My Footballing Legend

The island was healed, but Laurence had not.

It had been three full days since Barcelona dismantled his team, not only tactically, but with an emotional precision that struck very, very deep. For all of the views on the scoreboard, it was the way the score cajoled him that was still lodged in his throat and brutally prolonging the sensation of defeat for him. They did not lose because they did not want to win. They did not lose due to a lack of faculty. No, it was worse than that. They were just outclassed. It was humbling. They were merely shadows chasing the ghost of the idea of a game. Guardiola's Barcelona had not only defeated them; they had removed the ceiling.

Since the whistle Laurence had spent ever hour in quiet contemplation and furious mulling over every detail in order to solve the most painful question that a manager can face; what do you do when you give your best and it is not good enough? 

Eventually the answer did come, in the shape of something primal.

You fight. 

You do not fight for glory. You do not fight for revenge. 

You fight because you want to know who you are. 

And there was no better game to rediscover your identity against than Atletico Madrid.

If Barcelona were ballet, Atlético were battle. Under Quique Sánchez Flores they had no concern for aesthetic. They were iron. They were geometry and graft. Deep defensive modulations. Relentless transitions. Their spine hardwired from fire. Two-pronged: Diego Forlán, the veterans' veteran who alone had stolen the show in South Africa just months before, and Sergio Agüero, a seething storm of consciousness and chaos.

Laurence recognised it immediately: this wouldn't be a game of ideas, it was a game of survival. A game of inches, of duels, of patience.

The preparation was exhausting. I didn't sleep the first night, hardly ate the next. The coach's frantic attempts to pull me away from the monitors had been exhausted. Every video I pulled confirmed the same reality: Atlético didn't wait for mistakes. They manufactured them. They made you blink first. They preyed upon hesitation.

And so Matchday arrived, Laurence made the call.

In the gloom of the dressing room, the players sat in nervous silence. The mood wasn't one of fear, rather a resolve. There was anticipation. And then he said it.

"Neymar will start on the bench."

Neymar sat slumped in his seat as he noticed heads turn. He did not call out or protest. Just disappointment was visible. The bruises he bore from Camp Nou he was scarred with - both meant physically and mentally - he had been a passenger on that night a great kid swallowed into a system that didn't have the time for a flair without purpose.

Laurence lowered his voice.

"You need a rest. Let them come after you now in the second half when space opens up. For now we sweep and build a wall.'' 

He pointed to the board.

Omar Ramos would start out in a freer role, drifting between lines. Natalio was back in front with Nino, nearly gone, but finally agreed to stay an extra week. He was anchored by midfielders Kitoko, Ricardo León and Casemiro. Defensive instincts. Quick feet. No passengers. 

A compact 4-4-2. High discipline. Low margin for error.

The message was simple: we are not breaking. Not today.

By kick off the stadium vibrated. Not with excitement - but anticipation. The crowd did not want a show. They wanted resistance. After the humiliation in Barcelona, they wanted to believe that they had not been broken, just scarred.

When the whistle blew, it was not a match. It was war.

The first five minutes were wild. Every duel felt like some kind of battle for identity. Casemiro made the first statement early on, putting his shoulder into Reyes to send the winger sprawling. No card. Just a warning—and a statement.

Moments later, Ricardo León won the ball only to be flattened by Assunção. Every inch of midfield was contested like sacred ground.

Forlán dropped back, forcing Hidalgo to stick close to him. His greatest concern was Agüero. The Argentine seemed to float between defenders, peeking into half-spaces, and finding just enough room to receive and turn. Then in minute 11, it happened. Ujfalusi delivered a curling ball that broke Tenerife's defensive line. Agüero was gone. A touch. A feint. But Aragoneses read that feint early—he dashed off his line like a man possessed and brutally smothered the shot with his chest before the Argentine could finish.

On the touchline, Laurence didn't flinch. He turned to Víctor, who was standing beside him.

"We lose Agüero once, we are dead."

Víctor nodded. "They are narrowing the pitch. Baiting Kitoko out of shape."

"Tell Casemiro to sit. And Nino—he has to press Assunção harder. Force them wide."

Tenerife wasn't in complete control, but they were respectable. In the 18th, Natalio pushed forward after Ricardo León laid a perfect one-touch pass and got a corner kick. Omar served the corner and found Bertrán, whose header skimmed the top of the goal. 

It wasn't the most chaotic way to win the ball back, but it was effective. They weren't to simply defending. They were asking questions.

Atlético always had the answers.

In the 23rd, Agüero found the back of the net again. This time dragging Luna out before he got the return from Simão. He bolted down the right, whipped a ball across. Forlán drove it in with raw precision—chest, volley, post. 

Time froze. The stadium inhaled. 

And then the ball spun away.

Laurence gnashed his teeth so hard his jaws were fatigued. "That was it," Víctor said "that was the moment." 

It wasn't, though. Not yet. 

Tenerife did not go down like the Teton. They did not go back. 

Nino tested De Gea from distance in the 29th—wide, but a reminder.

By the half an hour mark, the game was on a knife edge. Assunção took a leg out from under Omar. Kitoko clattered Reyes again. The referee let it roll, controlling through warnings but no cards. 

Laurence paced along the touchline, quiet but wired in. Calculating. 

And then, the 41st minute. 

Agüero again, floating deep, ghosting between the lines. A shoulder drop, a pivot. He found Simão, who came straight in off the left, and hit a curled shot to the far post. 

But Aragoneses hadn't finished. 

He launched - with arms out, body horizontal - and pushed it wide with a fingertip to send the whole stadium to their feet. 

Laurence turned to the bench. 

Neymar was already sitting forward. 

Not yet. 

Halftime arrived with no goals, but the locker room was the very definition of a furnace. 

No smiles. No one relaxed. But no one was without belief. 

Laurence stood before his squad with hands on hips. Calm. Collected.

"This," he said, his voice calm and even, "is survival in action. No tricks. No embellishments. Only moments. Only discipline. You've responded to their every act of aggression blow for blow. Now, go win your next forty-five."

He turned to Neymar, who stared back with quiet determination.

"Be ready."