My Footballing Legend

The defensive line had stepped late—half a second late, just enough to mean catastrophe. Hidalgo and Luna miscommunicated on a simple trigger. When the ball went to the left wing, instead of stepping up together, Luna held. The Las Palmas winger took his first touch, threaded a ball behind, their forward was in. 

1–0. Nine minutes played.

Laurence had his hands in fists in defense of his face. Víctor stood next to him with his arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

"We practiced this a hundred times," Laurence mumbled, barely loud enough to be heard.

Víctor continued to watch the pitch. "Training cones don't dribble back."

The second goal came fifteen minutes later. 

Another misstep. This time from the midfield line—Kitoko went forward to press, expecting the defense to compress. But they didn't. One chipped ball over the top, and there was an exposed backline. The striker rounded the keeper calmly and tapped it in. 

2–0. Las Palmas had hardly broke a sweat.

Laurence stood still for a beat, turned back to the bench and said, "Casemiro, warm up."

Víctor looked over. "Now?"

Laurence clenched his teeth. "He may not be warm, but the others are as bad as a team can be; they've forgotten the word 'line.'"

The third goal never came—not because the traps suddenly worked.

But because Neymar decided it was time to quit being nice.

In the 39th minute, Tenerife finally strung together three passes and got through the midfield. Ricardo León found Omar on the right, who played into Neymar cutting in, who suddenly found himself in the middle of two defenders. Neymar, who was a joy to watch, quickly froze, disco danced in one direction then exploded out in between the two defenders, the ball stuck to his foot like he was carrying it.

He got to the long arc, faked a shot, slid the ball over to his left foot and sent it curling low to the far corner.

2–1.

It was a goal that should have never happened with a team playing as poorly as it was. If that was enough to send murmurs through the crowd, nothing was. Fans were standing. Some were even applauding. Others looked at their friends like they hadn't just watched a youth team humiliate Tenerife for the last half of the last half hour.

The second half was more solid to be fair. Casemiro had better discipline than I originally thought—staying in his half, winning a couple of aerial balls, even winning a tackle at the edge of the box. But the system still creaked. The line was unsure. The triggers were uncertain. They were lucky Las Palmas B had no finishers.

The game finished 2-1.

Laurence barely caught the final whistle. He walked straight down the tunnel.

Víctor hobbled along behind a few steps.

In the locker room everybody sat in silence. Sweat dripped off their exhausted faces. Some exchanged glances. Some glared, trying to avoid eye contact with Neymar at all cost.

Finally, Laurence turned.

"I asked you to step as one," he said. "We stepped as pieces. I asked for timing. We gave chaos."

He took in the scene around the room, voice now flat. "Do you really want to play like a Segunda side against a La Liga opponent? We will be relegated by November. But if you want to step like something more--something modern--you have to go through this pain now."

He paused. Then he added, almost to himself, "We're not ready. Not yet."

No one said anything. Not even Víctor.

Outside, as the fans silently filed away and Neymar signed jerseys for children who didn't even know the score, Laurence looked back out at the pitch one final time.

The traps had failed.

The system had broken.

But, Neymar's brilliance twinkled through the debris.

____

The training ground was calm when the session finished and the sun was sinking gently behind the hills in the distance. Most of the players had already left, nursing their tired muscles and sore egos after another grueling session of tactical repetition and time and motion analysis. The exercises were crisper than last week but it was still… not crisp enough. 

Neymar stood, water bottle in hand, sweaty jersey glued to his back, watching the staff leave and hoping for a little more time with the manager. Once most of the staff had left, he'd tell the manager, who stood alone by the sideline, staring blankly out into what he looked like an insulted expanse. 

"Míster," Neymar said.

Laurence shifted his gaze away from the field, the tiredness in his eyes mellowing a bit. "Yeah?"

"Why not drop back?" Neymar asked as he strolled over slowly. "In Brazil, they tell us to defend with the team. Here, you tell us to step forward when we lose the ball." 

Laurence raised an eyebrow, impressed with the question. Neymar was watching instead of improvising. 

"And that… third man stuff," Neymar added squinting a bit. "I still don't get it. Who's the third man? I never see him." 

Laurence gave a weak smile. "C'mon, let's talk."