The rhythm that had propelled CD Tenerife through their incredible journey hit a snag in Riazor. It wasn't a dramatic fall or a crash; it was more like a hesitant step, the kind you only notice because the music has been so enchanting for so long.
After the euphoric high in Madrid — where the Bernabéu fell silent and Tenerife's name echoed into the night — they returned home to take down Getafe with flair, then battled past Levante. Each victory tightened the island's grip on that elusive dream: Europe.
But now, as Laurence González stood in the dim, old corridors of Riazor, he sensed a change.
It wasn't fear. Fear is sharp and easy to identify. This was something more muted. A slow pressure on his chest. A weariness that wasn't in his legs but in his spirit. The burden of hope had become heavy — heavier than anyone in that dressing room would dare to admit.
From the moment the referee's whistle sliced through the Galician air, Tenerife were… off.
Not bad. Not flat. Just out of sync.
The passes lacked the sharp, quick snap that had dismantled so many opponents. Runs were mistimed, either a beat too late or too early, stifling momentum before it could even start. Casemiro — the heartbeat, the one who usually kept them in rhythm — was just a step behind.
Griezmann, typically a sharp threat darting through the channels, drifted too wide, almost clinging to the touchline in search of space that simply wasn't there. Joel, bursting with restless energy, kept cutting inside too soon, crowding Angel de Silva's area and leaving the wings exposed.
Laurence stood on the touchline, arms crossed. His players knew the signs by now — when he was quiet, it meant he was observing. Not just the surface. The patterns. The roots of the issue.
Deportivo were rough. Their formation was tight and disciplined. And Tenerife… weren't working together.
At halftime, the atmosphere in the dressing room was oddly subdued. It wasn't tense or angry—just quiet. Players sat with their heads down, sipping water. Kitoko leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, staring blankly at the floor. Victor Ruiz was busy chewing on the tape around his wrist.
Laurence didn't go off on a rant or start pacing. He simply scanned the room.
"Passes are slow," he finally said. "Movement's predictable. You're letting them dictate the game."
No one dared to meet his gaze.
"You can either play this game at their pace," he continued, his tone growing a bit sharper, "or you can force them to play at yours."
He turned his attention to Neymar. "Get warmed up."
Neymar came on just ten minutes into the second half, taking Ricardo León's place. The change was immediate. The stadium didn't erupt, but the energy on the pitch shifted. Neymar's first touch was a slick drag-back that allowed him to evade two defenders, earning a foul about thirty yards out.
It wasn't just about his skill; it was the determination behind it.
An hour in, he picked up the ball in the half-space, outpaced his defender, and sent in a cross that just skimmed over Joel's head. Moments later, he earned a free-kick and curled it over the wall—the ball kissed the crossbar and spun away, causing the entire Tenerife bench to leap to their feet in unison.
It was a powerful reminder: this team still had the ability to slice through any defense, if only they had the will to do so.
By the 78th minute, Tenerife was really ramping up the pressure, finally making Deportivo's defense feel the heat. Then came their best play of the night.
Casemiro disrupted the flow in midfield, diving into a tackle that sent his opponent sprawling. He took a quick look upfield and sent the ball soaring to Neymar. In a flash, Neymar spun away from his marker, and suddenly Deportivo was in a scramble.
One touch. Two touches. Then came the pass — perfectly weighted — right into Griezmann's path.
Everything was set: space ahead, the keeper backpedaling, the kind of chance Griezmann had been burying all season long.
But instead of taking the shot right away, he opted for one extra touch.
The defender slid in. The angle disappeared.
Laurence turned away, muttering a short, bitter word that only Victor, who was standing nearby, caught.
Deportivo, sensing they could grab more than just a point, started pushing hard in the final minutes. Aragoneses had to stay sharp, tipping one header over the bar and smothering another low cross at the near post.
Tenerife attempted to counter, but every forward pass seemed to hit a white shirt before it could reach its target. The game dragged into stoppage time, with both teams looking exhausted, neither able to land that crucial blow.
When the final whistle blew, there was no dramatic collapse to the ground, no hands raised in the air. Just silence.
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The walk back to the dressing room was quiet, almost somber. The players removed their tape in silence, sipping water and gazing off into the distance, as if the walls might somehow provide the answers they were seeking.
Laurence lingered at the doorway for a moment, his hands tucked deep into his coat pockets.
"Sixth," he finally said, his voice low but slicing through the stillness. "We're sixth now."
A few heads turned, but not many.
"Is that where we stop?" he asked.
His words hung in the air, heavy and uncomfortably clear. No one replied.
Laurence didn't press for an answer. He let the silence stretch, then turned and walked out.
Outside, in the chilly Galician night, Laurence found his mind drifting not to this match, but to the three that lay ahead. Three league games between Tenerife and the elusive goal they had been pursuing all season: a spot in Europe.
The standings were tight. A win could elevate them; a loss could send them spiraling into obscurity. And the teams around them—Valencia, Sevilla, Villarreal—had been in this position before. They knew how to grind out points in matches like this.