My Footballing Legend

The July heat hung like wet wool in the air as Laurence Gonzalez sat alone in his office, blinds drawn, the resulting shadows like angular cages on his desk. His shirt was slightly damp on his back. An age-old office fan barely turned in the corner, clicking with every turn. Somewhere beyond the door, a slight humming of movement could be heard: preseason had included movement of boxes copying kits. Staff were saying hi to one another. Grounds crew were fumbling with line markers, preparing for next week's first team regimens to begin. 

But in this room, the stillness was weighted.

Laurence Gonzalez's eyes remained on a whiteboard of magnets, and names. His first team squad, piece by piece. Most positions had just enough depth to barely operationalize. The wings, however—there lay the billow. Last season, Tenerife used a lot more wide play with pace on the flanks to expose slower defences in Segunda. Now, those same players were back, but competing for fewer spots in a system that Laurence had not even decided definitively.

There was Juanlu Hens—fast, explosive, only 26 years old and hitting his peak. Last season, he had been part of many vital games, cutting in from the right. His agent was already starting to talk to clubs in Madrid. Then there was Omar Ramos—the local boy, still only 21 years of age, raw but promising. Then Natalio, more of a forward than a winger, but flexible.

Laurence understood what he needed to do already. Neymar would take one of the winger spots—perhaps both, depending on how he utilized him. He wasn't coming to sit on the bench. If Laurence were to gamble the future on this Brazilian player, he needed to create space. Financial-ly. Tactically. Mentally.

A knock at the door.

"Come in."

It was Víctor Ortega. He came in, folder tucked under one arm, and a serious face.

"Elche have announced the Nino deal. He signed the player-coach contract this morning. Papers have been sent to the league."

Laurence nodded silently.

"He left you this," Víctor added, placing a small envelope on the desk. The handwriting was unmistakably Nino's—neat, elegant, but understated.

Laurence didn't open it. Not yet.

"I am selling Juanlu," he finally said.

Víctor blinked. "What?"

"I've made my decision. Juanlu is the most valuable of the wingers we have, and he has suitors. Getafe have come back with a new, improved offer. Just over a million, all in, and it gives us room to breathe on the field and in our accounts."

Víctor leaned back against the wall, arms crossed, exhaling sharply.

"You are trading our most consistent wide player for a teenager, who has never played in Europe."

"I am trading certainty for unpredictability," Laurence said. "If Neymar ends up being even half of what I think he will be, he will win you games that we have no right to win. Juanlu won't."

Víctor didn't argue again. Not today. There was still disbelief in his eyes, but it was mixed with a kind of reluctant respect. Laurence wasn't guessing. He was committing. That mattered.

"I'll let Mauro know," he said, after a pause. "Juanlu's agent will be happy. He has been trying to get a higher La Liga move for Juanlu since May."

"Tell him we want the fee, up front. No installments. Every cent is a cent."

Víctor nodded and left the room.

The silence returned.

Laurence finally opened the envelope from Nino. Inside was the handwritten note:

Coach—

I've had lots of seasons, many managers, but last season felt really special. You made me believe again. Don't let this league frighten you. If you trust yourself, Tenerife will surprise them all.

Take care of the boys.

Nino.

Carefully stuck underneath, was an old match photo—Nino scoring one of his goals, arms spread wide, the fans behind him in full roar. Laurence smiled weakly. Then he placed it back in the drawer.

Later that day, the Juanlu deal was finalized. Getafe paid a slight premium over their initial valuation to finalize the transaction. Mauro managed the formalities swiftly and efficiently. The sale would cover a large portion of Neymar's fee.

As the sun was slipping behind the mountains, painting the ocean horizon in fiery and rosey hues, Laurence was on the touch line watching a few youth players plod through their jogging drills. In the distance, a lanky teenager, with short curls and a tight turn of speed was working with one of the fitness coaches - Cristo González - who was still a part of the Juvenil A team.

The club was on the move. A new spine was beginning to take shape. Young, hungry, largely untried.

And thousands of miles away, a deal was slowly coming together. Neymar da Silva Santos Júnior was not yet a Tenerife player. But doors had been opened. Pieces were falling into place.

Laurence took a deep breath.

He had paid the dues.