My Footballing Legend

It certainly wasn't handsome.

It definitely wasn't anything like a dominant performance. 

But, it was a win.

Tenerife had scraped through the Copa del Rey round against Elche, 1–0, with perhaps the most unexpected of match-winners, Ricardo Kitoko. 

Bizarre affair, they seldom got out of second gear. Neymar, as planned, was kept rested. Without him, Tenerife lacked that bite, lacked that edge. Natalio, bottomless pit of energy, charged around up front but often looked isolated, as if he was floating in a sea of lengthy hopeful balls and aimless crosses. Omar Ramos had his moments on the flanks but would Buzz past everyone with his feet, but keep getting stuck in second-gear with his mind, so every time he got drawings inside he sort of doubted his decisions. Just a fraction of a split second. Just a pass too late.

In the middle of the field, it's more compact, but also uninspired, Casemiro played it steady and hung in the middle, Ricardo León controlled tempo, Kitoko put in a shift but none looked remotely like scoring.

For the first hour, it just felt like a glorified training match with both teams exchanging safe passes without conviction. The only chance of real note was in the first half and it came from Elche, with the striker almost trying to score from his own corner, a too ambitious half volley from the edge of the box, but Aragoneses brushed it off. 

The home fans were not booing. In fact, they were too tired, so they waited to murmur and check their watches.

Then, at last—release. 

Just beyond the hour mark, a promising Tenerife corner was half-cleared, the ball dropping awkwardly near the arc of the final third. The defenders hesitated. Kitoko didn't.

He stepped into the space. Took one step forward. Smashed it.

It wasn't thunderous, it wasn't a screamer. Just a clean straight hit—true and climbing. Spinning slightly, arcing toward the upper left corner. It kissed the inside of the post and bulged the net.

1–0.

Laurence, for his part, didn't react initially. On the touchline, he just blinked—like he hadn't seen it. Then a laugh happened, mostly uncontrollably. He turned to Víctor Ortega, shaking his head.

"Even Kitoko didn't think that went in."

Victor grinned. "Should we advise him to try it more often?"

Laurence half-smirked. "No. Let's keep the surprise."

It was just that type of match that played itself out, to be honest. Elche endeavored to respond, but didn't seem like they were going to break through. Tenerife, despite their conservativeness, performed a professional performance. The back four held shape, the midfield protected the spaces, and Aragoneses commanded his area. When the final whistle went, the Heliodoro breathed a somewhat stable sigh of relief.

They had got through. Round of 16. Copa was still possible.

But Laurence wasn't celebrating.

That night, long after the crowd had gone home, the lights burned in his office. He was hunched over his desk, watching the video clips. Over, and over, and over. Neymar-less Tenerife. Predictable, static. Oftentimes, blunt.

Kitoko's goal had saved them. But nothing was solved.

A wonder goal is not a strategy. It is an opportunity. Technically, you can not have opportunities for a whole season.

Laurence wrote next phrases on a yellow pad of paper, drawing diagrams, plus arrows, as well as substitutions. The team had its heart, they had gritty. But there was no room for error. And little depth.

They were an injury away from trouble. One suspension away from disaster. 

The door squeaked opened.

Mauro Pérez walked in, with two coffees, still asleep in his eyeballs. He placed one on the desk and slumped into the chair opposite him.

"We survived."

Laurence did not speak. He was still writing; lines were coming in and out of the right half-space, little triangles were squeezing out of a jumbled mess of ink. He eventually said, "Without Neymar, we are just eleven people. And that isn't enough."

Mauro nodded slowly. "Two months to ride this group. Then the window opens."

Laurence finally looked up. "We will need something by then. Not luxury. Not Lottery. Just a spark."

Mauro exhaled. "Needing to find budget. One loan. Two, only if we sell. The Board has made it plain."

"I know."

Laurence turned the pad.

"There is a reason I have been watching Sociedad."

Mauro raised a brow. "Real Sociedad? Can we poach from there? They are still almost at our level."

"They are managing minutes," Laurence said. "They are trying to blood some youth while scraping points. They have a kid that I have watched three games in a row now. Left-footed. French. Raw, but clever."

He tapped the paper.

"Moves into half-spaces. Doesn't lose the ball under pressure. Doesn't over-elaborate. When he receives, he checks his shoulder. He plays like a senior."

Mauro narrowed his eyes. "What is his name."

"Antoine Griezmann."

There was a pause.

Mauro reclined. "He's just getting into the first team, right?"

"Exactly. Not a starter. Not too regularly. He'd get minutes for us. And make us more unpredictable. He's not Neymar. He doesn't need to be. But he is clever in his positioning. He occupies good zones. He could force defenders into unpleasant places. Especially if we keep letting Neymar roam about."

Mauro tapped the cup against the desk in thought. "Sociedad isn't selling."

"I don't want to buy. Just loan. Likely through to June."

"They're not going to like losing a player right now."

"We make it acceptable," Laurence said. "We sell it as a development opportunity. He plays about twenty minutes a week for them. He could play sixty for us."

Mauro looked at him for a moment. "You've already made up your mind, then?"

"I've already made up my mind during the Osasuna game."

That had been too much. Another draw, another moment where Neymar saved them from disaster. But what lingered in Laurence's subconscious was not the moment itself, it was what came afterwards. Neymar had limped off, but not only that: limped, exhausted, battered, and defeated with his shoulders slumped under the burden of a team.

Nothing else had come.

Mauro sighed. "Okay. I will start probing. Secrecy also. If Sociedad pulls away from relegation, they will be unwilling."

"Don't push. Just plant the idea."

As Mauro rose to leave, Laurence turned the pad back toward him. In the corner of the page, overlapped everywhere by arrows and tactical shape scrawlings, were two names heavily underlined:

Neymar

Griezmann

With a slanted hand note underneath:

Make it work.

The Copa tie was past. The Round of 16 was coming quickly. La Liga rattled to its conclusion, fixtures coming thick, legs reinforcing, margins thin.