My Footballing Legend

Fourteen games into it, and CD Tenerife was sitting 10th in La Liga.

For any newly promoted team, that would be something remarkable. For Laurence González, it was affirmation — that survival wasn't the limit. That, with routed loans and negligible depth, there was ambition to be had. There was space to build something forever. Something cutting edge.

But this - this was the test.

Real Madrid.

José Mourinho.

Santiago Bernabéu.

This wasn't just another game. Laurence didn't pretend otherwise. He was on the edge of the pitch during warmups, collar up, hands buried in his pockets; he could feel the anticipation around him, the cold Madrid night buzzing. The stands were filling up steadily, a swirling mass of white scarves, camera flashes, and all that comes with expectation.

On the pitch, Madrid's stars were warming up with skull-splitting simplicity.

Cristiano Ronaldo was executing drag-backs and sharp stepovers, shifting weight smoothly, and every touch was a warning. He looked unreal, a visionary who was distant, and he appeared locked in on something so far, far beyond the touchline.

Cristiano Ronaldo was executing drag-backs and stepovers, shifting his weight effortlessly like it was second-nature. Every single touch was a warning sign. He was in a different place altogether - not conscious of the field - but locked onto something of great distance.

Mesut Özil floated like silk in and around the cones, playing passes like it was no big deal.

Xabi Alonso stood just before halfway, a piece of paper in his hands, picking out balls like an absent chess master, placing his pieces carefully.

Laurence was transfixed. It felt like he was watching the mecca of control. Control so demanding, that any error from them would be punishable and any opponent would soon be out of the game as prey.

And then he saw him.

José Mourinho.

The black coat. The storm-gray stare. Hands clasped behind his back, experiencing the warmup like he had seen the game in front of him unfold before.

To Laurence's surprise, the Portuguese coach walked up to him.

"You've done well," Mourinho said calmly in a low voice, thick with barely being noticed Portuguese accent. "Mid-table, first season. That's no mean feat."

Laurence hesitated, uncertain if it was an insult, or a concession between respectful adversaries. "Thanks. That means a lot. Especially coming from you."

Mourinho slightly nodded after a second. "It's rough down there. No mistakes can be made. And no mercy. But you've achieved something."

Then a pause. His grin became thin — neither vicious nor benevolent.

"Let's see how long you hold out."

And he turned away.

Laurence remained, not quite sure if he'd been complimented… or branded.

With the Bernabéu lights on, the game started like a symphony of pressure.

Every touch was meaningful. Every pass intent. The crowd pulsed into one single symbiotic unity — gasping, clapping, groaning, and roaring — in sync with the players. The ball never stayed still.

Tenerife lined up in a narrow 4–5–1. Laurence had them prepare all week, with one mantra to adhere to: survive thirty minutes.

Casemiro started on the bench, not because of form, but strategy. Laurence decided, in his judgement, he was too inexperienced to manage the triangle of Alonso, Khedira, and Özil in full flow.

Kitoko was the anchor in the midfield. Ricardo León was stationed just in front of him. Neymar was stationed out wide, but with firm instructions to defend first — burst if there was grass.

And they lasted for 15 minutes.

Madrid were probing Tenerife, keeping the ball moving from side to side. Juanlu and Luna kept their lines very tight. Kitoko held down all of the central channels gritting his teeth.

Then came the pressure.

On 18 minutes, Madrid delivered the blow.

Marcelo had a diagonal switch and ghosted past Juanlu with a subtle feint. His low ball into the box found Özil — one touch and a no-look layoff into space.

And there he was. Ronaldo.

Then exploded into Tenerife's right channel. Luna stepped — too late. Aragoneses barely moved.

One stride. One to shot curling shot.

Bending exquisitely into the far post.

1-0.

The Bernabéu didn't erupt — it roared. An avalanche of sound.

Laurence didn't flinch. He didn't shout. He just breathed out through his nose. They had done almost everything right. Madrid didn't need errors – they needed seconds. Inches.

And Ronaldo never asked twice.

Tenerife tried to settle down. Omar got a bit higher. He left the ball, made a little wizardry and started on a run down the left flank. He earned a corner in the 24th minute. From their corner kick, Ricardo León floated in a dangerous cross — but Sergio Ramos moved like a lion emerging from the brush, and clearing the ball with ease.

Madrid took off. 

In seconds, Di María was off down the right wing, burning midfield. He found Özil in space near the arc. Özil held, pulled both Kitoko and León in tight, then flicked a stunning pass, with the outside of his heel, into Ronaldo's stride.

Another acceleration. Another shot. 

But Aragoneses was ready, diving low to his left, and palming wide.

It was a let-off. 

Laurence turned to Víctor Ortega, his assistant and murmured, "This is a storm. Get them to stop chasing shadows. They must hold."

With just short of twenty minutes left, time slowed down.

The team from Madrid flowed, and they absolutely dictated everything. But Tenerife, showed glimpses of bravery. Neymar won a foul just inside the halfway line, from a solo charge that left Arbeloa catching wind. 

With Madrid now slowing down the pace, Alonso had set up in the quarterback position deep. Each pass he made drew the Tenerife lines farther and farther apart.

In the 40th minute, Khedira stole the ball high. He played a pass — Alonso to Özil. He played another — Özil to Ronaldo.

Except this time Ronaldo didn't shoot.

He rolled his heel over the ball, sold a dummy well, then backheeled into the charging Higuaín.

First time finish. Ripple in the net.

2-0.

Oh, wait.

Flag up.

Offside.

The Bernabéu groaned. Mourinho raised an eyebrow but said nothing.

Laurence let a long breath out. They were being ripped apart in moments. But somehow, the score still said one-nil.

As we reached the end of an entertaining first half, Tenerife had just one last flicker. A nifty triangle between León, Natalio, and Omar opened a gap of space and time on the left. Neymar surged into the space, and sent in a low cross — but there was no one waiting. It skimmed past the face of goal untouched.

The whistle blew.

Laurence headed for the tunnel. Behind him, the stadium buzzed with Madrid's inevitable superiority. Ahead of him, the tunnel loomed like a cathedral door.

He glanced sideways.

Mourinho was already walking away, hands clasped again, his expression unreadable.

Laurence couldn't help but wonder if this was the real education — not the tactics board, not the lineup, but learning how to stand inside the eye of the storm… and still think clearly.

The second half was coming.

And Real Madrid weren't finished yet.