My Footballing Legend

There was a biting cold in the air when CD Tenerife touched down in San Sebastián.

The sort of cold that didn't just pinch the skin — it reached deeper, into the joints, the lungs, the nerves. A wind that sliced through jackets like they were made of paper. A weather system that didn't merely require gloves and warm-ups — it demanded focus. Because as soon as you lost focus, the ball would skip, the touch would slip, and the game would be gone.

Laurence didn't really care about the cold. He had come to accept discomfort.

What he was thinking about was neither the temperature nor the wind racing off the Bay of Biscay — but rather the far dugout.

Real Sociedad.

And in their dugout, bundled in a navy-blue club jacket, was the young man he couldn't stop thinking about.

Antoine Griezmann.

Nineteen. Lean. Restless. His bleach-blonde bangs shot out from a beanie pulled low and tight over his ears. His legs bounced in an unrelenting tempo, not out of nerves, but from the uncontainable emotion emanating from his body. It was a pent-up energy. An athlete who knew he could change the game but was being denied the opportunity.

Laurence buried his hands deeper into his coat and turned back towards his squad, situated in a small huddle on the touchline. 

"This one comes down to control," he said, trying to project calmness among the chaos of the stadium and wind. "They press hard, so we stay compact. Trust the shape. Let them overcommit. Find the gaps." 

No one spoke. They didn't need to. This was not a motivational speech - this was instruction - survival. 

Once again, Natalio led the line - industrious, selfless, and often unappreciated. Neymar was on the left -although he was no longer a secret. Every opponent now had a plan for him. Casemiro was on the bench today - not demoted, merely kept fresh. December's fixture pile-up was tough and Laurence had to think long-term. 

Instead, today Kitoko and Ricardo León would show the way forward from the middle of the pitch. Víctor Ortega had advocated for a new shape - a hybrid press when out of possession. It started in a 4-4-2 style but would morph into a 3-2-4-1 when Tenerife had the ball. It was bold. Dangerous. But on paper it had merit against a team like Sociedad. 

Kick-off. 

From the whistle, Real Sociedad played like a team with something to prove.

They pressed high, almost at their own demise. The fullbacks were frolicking around like pups in the park, and Xabi Prieto was drifting into every pocket of space he could find to dictate the play as if he were in a practice match. Juanlu was the one being targeted, early on, by being pinned and pressed when the overlap occurred. Zurutuza was pinging passes and spreading play across the pitch, stretching Kitoko to bursting point.

But Tenerife held. Just.

It wasn't smooth. It wasn't comfortable. But the lines of defence were still intact, and Aragoneses commanded his 6 square metres like a man who has seen much worse storms.

Then in the 27th they were given a gift.

A clearance from Luna was barely hopeful, and ended up a long ball that invited the awkward bounce. Mikel González, the Sociedad centre-back, misjudged the bounce under pressure. Natalio was always going to work undeterred, seized this chance, nudged the ball past the onrushing goalkeeper, and finished calmly into the empty net.

1–0. Against the run of play.

Laurence didn't flinch. He didn't even fist-pump or hold his arms up in celebration.

He had already returned his thoughts to the bench.

Griezmann did not move. Didn't cheer or react.

The pressure mounted as it hit halftime. Sociedad already made it clear to the Tenerife midfield that they were going to push. Kitoko was starting to look tired, and Ricardo León was dragging his legs and was struggling getting back from recovery runs. But they were still leading, so all was good.

In the dressing room, Laurence wasn't shouting. He was just making adjustments.

"Keep Neymar tucked inside," he said to Omar. "Let him overlap. Make them track us."

He pulled Víctor aside. "Get into the double pivot as quickly as you can. We are losing the overload out wide."

Then with one last look at the Sociedad bench, he returned to the touchline.

Griezmann was now warming up, albeit not intensely — slow jogs, brief, and the coaches weren't watching him.

The second half started and it was clear Sociedad had shifted into another gear. Their left back, Alberto de la Bella, was now surging forward at every attack, forcing Omar further inside and isolating Juanlu. The picture that Laurence had drawn on the whiteboard that morning was starting to smear.

In the 63rd minute, it broke.

A low cross arrived from the right. Luna, mixed up as to whether he should mark the space or the player, hesitated temporarily — and that hesitation was fatal. Agirretxe ghosted in, guided the ball across Aragoneses, and Sociedad had their equaliser.

1-1. A fair result. 

Laurence did not show any outward signs of reaction. But he felt it inside — a slow burning feeling of inevitability. This is La Liga. Control is transient. Mistakes are punished.

He made two substitutions — fresh legs on the wings. Neymar remained on and was now being made a meal of by 2 markers whenever he touched the ball. The freedom of October had long disappeared.

And Griezmann? 

Still on the bench. 

Still watching.

Time moved on. The game deteriorated into an unproductive midfielder's grind. A few half-chances. A beaten Kitoko long range effort that flew over the goal. A near-post corner and effort from Soler that Aragoneses sent away with two fists. No breakthrough. 

Full-time. 1-1.

A well-earned point. Not a win. Not a disaster.

From the outside, it was just another drawn game on an endless winter campaign. 

But for Laurence, it was more than that. 

As coaches and players filtered into the tunnel, wordlessly exchanging tired nods and frustrated muttering, Laurence stood beside the technical area. Sociedad's assistant coach was deep in conversation with a number of the match officials. Behind them, Griezmann walked off by himself, pulling his beanie down and zipping up the collar of his coat.

They made eye contact — for just a moment.

No words. No smile.

But Laurence did the smallest of head nods.