The Heliodoro Rodríguez López was alive with energy.
Every inch of the old stadium seemed to thrum in harmony, as if the very heart of the island had found its way into the concrete stands. The crowd wasn't just chanting anymore; they were roaring like a tidal wave that had engulfed Tenerife entirely.
Drums echoed from the Fondo Sur, their rhythm reminiscent of war drums rolling across the Atlantic. Flags snapped in the coastal breeze, blue and white stripes dancing against the bright floodlights. "¡Tenerife, Tenerife!" reverberated through the air, layers of voices intertwining until the chant transformed into something primal, almost a battle cry rather than a mere song.
Laurence González stood firm on the touchline, hands clasped behind his back. His jaw was set, but a hint of a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He had longed for this atmosphere — this fever, this shared belief — and now the island was delivering it in full force.
Kickoff.
Sevilla, dressed in white, took possession of the ball first. Didier Zokora, ever composed, nudged it sideways to Renato. Their strategy was clear: quell the storm with precision. One pass, two passes, three. Jesús Navas hugged the right touchline, his boots seemingly glued to the chalk. When the ball finally found him, he flicked it past Ricardo León with that effortless burst of speed that made him a threat.
"¡Ooooh!" the crowd gasped as León faltered.
Navas sent a teasing early cross into the box, but Tenerife's Luna met it with a powerful header. Safe.
The home side quickly regrouped — and launched their counterattack.
Casemiro, lurking just behind the initial press, took ten quick strides forward. Neymar dropped back, almost slipping into midfield, while Griezmann drifted inside, finding space behind Natalio. It started off subtly, like a game of chess. But Laurence noticed it right away. He leaned toward his assistant Victor, speaking in a hushed tone, almost like they were sharing a secret.
"Now."
Sevilla attempted to pass the ball through Romaric, but Casemiro was already on it. With a sharp challenge, he won the ball cleanly. One touch forward, and it was into Kikoto.
Kikoto didn't even glance. He flicked the ball with the outside of his boot, sending a blind pass into open space.
Neymar was off like a shot.
The Brazilian was a whirlwind, tearing up the grass in front of him. He cut inside on his right, head up, scanning the field. Griezmann, ever the clever one, slipped off Escudé's shoulder, sneaking into a pocket that had gone unnoticed.
Neymar didn't think twice.
The pass threaded through the narrowest gap between Escudé and Dabo, perfectly weighted.
Carlos Martínez (commentary, Movistar+):
"¡Qué balón de Neymar! It's Griezmann, he's in… one touch… SHOOTS—"
"¡GOOOOOOOOOOOL! ¡GOOOOOOOOOOOL DE TENERIFE! ¡ANTOINE GRIEZMANN!"
The Heliodoro erupted.
Griezmann dashed to the corner flag, arms wide open, his face beaming with pure happiness. Natalio tackled him mid-sprint, Neymar jumped in, and suddenly the entire front line was a tangled mess of blue shirts at the corner.
The fans went wild. An elderly man in the front row dropped to his knees, crossing himself fervently. Teenagers tore off their shirts and waved them in the air. Kids perched on their dads' shoulders shouted Griezmann's name until their voices gave out.
On the touchline, Laurence pumped his fists in the air—not just once, but twice—letting out a roar that echoed into the night. Beside him, Victor was clapping like a madman, his grin stretching from ear to ear.
And Tenerife wasn't finished yet.
Sevilla barely had a moment to catch their breath. The whistle blew for kick-off, and just like that, Casemiro was on the move again—snatching up a lazy sideways pass from Fazio. He intercepted it cleanly, charged forward, and passed it to Neymar before Romaric could even think about a foul.
The crowd surged with every step Neymar took.
The Brazilian zipped into the box, his hips swaying and feet a blur. Right, left, then right again. Dabo froze, then lunged, but Neymar danced around him as if he were invisible. He glanced up and, with a cheeky flick, chipped the ball delicately toward the back post.
Carlos Martínez exclaimed:
"Neymar with the chip… this could be number two—"
Natalio met it like a freight train, launching himself into the air, his forehead crashing through the leather.
"¡NATALIOOOOO! ¡GOOOOOOOOL DE TENERIFE! 2–0! ¡LOCURA EN EL HELIODORO!"
The crowd erupted.
Drums thumped so hard you could feel the vibrations in your chest. Firecrackers exploded somewhere in the night sky beyond the stands. Strangers embraced each other; one woman in the third row fainted and had to be revived with a fan.
This time, Laurence didn't even flinch. He simply turned his head toward the directors' box, where Mauro Pérez sat, wide-eyed and gripping his suit lapel as if he might faint too. Laurence caught his gaze and gave a knowing nod.
But Sevilla wasn't about to let themselves be humiliated.
Gradually, they found their footing. Zokora took charge, dropping back to gather the ball and drawing Tenerife's press toward him. Renato moved up, searching for those little pockets of space. And then there was Kanouté, who had been quiet for the first thirty minutes, starting to come alive.
He drifted away from the front line, facing away from goal, and called for the ball. Kikoto lunged in, but Kanouté shrugged off the challenge with ease, like a child brushing off a pesky fly. He sent a clever pass into open space, and suddenly Renato was charging forward.
Laurence's jaw clenched.
"Track him!" he shouted, but it was already too late.
Renato lifted his gaze and delicately chipped the ball over Kikoto's frantic attempt to recover. Kanouté had already spun away from Luna, bringing the ball down with silky control. He held it, protected it, and waited for reinforcements.
And then they arrived — Jesús Navas, a flash of white lightning, racing down the right wing.
The crowd at Heliodoro collectively held their breath.
Navas glided past Ricardo León as if he were standing still. With just two touches, he was off. He reached the byline and sent a low, fierce ball across the six-yard box.
Every Tenerife defender slid, lunged, and stretched. None could get a touch.
At the far post, Álvaro Negredo lay in wait, coiled like a predator ready to strike.
Tap-in.
Carlos Martínez: "And there it is… Sevilla pulls one back! Álvaro Negredo! 2–1 just before halftime, and this game is alive again."
The stadium groaned. Thousands of voices slumped into frustration at once. Drums faltered for the first time all night.
Laurence turned away, muttering to himself. He knew what that goal meant.
On the pitch, Casemiro slapped his hands together, trying to rally. Neymar waved his arms at the crowd, urging the fans back into song. Griezmann barked at Luna, demanding tighter marking.
But the whistle came soon after.
Halftime.
Tenerife 2 – 1 Sevilla.