, short passes out from the back. Neymar played left but mostly came inside. With Natalio at the center forward position. Casemiro was still getting his bearings, and partnered Ricardo León at the base of midfield.

The players adjusted... at first.

The shape held for 10 minutes of the training game. They pressed reasonably well, moved well, and even created two neat sequences which resulted in half-chances. Laurence sat on the touchline observing, taking his mental notes.

But then it began to unravel.

Too often, Neymar drifted far too inside and congested space for Natalio. Casemiro was anxious and eager to please, chased balls that he did not need to, and opened space behind him. The fullbacks were uncertain when to move high and when to tuck inside. While Natalio was making good runs behind the backline, the midfield could not find him. 

At the end of the session when the players were put through a mock scrimmage against the B team, Tenerife's first team defense gave up three goals in the first twenty minutes (two on a transition and one on a free kick). 

Laurence blew the whistle crisply. 

"End there. Cool down." 

The players trotted off the field with dripping wet shirts, some shaking their heads in disbelief. Others were too exhausted to bother, and some would nod while exchanging just a few quiet words. 

Víctor fell into stride with Laurence as he gnawed on the gum. 

"Well," said Víctor, "that was ... interesting endeavor." 

"We were very wide open in the midfield," Laurence muttered. "Casemiro is fast and can run but does not have the discipline yet. The fullbacks want to protect and do not trust the pivot. We have no understanding whatsoever on what to do when we turn the ball over." 

"I saw that," Víctor deadpanned.

Laurence didn't answer. He continued to observe Neymar sitting on the grass with a bottle of water talking to Omar. The kid was too comfortable. 

That afternoon in his office, Laurence looked at the GPS and heart-rate data from training. They looked wiped out — and worse, most hadn't even achieved the high-intensity train thresholds he wanted. The work wasn't sharp enough. Not yet.

He dropped into his desk and stared at the screen. The methods he recalled from the future — the positional rondos, the double sessions, the tactical walk-throughs, even the dietary control — they were all not yet the norm in most of Spanish football. But he knew what was coming. The teams who adapted earliest would be the teams that survived the longest.

This club could not afford elite players.

But it could train them like an elite team.

That evening, he called Víctor.

"I'm restructuring the training..."

"You want to roast them to death in week one?"

"No," Laurence said. "But training can not be like a Segunda club. Tomorrow, half the day will be tactical shadow work. Repeated movement until automatic. Players will rotate by zone. Midfielders will practice transitions until they don't have to think anymore."

Víctor sighed but didn't argue. "And the fitness team?"

"I'll coordinate. Double sessions every third day. Controlled. Monitored."

"What about Neymar? You think he's going to like this kind of grind?"

Laurence paused, then answered quietly, "If he wants to become what he thinks he can become—he'll adapt."