The grey skies loomed over Anfield that evening, casting a heavy shadow, with that classic Merseyside drizzle that felt almost scripted—mist softening the glow of the floodlights, moisture clinging to the banners.
The Kop belted out its anthems as if it were a European night, even though it was just preseason. But for Liverpool, this was all about pride. Kenny Dalglish had put together a formidable lineup: Reina, Carragher, José Enrique, Henderson, Downing, and Suarez. They weren't there to just go through the motions. They were there to sharpen their skills.
To prepare for the Premier League season.
And then there was Tenerife. A Spanish island team that, on paper, shouldn't have posed any threat. No history, no legacy on the European scene. But as the teams took their positions, Laurence Gonzales didn't bother with the banners or the noise. His focus was solely on his players. Dressed in a black jacket, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.
The whistle blew.
Within just five minutes, Luis Suárez was already in a frenzy.
The Uruguayan had slipped between de Vrij and Luna, chest puffed out, anticipating the ball to fall. He slotted it neatly past Aragoneses—only to turn around and see the flag raised. Offside. His celebration twisted into frustration.
"¡Otra vez!" Laurence clapped sharply from the touchline. "Again! Line up together!"
By the twentieth minute, Suarez had already been caught offside three times. The Kop tried to rattle the linesman with their jeers, but Tenerife's back three were unyielding.
Koulibaly, still a bit raw but already making his presence felt, was barking orders like a seasoned pro. Luna slid over to cover, while de Vrij stepped up with impeccable timing.
The oddest part wasn't how Tenerife defended—it was Liverpool's struggle to find their rhythm.
This was Dalglish's second stint, but the sparkle had started to dim. Their pricey signings—Downing, Henderson, Carroll, with some not even on the pitch tonight—were already facing scrutiny from their own supporters. The team's style felt disjointed. Passes went astray. The crowd's cheers wavered between loyalty and frustration. And into that uncertainty strode Tenerife, bold.
Twenty-five minutes in, the game opened up.
Grimaldo anticipated a pass and snatched it from Downing's feet. He quickly fed it to Neymar on the left. The Brazilian cut inside. Three defenders closed in: Enrique, Henderson, Carragher. He barely glanced up—just casually clipped a diagonal ball over the top.
Griezmann darted through the defense as he had practiced this run in training. One touch, left foot, and it was past Reina.
The Kop let out a collective groan. The small group of Tenerife fans in the corner erupted in disbelief.
Laurence simply pointed at Neymar and mouthed, "Perfect."
Liverpool tried to fight back. Suarez dropped deeper, urging Adam and Lucas to pick up the pace.
Carragher's voice sliced through the rain, yelling at Enrique to "step up, step up!" But every attempt to find a rhythm was thwarted by Tenerife's solid structure. Casemiro clattered into Henderson once, then flashed a grin when the referee waved play on. Kikoto drifted wide, cutting off Enrique's passing options.
Then, the hammer fell again.
Forty-three minutes in. Joel won a corner on the right. Quaresma, who had just arrived from Turkey, didn't even look up before playing it short to Cancelo. The young player sent it in with a quick loop.
Bodies collided. Reina flailed. The ball dropped. Koulibaly swung his leg. It bounced off. Natalio, always the opportunist, spun around and drove it low into the corner.
Two-nil. At Anfield. Just before halftime.
Laurence turned to Victor Ramos with a slight grin. "They didn't see this coming."
Victor shook his head. "Neither did I."
The halftime whistle was met with a few boos—not directed at Tenerife, but at Liverpool.
Back in the tunnel, Suarez was gesturing wildly at Carragher. "They're keeping a f***ing line on us every time! No depth! We look ridiculous!" Carragher shot back: "Then run it better!" Reina slammed his gloves against the wall. It felt less like preseason and more like a bad omen.
When they came back out, the rain was still pouring. Tenerife's fans—just a few hundred—were still singing, while the Kop tried to drown them out.
Liverpool pressed on. Charlie Adam came on, attempting to send passes into open spaces. Suarez ran himself into the ground, chasing shadows. But Koulibaly seemed to be everywhere—first sliding to block, then jumping to head clear. Luna's voice rang out even over the Kop: "Step! Step! Together!" And the trap snapped shut time and again.
Tenerife, however, wasn't perfect. Laurence's long-ball strategy showed some weaknesses. Casemiro attempted two diagonal passes to Neymar—both went too far. Kikoto's ball to Joel skidded out of play. Griezmann gestured in frustration, urging them to "Wait, wait for me." Laurence scribbled furiously in his notebook.
"This is where we're struggling," he muttered to Victor. "The release is there—but we're not syncing up for the second ball."
Then came the third.
In the seventieth minute, Joel made a move to the left, cutting inside before getting fouled by Carragher right at the edge of the box. Neymar set the ball down with care, brushing off the jeers from the Kop. He couldn't understand english anyway.
Meanwhile, Reina was busy organizing the wall.
When the Brazilian took his run-up, it was short and sweet. He sent a low shot skimming under the wall, perfectly timed. Reina, unfortunately, dove the wrong way. The net bulged.
Three-nil.
The atmosphere inside Anfield was thick with silence. Even Dalglish, arms crossed on the sidelines, wore a grim expression.
But Tenerife wasn't finished yet.
In the eighty-eighth minute, Cancelo snatched the ball high up the pitch. Quaresma and Griezmann linked up with a slick one-two. Quaresma, ever the showman, chipped the ball over Agger's head. Natalio charged in, chested it down, and slotted it home.
Four-nil. At Anfield.
The commentator on the Spanish broadcast was beside himself: "¡Cuatro! ¡Cuatro a cero en Anfield! ¡Increíble!"
The whistle blew.
Liverpool trudged off to a chorus of boos. Suarez muttered some choice words in Spanish under his breath, while Reina gave a water bottle a good kick. The Tenerife players jogged toward the bench, exhausted but buzzing with adrenaline.
Victor sidled up next to Laurence. "Four-nil. Away. Against Liverpool. At Anfield."
Laurence didn't crack a smile. "It doesn't mean much if we don't sort out our long passes. But hey, it's a step in the right direction."
The press room afterward was thick with tension. English journalists leaned in, some looking hostile, others incredulous. Cameras flashed like crazy. Laurence sat at the table, his black jacket zipped up, eyes icy.
One reporter was the first to speak, polite enough: "Mr. Gonzales, how long have you been working on this system?"
Laurence leaned into the mic, his voice low, calm, and deliberate. "Since we lost four-nil to Real Madrid last season."
A murmur rippled through the room. Another voice chimed in, sharper: "With all due respect, this was just a friendly. Liverpool clearly weren't at their best. Surely you don't think this reflects—"
Laurence interrupted him. "We prepared for it like it was a important. They didn't. That's the difference."
A pause hung in the air. Reporters exchanged glances. Someone else, clearly agitated, asked: "Do you really think Tenerife can carry this into Europe? Against real competition?"
Laurence's gaze swept across the room. "We just played at Anfield. Against Liverpool. Ask if they count as real competition."
The atmosphere in the room tightened. Victor, sitting beside him, shifted uncomfortably but stayed silent, though he was inwardly smiling at the reporter's face.