My Footballing Legend

The dressing room was quiet.

There were no shouts. No bottles slammed on tables. Just quiet and breathing. Some players kept their eyes down and stared at their boots. Some wiped their foreheads clear of sweat and avoided eye contact. Victor stood leaning on the tactics board, arms folded, waiting for Laurence to speak.

Laurence was stood still in the middle of the room. Then he slowly looked up.

"We're not going to win this," he said, very calm. "And no, that's not to lower expectations, or to priming you for defeat, that's because it's the truth."

Some of the heads tilted up in surprise.

"Real Madrid is not our fight," he continued. "Not yet anyway. Their wage bill is a hundred times ours. They have Ronaldo, Higuaín, Özil, we have... heart. Discipline. Belief."

He paused for a moment, slowing moving back and forth. "But I do not want to walk out of this stadium thinking we simply survived. I want them to know we were here. That we made them uncomfortable."

Victor looked at Laurence, wondering where he was going, but Laurence was not finished. 

"We are going to play our preseason shape," he said.

At last, the players were finally looking at him properly.

"You want to press them high?" asked Victor. "Now?"

"No," said Laurence. "We're gonna bait them. Squeeze their lanes. Run our offside traps like we practiced back in July. It won't END the game for us. But it will show us something. It'll show them something. If they score? They score. But they will have to work for it.'

A beat.

"Play free. Expect to be embarrassed--because you will be. But don't go back on that pitch scared of it. Run. Close it down. Talk. Trust the line. And play like the future of the club depends on your obstinance."

He looked each man in the eye.

"Because one day... It just might."

____

The second half began at the same pace and fluency as the first half but this time something was different.

In the 47th minute, Xabi Alonso slipped a diagonal pass through for Higuaín. He cleverly beat Luna with his run and had a one-on-one–

Flag up

Offside.

In the 49th, Di María tried to send Ronaldo through the centre with a quick one-two.

Offside again.

By the time the 55th minute arrived, the murmurs had started around the Bernabéu. Ronaldo had his hands up after being flagged for the fourth time and Mourinho turned and spoke to his assistant, his brow furrowed.

Tenerife had tightened the line. Juanlu and Luna were stepping at the same time. The midfield had dropped deep just enough to entice forward runs before springing forward again at just the right moment — timing which sent Madrid's forwards into an offside trap almost perfectly.

Offside again.

And again.

And so it continued.

Ten offside calls in twenty-five minutes.

Victor stood on the sideline, astonished. "They are...actually doing it."

Laurence said nothing. His hands were rigidly stuck behind his back. He was watching more than the lines. He was watching how his defenders communicated for the first time, not a reaction but an anticipation. He was watching something being built.

But of course, quality will find a way.

In the 66th minute, Madrid finally broke the net again. Not with a through-ball - a long-range strike. Özil got the ball on the edge of the penalty area after a half-cleared corner and curled a shot expertly just out of reach of Aragoneses's gloves.

2-0.

Laurence lightly clapped. "Good goal," he mumbled. "Fair play."

From then, Madrid took back the control. Tenerife's legs were beginning to give way. Kitoko had nothing left. Neymar was still buzzing with electric, short bursts of movement, but starved for the ball.

In the 73rd minute, Ronaldo mercilessly took Luna on a solo run and slotted it coolly past Aragoneses's right boot.

3-0.

And lastly, in the 88th minute, substitute Benzema added the fourth and final goal with a poacher's finish from a low cross.

4-0.

_____

Laurence didn't look disappointed. He looked focused.

As he shook Mourinho's hand, the Portuguese coach gave him a slight nod. "Your line was impressive. Risky, but impressive."

Laurence nodded back, lips tight. "Still four goals conceded."

"True," Mourinho said. "But not four easy goals."

The Bernabéu was still roaring for Ronaldo. But as Tenerife trudged toward the tunnel, a small pocket of travelling fans stood and applauded.

Laurence turned to his players. "Heads up."

No one had expected a win. But they had played with purpose.

Four goals," he said, his voice even. "One from a wonder strike. One from tired legs. One from brilliance. And one because we'd spent eighty-eight minutes asking the impossible of each other."

He glanced at Luna, at Juanlu, at Kitoko — their faces red and pale in turns, their expressions caught between shame and exhaustion.

"Now ask yourselves this," he continued. "Was that the best team in the world?"

Silence.

He answered it himself.

"Yes. Possibly. And you made them earn every inch."

A pause.

"Let that be your lesson. Not your regret."

He turned and left the room. He didn't need to say more.