My Footballing Legend

September 21, 2010

Estadi Ciutat de València – Matchday 4: Levante UD vs CD Tenerife

Three days.

That's how much time Laurence Gonzalez and staff had to prepare after Tenerife's remarkable first La Liga victory. Just seventy-two hours to recover, reset and refocus, before heading to Valencia to take on a physically demanding Levante side determined to remind everyone that fairytales do not last long in this league.

No longer was it about survival.

It was now about momentum.

Laurence learned that lesson the hard way. In his first timeline, he made too many changes after a good result - thinking that fresh legs meant more than chemistry. They didn't. Not at this level. Not when players' minds were hanging by a thread. This time, he kept his core. As many of the same players as he could. The least number of changes possible. The most amount of continuity.

Neymar remained wide left. Natalio, buoyed by his goal against Hércules, remained up front. Ricardo León and Kitoko remained the midfield heart, two players who had enough flair and fight in them, but were disciplined enough to hold their positions in the shape.

Casemiro, still observing, still learning, was no stranger to patience.

There was a minor change at right-back, and Bertrán was rested - careful in managing minutes. Juanlu stepped in, he was back where he belonged facing his former club. While change was minuscule, Laurence could only hope it would not disrupt the rhythm that had finally begun to settle into the group after a long arduous period.

Levante were unapologetic in their approach.

The pitch felt deliberately dry, and the grass long. The lines were not easily visible in flickering ineffective flood lights. They were hoping to slow down the ball, making every touch heavier, and every turn more of a gamble.

Levante's plan was unrefined but effective: win second balls, force throw-ins, win corners, and frustrate. It was football with arms and elbows, and knees - ugly, deliberate, and submission.

But Tenerife had started to create an identity. The players moved with a conviction and sharpness they lacked before, a bond forged through training but also through the things they had been through together. Laurence had spent the first two months of his tenure teaching them patterns - rep after rep until it had become second nature. They now played with the four at the back higher and was trusted to maintain the line. The midfield were pressing with interlocking triangles. The fullbacks no longer sprinted forward risking the team—now the understanding governed their decisions about risk, when to go, and when to hold.

Above all, they trusted Neymar. 

The first half was uneventful. For half an hour neither of the teams was able to penetrate a line. Every long ball was contested. Every midfield was met with a crunching challenge. Drenthe—now playing with Levante after his first half of last season with Hercules' loan—was determined to make his presence known with pacey runs and wild energy. But Luna had done his preparation. He kept in stepping with him, knowing when to get close, funded always guessing—and by the time that the Dutchman tried to get onto the opposite wing, his confidence was already wilting.

Then the moment that changed the game arrived. 

Thirty-eight minute. A throw in deep in Levante's half and on the touchline just in front of the Tenerife bench. Quick movement. Juanlu to Ricardo. Out to Omar Ramos, who unexpectedly found some space at the right touchline. One touch, head up, diagonal ball into the box edge.

And there was Neymar—ghosting between defenders, unnoticed and unaccounted for until the barely perceptible moment before he received the ball. 

He didn't control it in the traditional sense.

One touch, back to goal, then a blind backheel—perfectly weighted into the path of Natalio, who had peeled off the center-back like a ghost.

The striker took one touch and smashed the ball low into the far corner.

1–0.

Laurence didn't celebrate. Not demonstratively. He turned right away to the backline, germanely raising his hand.

Hold the line. Control. Don't let them back in.

The second half was all about discipline.

Levante then brought on fresh legs and permitted themselves to push a little harder. Their tackles became a little more reckless. The ball was played longer, faster, and angling toward mayhem. But Tenerife had the discipline, and

Kitoko was everywhere—breaking up play, doubling when necessary, barking orders with no shortage of confidence. He played like a man possessed, covering ground like three midfielders rolled into one.

In the 72nd minute, Levante nearly broke through. A corner dropped loose at the edge of the box falling kindly to Sergio, who took a volley that flew toward the top corner. Aragoneses, as always, had no intention of letting the ball in. He leapt and got just enough to world-class it over the bar. The ball clattered off the bottom of the bar and was cleared. A warning. But just a warning.

Tenerife didn't flinch. They didn't shut up shop.

They just waited.

Then, in the 84th minute, they went again.

A heavy touch from Levante's left-back left the ball loose in front of him in the middle third of the pitch. Neymar took his chance, drifting out wide to collect it. There wasn't any support; just him, two defenders, and fifty yards of space. No moment of indecision, however.

Then came the showmanship.

Just one touch to evade the first man. A little feint and a spin to evade the second. Now, facing the goal full speed, he drew the centre back toward him before slicing inside him. Desperately, the centre-back lunged from behind, brushing Neymar's heel as he stepped inside the penalty area.

Whistle.

Penalty.

Laurence said nothing.

He didn't need to.

Neymar laid the ball down thoughtfully on the spot. One step. Hit it low and away from the keeper, who dived the other way as he scored.

2–0. Game over.

The final whistle blew. Booing from the home crowd was muted, and roars from the small group of Tenerife fans who had found refuge in the corner of the Estadi Ciutat de València.

In the tunnel afterward, Víctor Ortega handed Laurence a bottle of water, still smiling.

"Back-to-back," he said. "And you told me we'd struggle to score."

Laurence let out a little laugh, still catching his breath. "We're still learning."

"But it won't matter when we're winning."

"Exactly."

Seven points from four games was a start no one had predicted—not after the first-week disaster at San Mamés. 

But now, there was something real. The defensive structure was solid. The pressing was in sync. And Neymar—no longer just a wild-card Brazilian flair player—was emerging as the team's focus. Not just a trickster. A difference-maker. A system player in his own chaotic way.

The press didn't fully believe yet.

But Tenerife did. 

And at times, that's only thing that mattered.