My Footballing Legend

The sun had scarcely edged away from the Atlantic horizon when life on the island started to stir.

Bars near Plaza Weyler were opening their shutters early. Jerseys were being thrown from balconies to air them out. Kids were kicking cheap footballs in alleyways, whooping and yelling Neymar's name even before they knew what it meant or how to pronounce it right. The city smelled like fresh bread, wind off the sea… and nerves.

It was Tenerife's first top-division game for a decade. 

In the stadium, Laurence Gonzalez was standing in the narrow hallway that led from the changing rooms to the pitch tunnel, hands behind his back, bouncing on the balls of his feet. He was dressed in a newly forced black suit, creased slightly at the shoulders from tension—but he wasn't thinking about how he looked.

He was thinking about the board he had wiped an hour ago.

Neymar left wide. Natalio up top. Ricardo León and Kitoko in midfield. Fullbacks tucked tight. The defence? High but not stupid. The traps wouldn't be as aggressive today—not against Zaragoza. They'd gone conservative in the pre-season too, playing mostly long balls and building through Lafita on the wing.

Víctor Ortega appeared beside him, already chewing gum and looking towards the roaring throngs beyond the concrete archway. 

"You ready for this?" he asked.

Laurence gave a slight nod. "I've been ready since the day I woke up in this timeline."

Víctor blinked. "What?"

"Nothing," Laurence said quickly, adjusting his collar. 

The tunnel filled with noise as the teams took their position. Zaragoza came out in white and blue, led by coach José Aurelio Gay. Their team was good—not great—but capable. Nicolás Bertolo on the left. Gabi in the middle. Ander Herrera, still young and still somewhat brilliant. They had come to get a result. 

Tenerife followed—Neymar in front, relaxed and smiling, bouncing on his toes like he was going to play in the park after all this was done. 

The atmosphere exploded when they walked out. The noise from the crowd filled every corner of the stadium. Chants, ¡Tenerife! ¡Tenerife! Flags waved like a sea of cloth. Several fans even raised cardboard signs with horrible spelling to say "Bienvenido, Neymar." Others screamed.

Laurence hardly glanced at the stands. 

He walked straight to the touchline and stood firm as if to ground himself in the grass. 

This was it. 

Kick-off. 

The first ten minutes were tense. Tenerife were trying to bed in their shape, they were moving slowly. Zaragoza had early stages of possession, poking at the flanks, but the back line was holding. Bertrán and Hidalgo were cooking and communicating well. Ricardo León was dropping deep to command for Kitoko when the press triggered; it was working. 

Then came minute eighteen. 

Zaragoza sent in a low cross from the left. A deflection rolled nicely to Lafita, who smashed at goal - but Aragoneses dove and got the faintest touch to send it wide. 

Laurence jaw clenched, close. 

In the twenty-fifth minute, Neymar had hardly had a touch of the ball. Every time he touched it, Zaragoza were siding him up with two players. They weren't mugs. But it happened. 

Kitoko won the ball, some 10 yards into Tenerife's half, and picked Ricardo León with a quick feed. One touch. A quick look. Neymar had peeled away from his marker on the left and called for the ball. The ball dropped, bounced once.

Neymar let the ball run across his body, flicked it behind him with a swift heel-touch, spun past the second defender—and all of a sudden, Tenerife had a two-on-one.

The stadium rose, like a wave.

Neymar went into the box, faked the shot—let the defender fly—and square it to Natalio, who had made a perfect blindside run, going into the box.

Tap-in.

1-0.

The crowd went bananas. Neymar slid on his knees toward the corner flag, arms stretched out, mouth wide with laughter. The Heliodoro was shaking with chant.

Laurence didn't move.

He just observed. His heart was racing but he felt calm. That was the sequence. That was the plan. Press, recover, third-man run, overload.

They were evolving.

The second half wasn't easy.

Zaragoza made a tactical sub by bringing on Braulio, went a bit more direct. Gabi was taking control of the tempo. In the 69th minute, a throw in, Tenerife failed to clear their lines, Zaragoza rode their luck, Ander Herrera connected from outside the box; a low shot that zipped in.

1–1.

The momentum changed. You could see the fear in Tenerife's faces, and they started to sit deeper in midfield, while Neymar was tracking back, less dangerous. The backline held, just about.

In 85 minutes, Zaragoza should have stolen a win, with a free-kick at the far post, and Jarosik... but Aragoneses punched clear.

Then, minute 89.

Neymar again.

A flick over one defender, a burst through the channel, cut inside, and an enterprising run into the box... brought down.

The whistle blew, and the stadium went quiet.

But, instead of the penalty... the Ref pointed to the edge of the box.

A free-kick, inches from the point.

Neymar made himself, took it. Curled it. Over the wall.

Crossbar.

Disappointment everywhere.

Final. 1–1.

Inside the dressing room, nobody was sure what to feel. It wasn't a win, but it wasn't a catastrophe.

Laurence spoke to his players calmly.

"We got a point. And we showed we belong here."

The players clapped weakly.

Outside, at the post-match press conference, Laurence spoke simply.

"We're building. Today was step one."