My Footballing Legend

18 September 2010

Estadio Heliodoro Rodríguez López, Santa Cruz de Tenerife

Matchday 3 – CD Tenerife vs Hércules CF

There was something different in the air that night.

Not just the salt air blowing off the Atlantic or the plump golden glow of a Canarian sunset hugging the chipped terracotta rooftops of the city—but something a bit more nuanced in tone and texture. An undercurrent of unrest, a current of hope. The Heliodoro Rodríguez López was not at full capacity, but the noise told a different story. The seats buzzed with anticipation. People were there not just to watch, but to believe.

After a truncated first few weeks back in La Liga, which included a bruising away loss to Athletic Bilbao, the initial enthusiasm surrounding CD Tenerife had begun to countermand themselves. Questions were forming, not just from the press but internally. Sounds of whispers were made in training. Some uncertainty to play two or three fixures to the same regulars. The flight back from the Basque Country was unusually subdued and low energy. Even Neymar, their gifted and ambivalent hotshot debut signing seemed uncharacteristically subdued. His usual pizazz--the laugh, the smirk--had flickered prior to the trip.

Now, in the sanctum of their home crowd, Tenerife was on the starting blocks to meet Hércules CF—an opponent who joined them in promotion that year, but had recently seen their stock rise considerably following an unbelievable 2–0 win against a much-fancied Barcelona at Camp Nou just a week earlier. David Trezeguet had nicked a brace that day following some advanced bullying of Piqué and Puyol. As if that was not enough Royston Drenthe had ripped the wings like a mad man. It was no longer a David vs. Goliath story.

In the home dressing room Laurence Gonzalez stood before his players, sleeves rolled back, relaxed and assured. He was not the sort who gave grand speeches or took great theatrical focus. But when he had spoken people tended to go along with him.

"They beat Barcelona last week," he said to a steady voice. "So, now the world's attention is on them. Not on us. Let them. Let the spotlight blind them just a little. Because they don't know what we have built here."

He let that hang for a moment longer, then turned to Neymar sitting in a front row seat, tied down with boots and tape around his ankles.

"Now that they all have their attention. Now take their breath."

From the start, Tenerife played like team with a point to prove not just to the league but to themselves. After the initial minutes of checking out the surroundings, watching Hércules pin them deep and press hard to unsettle them, it would be clear to many at the time Laurence had made adjustments from the match in Bilbao. Casemiro, still young and a little unsophisticated, was on the bench again. Instead, Kitoko anchored midfield with a quiet authority, while Ricardo León played slightly higher and gave the team much more fluidity through transitions. On the other side of the pitch, Omar Ramos was given licence to roam, and Neymar had been instructed to keep his width and be brave. 

It was the 14th minute when the match flipped. 

A Hércules corner broke down, and Omar was always alive to the turn, seized the stray ball near the edge of the Tenerife box. He was off like a shot. Head up, engulfed in space. Neymar was in motion, he had peeled off his marker and was coming short. He waved for Omar from a yard away. 

The pass wasn't perfect—just slightly behind Neymar—but Neymar adjusted on the run. With one silky touch, he flicked the ball around the defender, gathered it back, and let the show begin. A shimmy. A step-over. The right-back reached for it, but by the time he did, Neymar was long gone. Into the box with his head down, feet dancing.

He didn't square it. 

No need for it.

One glance at the keeper, then a low shot to the near post—cold, clinical, and ruthless. 

1–0.

The Heliodoro exploded. The kind of roar that travels through bone. Flags snapped in the wind. A section of the crowd began singing his name. Neymar trotted to the corner flag, arms spread, lapping it all up.

Laurence didn't move from his technical area. No fist pumps. Just a quiet nod. 

That's why I brought him here, he thought. 

But Neymar was not finished yet. 

As Hércules tried to regroup, Tenerife were all over them. In the 31st minute, another little phase of play in midfield pulled defenders out of position. Neymar drifted in from the left side, into half-space, just behind the strikers. One touch to control, another touch to drag the ball across his body—then came the killer pass. A reverse ball threaded between two defenders with all the precision of a needlepoint. Natalio didn't break stride. He simply clipped it over the onrushing keeper.

2-0.

Laurence tightened his fist. On the bench, Víctor gave tactical instructions to the fullbacks, but his grin could barely be hidden as the game unfolded in front of them. This was the football they had always dreamed of playing.

Of course, Hércules didn't just roll over.

They started the second half with intent. In the 61st minute, Drenthe earned a free kick in a wide position, and from the resulting set-piece delivery, Trezeguet rose highest - the classic centre-forward's goal. He ghosted off Luna and glanced it past the advancing Aragoneses - 2-1. For a second, uneasy questions began to flash around the stadium. Last season's unspeakable collapses hung thick in the air.

But Tenerife held their nerve.

Laurence didn't tell them to drop. They kept their structure and kept their bravery. Kitoko chased down every loose ball as though his life depended on it. Ricardo León ran until he couldn't run anymore. And when it came time to kill the game, they showed no fear.

In the 74th minute, Omar once again found space on the counter. He pushed forward with purpose and looked for options ahead of him. Neymar was hovering at the top of the box, tightly marked, but still moving. The ball arrived at pace to him. He controlled it with one touch and then slipped it past the defenders lunge with the second.

Then with a flick, and a little hop and a glance, he chipped it—calm, curling, audacious—over the keeper's head.

3–1. Game over.

The stadium erupted like thunder. Fans were shouting out his name. Some fans looked on in disbelief, standing with hands on their heads. Neymar ran to the sideline, arms aloft, that trademark smile finally returned.

When the final whistle came, it felt like more than just a victory.

Laurence walked out on to the pitch, shaking hands, exchanging hugs. When Neymar jogged over, chest heaving, hair slicked with sweat, Laurence stopped him.

He held him in his gaze.

"Did you get it now?" he asked.

With a smile and still catching his breath, Neymar nodded.

"I got it."

In the post-match press conference, suddenly it all had changed. There were no questions about relegation odds or young players. There was a journalist in the center of the room that asked what everyone was thinking.

"Do you believe that Tenerife can compete in La Liga?"

Laurence smiled—tired, proud, slightly defiant.

"I think we are already."