My Footballing Legend

The morning heat wrapped around the earth as Laurence stood on the training pitch, dry marker in one hand and tactical diagram flapping on the board behind him, held down with stones and a lot of wishful thinking. Víctor Ortega leaned with crossed arms against the goalpost, face passive, quietly watching Laurence scribble angled lines across the whiteboard like a lunatic.

"Here," Laurence said, tapping a dotted line outlined just beyond the mid-level of the board. "This is the line of defence. We problems in high – always. We step as one, on three passes, not the first. Upon that √ going wide, the backline steps high as a unit. If we get it right, as they approach the line, their runner is offside and we regained possession before they reach the box".

Víctor squinted at Fedora the board. "You want our defence to step up when they have the ball out wide?"

"Exactly," Laurence said enthusiastically nodding. "Most teams want to be deep on defense when pressed. We do the opposite and hug the high pressure space. We compact if there vertical lanes. No time, no room. One mistake on there part, and that attack is dead and gone."

Víctor rubbed his forehead slowly. "And what if one of our fullbacks doesn't step at the same time?"

Laurence turned around, smiling. "Then we're screwed."

Víctor blinked. "You're mad."

"I'm a pragmatic mad," Laurence replied. "This is not about delightful play, this is about control. Controlled aggression. If we really don't have a budget to combat talent with talent, we combat it with systems."

"And where, exactly, did you conjure this genius from?" Víctor asked, voice deadpan and dry as the pitch.

Laurence dismissed him casually, as if playing a mind game. "Just kind of read it somewhere."

He wasn't about to say that these ideas were from a future where Hansi Flick would change the game on how overloads on the flank and high lines would try to strangle an opponent. And if Víctor really heard that it might just push him to walk straight in to the sea.

The next morning, the training pitch had become a war zone of cones and rope lines.

Laurence had broken the pitch into thirds and had brought in a dozen assistants - analysts, academy coaches, and even some first-team staff - to execute the drill. There were whistles, hand signals, and repeated commands that boomed over and over again.

"Step on the third pass!"

"Full line - now! Reset, back, again!"

The defenders were sweating bullets within ten minutes. Bertrán nearly tripped over a cone. Luna kept glancing back in hesitation. The center-backs - Hidalgo and Prieto - yelled at each other every time they mistimed a step.

Casemiro watched from the side, towel around his shoulders, shaking his head in disbelief. Even he, still finding his way to a European rhythm, recognized the danger.

Laurence clapped sharply. "Again. And I don't care if your legs are like jelly - if we do not learn to move as one, we will never hold a lead against Sevilla or Bilbao."

Víctor walked over, looking at a newly advanced academy winger after another poorly timed step.

"Why do we do this with kids?" he asked flatly.

"If the kids get it right," Laurence said, "there's no excuse for the first team."

Víctor was silent. He just whistled as a kid called Álex broke through again and slotted the ball past the keeper.

Laurence didn't blink. He pulled the line back. Again.

He knew it would take weeks. Maybe months. But if they got it right - if the timing, the triggers, the discipline could be hammered into their bones - Tenerife would not need to outplay opponents. They would only need to get them to walk into a trap.

A trap they never saw coming.

A trap that started here - on a dusty pitch in July - with cones, frustration and a head coach whom half the staff thought was off his head.

And If he was.

Dark clouds provided false security for the second preseason friendly. The opposition was the B-team of UD Las Palmas; a team with technical midfielders and quick passing. Laurence thought it was the perfect test. If the offside traps worked here, if the pressing shapes and flank overloads connected, it would be a real step forward.

All week, the team had been going over every conceivable situation. Step up on the third pass. Squeeze form the sideline coverage all the way in. Trigger the trap the moment the ball-carrier lifts his head and moves to the outer side. It looked good, almost beautiful, in train-ing.

But games are not practice. And Las Palmas were not standing still.

Laurence saw it in the first whistle.