The Heliodoro Rodríguez López was alive with that unmistakable buzz that only the biggest nights can bring. This wasn't just any league match—this was Real Madrid. The giants. A name so powerful it seemed to warp the very expectations around it.
But this was Tenerife. And under Laurence Gonzales, this Tenerife wasn't about to bow down to anyone.
As the players made their way onto the pitch, the noise surged in waves, with captains Koulibaly and Iker Casillas leading the charge. Blue and white flags danced in the stands, while a few flares shot up, casting a golden glow behind the curva.
Banners unfurled with a fierce pride—ORGULLO CHICHARRERO, DEFEND OUR ISLAND—like the island itself was baring its teeth.
Laurence stood close to the touchline, his hands briefly tucked into his coat pockets before crossing his arms.
His 3-4-3 formation was about to take on Ronaldo, Higuaín, and Di María. With Alonso orchestrating, Özil drifting, and Marcelo soaring, it felt like trying to hold back a tidal wave with just some wooden posts and rope.
From the moment the whistle blew, Madrid charged forward as if they were determined to wrap things up early. Just two minutes in, Alonso took a touch, lifted his gaze, and sent a diagonal ball that seemed to glide effortlessly toward Marcelo.
Joel, pushed into a wing-forward role but trained to defend like a wing-back, sprinted after him with determination. Marcelo made it look so easy with his first touch, curling a cross that wickedly arced between Sergio Aragoneses and the back post. De Vrij, still getting back into the groove after his injury, managed to read it just in time and hooked it behind for a corner.
Laurence took a deep breath. The back line had already dropped a step deeper than he preferred.
From the corner, Ronaldo soared above Koulibaly, his neck muscles taut like cables, and glanced it wide. It was an early warning sign, bold and clear.
Just five minutes in, Tenerife was on the move.
Casemiro and Kikoto worked in sync, pouncing on a loose ball and quickly finding Neymar in the space between the lines. A swift layoff followed. Quaresma took it on the half-turn, rolled his foot over the ball, and flicked it past Arbeloa with that signature outside-of-the-boot flair. Griezmann darted inside, slipping off Pepe's shoulder.
The pass was perfectly weighted. Griezmann took his shot. Casillas sprang into action like a coiled spring, blocking it with his torso. The rebound spun awkwardly into open space.
Joel had been sprinting from deep, his lungs on fire, arriving like a local kid chasing a dream down the street. No time to settle, he struck it hard and low.
The net rippled. The stadium erupted.
People were shouting, jumping, and throwing their arms around strangers. A few fans were in tears, not even sure why. The commentator's voice soared and cracked along with the excitement:
"¡GOOOOOOL DE TENERIFE! ¡JOEL, EL CHICO DE LA ISLA!"
1–0.
Instead of sprinting away, Joel simply turned to the stand where he had grown up watching games and hit the badge on his chest once, firmly. Neymar barreled into him, and Griezmann pulled him into a playful headlock.
Laurence pumped his fist once and then tilted his head toward Victor.
"We're too open," he said, still trying to suppress a smile. "That was a great rebound, but we got out there just a bit late."
Victor jotted down notes. "The back line's dropping in and out. They're not in sync yet."
Meanwhile, down the left side, a different kind of battle was already underway. It was Marcelo versus Joel. It felt less like a football match and more like a heated argument played out at sprinting speed.
Marcelo managed to nutmeg Joel once, prompting an involuntary gasp from the crowd. Joel winced and muttered something under his breath, but just five minutes later, he twisted Marcelo inside-out with a slick double step-over and sent in a cross that forced Casillas into an awkward punch.
But Madrid was gaining momentum.
In the 24th minute, Di María slipped into the narrow space between Kikoto and Casemiro, spun sharply, and slid a ball behind Bellvís, who was filling in for Luna. Ronaldo was already on the move. With one touch to set himself, one heartbeat, he unleashed a shot that was both vicious and rising.
Aragoneses reacted purely on instinct, diving to his right and managing to paw the ball away with both hands. But the relief was short-lived—Higuaín was right there, as expected, and he didn't need to put much power into it. He simply lifted the ball into the empty net.
1–1.
The Heliodoro let out a collective sigh, but it was only a momentary dip. The noise returned, albeit a bit quieter, but it was still there. Ronaldo didn't go overboard with his celebration; he just turned back toward the halfway line, as if everything was finally as it should be.
Laurence shut his eyes for a brief moment before opening them again. "They're focusing on the left. Bellvís is just a half-step slow on every recovery."
"And De Vrij is still a beat behind on those half-spaces," Victor chimed in. "They're threading everything through that lane."
Madrid could smell blood. Aragoneses had to make a save on a Ronaldo header that barely skimmed the bar, and then there was a cross that took a nasty deflection off Koulibaly's shin. Every ball into the box seemed to bounce in a cruel, teasing way. The scoreboard showed 1–1, but the momentum had shifted.
Laurence crouched down, resting his elbows on his knees, his voice low but filled with urgency.
"We're just hanging on," he said, not just for Victor but for himself too. "Right now, that's all we're doing. Hanging on."
He stood up again, starting to shout out instructions, molding the midfield with his hands like a sculptor at work. "Casemiro, hold your position! Don't chase! Kikoto, get closer to him—no gaps! Joel, track back and then push forward, not the other way around!"
There were still moments where Tenerife looked like themselves. Neymar drifting inside, receiving on the half-turn, dragging Ramos into places he didn't want to be.
Griezmann pulling wide, opening corridors for Quaresma to dart through. Kante, when the ball broke loose, tidying like a man correcting a messy desk.
But Madrid had a gravity to them. Every time Alonso received in space, Tenerife's shape creaked. Özil started finding pockets, gliding ghostlike, sliding passes people didn't see until the last moment. Di María ran diagonals that forced Bellvís into decisions he didn't want to make. Ronaldo hovered at the back post like a threat, not a player.
In the stands, nerves throbbed under the noise. Fathers gripped their children's scarves too tightly. Old men muttered to themselves. Every time Tenerife crossed halfway, the sound swelled, as if belief needed volume to stand upright.