My Footballing Legend

The second half started out much like the first half ended—all tightness, tension, and grinding. It was a football match that left much to be desired. This was trench warfare.

Atlético Madrid had struck. The changes were subtle but lethal. Simão, who had drifted towards the center in the first half, now rode the left touchline like a chalk line magnet. Bertrán had to track away from himself which widened the Tenerife backline into pockets that hadn't existed. Simão's average position now had Paulo Assunção dropping into the backline which regrettably created an almost fluid back three. This gave Atlético Madrid more of a capacity to build-up and absorb Tenerife's limited pressure—brutally.

Laurence stood in the corner of the technical area with his arms crossed, watching closely with intensity but not barking orders. He watched. Still. Intently. Laurence could feel it turning. The rhythm. The weight of it s. Like a tide that had come in too fast to hold back.

They were coming harder now. 

Forlán and Agüero, who had darted back and forth between zones in the first half, had unexpectedly halted their retreat to the deep. They were now more consolidated and like hunters. They smelt vulnerability.

By the 52nd minute, the initial spark of Tenerife seemed a distant memory. The midfield three, once fizzling with vertical energy and bite, were now timid, passive. They had narrowed off too much. Luna and Bertrán, who had been overlapping runs in the first half, were now scared to cross the halfway line. Every single pass was going backwards. Every second touch was made under duress. 

Laurence turned to Víctor. 

"We're not holding the press anymore," he said monotonously. "Casemiro's backing off too much." 

Víctor did not avert his eyes from the field. "They are baiting him. They are pulling him just the right amount. It's only a matter of time." 

Then it happened, the moment that confirmed it. 

The 58th minute. 

A long, looping clearance from Hidalgo was not the greatest ball in the world, but probably not a death sentence either- untill it clipped awkwardly into Casemiro's feet near the right edge of the box. The Brazilian had a second, maybe two. Just enough time to control, maybe slide it wide to León. But he hesitated. His weight shifted. His looked right, then left. For Agüero, that slight pause was all he needed.

Agüero struck like a predator in the brush. He stole the ball from Casemiro's blind side, and stabbed a short pass forward.

Forlán was off already.

He didn't need to look.

One touch. A feint. A low, laced drive across goal.

Past Aragoneses. Into the far corner.

0–1.

The clap and roar from the Atlético bench was instantaneous. Fists were pumped. Perfectly calm, Flores turned and clapped.

Laurence didn't move. He closed his eyes for a moment. The kind of moment you take a breath when reality tastes sour.

Casemiro stood motionless on the pitch - by the centre circle. Hands on hips. Head down. He didn't look at the bench. He didn't need to. He knew. 

The stadium fell quiet. The fans didn't seem angry – only resigned. They felt the momentum. They sensed the pressure building. Atlético were a machine. You could withstand their pressure for a time. But eventually, something gives.

Laurence looked over to Víctor. "He is young. This was always going to happen." 

Víctor sighed, dragging his hands down his thighs. "We need something now. Something else." 

Laurence already understood. 

By the 65th minute, Tenerife were struggling. Every clearance was being swept up by Atlético with cold efficiency. Every throw-in was a temporary stop-gap; couldn't string three passes together. Playing in fear of the second goal. 

By the 70th minute, Laurence gave the signal. 

The fourth official held up the board: 11. Neymar. 

A ripple went through the crowd. Not a cheer yet – just anticipation. An electric hum. 

Neymar removed his warm up gear without fuss. He jogged toward the touchline with his habitual nonchalance. No sense of nerves about him. He never did; just focus. Awareness. 

Laurence called him to one side. 

"You will get space if they don't adjust," he said quickly, "Don't drift too wide. Stay in the pocket. Take your man when he is isolated, but don't rush it. Wait for the moment."

Neymar gave a half-nod, calm as ever. "I'll find it." 

And find it he did.

It came slowly. A flick with the outside of the boot. A dummy that sent Antonio López the wrong way. Then a drag-back and switch that drew a foul and a yellow card. Just harbingers. 

And then, the storm struck. 

Minute 77. 

Casemiro, desperate to make amends, snapped into a tackle in the midfield and won the ball cleanly. He played the pass short to Ricardo León, who pivoted on the half-turn. Neymar dropped into the left channel, 25 yards out, right between midfield and defence. 

León found him. 

With one touch, Neymar turned, ghosted away from Assunção with a shimmy, and pushed into real estate. 

He had options. The pass to Natalio. Layoff to Omar. 

He ignored them all. 

He chopped inside onto his right, feinted again, and curled it around Perea and into the top far corner. It clipped the underside of the bar, dropped into the net, and fell as one most divine. 

Goal. 

1–1. 

The island exploded.

Neymar stayed put after his goal, arms out—not in cockiness, but in affirmation.

Laurence didn't cheer. He simply turned to Víctor and said, "That's why."

Víctor blinked. "He's eighteen."

"Exactly," Laurence added.

The final ten minutes felt torturous.

Atletico weren't stunned, they were incensed.

Forlan, time and again, dropped deeper to rattle passes with sniper-like precision. In the 81st minute, Simao swung in a cross that skimmed dangerously through the six-yard box. Arguero found a half-yard in the 84th and curled a shot just wide.

Then, a corner in the 87th minute.

Ujfalusi rose higher than everyone. His header struck the crossbar. And then, the ball bounced into chaos—a scramble ensued, and Luna just managed to clear at full length.

Every fan inside the stadium stood up now—hands on heads, hearts in throats.

Laurence didn't move. His eyes were tracking the ball like a man knowing fate was in it.

The final Atletico attack dripped away into a desperate cross, hoofed out by Casemiro—straight into the running track.

Then came the whistle.

Full time: CD Tenerife 1 – 1 Atletico Madrid.