My Footballing Legend

11 September 2010 

Estadio San Mamés, Bilbao 

Matchday 2 - Athletic Club vs. CD Tenerife

The sky above Bilbao was slate grey and the wind was brisk, with the smell of rain in the air. The cathedral-like San Mamés loomed large in front of Gonzalez - a wall of red-and-white passionate supporters roaring before the game even started as they took part in warm-ups. It was one of those stadiums that never felt inviting to play in - especially for newly promoted clubs that dare step onto its hallowed turf. 

Laurence Gonzalez stood near the visitors' dugout, with his collar turned up against the wind, and was watching as his players nervously prepared for the match. They had travelled well, trained well, and had a renewed sense of optimism after the encouraging 1-1 draw against Zaragoza a week ago. 

But Gonzalez knew that today was going to be different.

Athletic Club were strong, relentless and under Joaquín Caparrós were like wolves - pressing high, second balls, spreading the ball wide to Iker Muniain and Gaizka Toquero, while Fernando Llorente prowled in the box.

This was going to be their first real La Liga test.

No team in this Liga would play like this.

The whistle went.

And, within seconds, Tenerife were under siege.

Athletic pressed in waves, not giving Tenerife a moment's peace. Every clearance was followed by an onslaught. Casemiro, who had just received his first start in the league, was struggling. His timing was poor. He was muscled from the ball too easy. Kitoko tried to help, but the midfielders were sinking deeper and deeper. 

Laurence yelled, changed the line, had Neymar drop deeper to help connect.

It didn't matter.

In the 21st minute, Gabilondo delivered a cross from deep on the left. Bertrán mis-timed his jump and Fernando Llorente rose for the ball like a king surveying his royal court.

1-0 Athletic.

Laurence grimaced.

The stadium roared, and the pressure mounted.

Despite Tenerife's efforts—Omar getting a rare surge down the right and Neymar creating an opening—Natalio was isolated as usual at the top, engulfed by violence from the defensive pair of Amorebieta and San José. The front three lacked connection. Overall, Tenerife looked like they could barely string four passes together in Athletic's half.

At half-time, it was still 1-0 but it felt worse.

The players sat in the away dressing room, drenched not from rain, but from chasing shadows and sweating profusely.

Laurence spoke in his soft, monotone voice, not raising it above the norm.

He stood in front of the players and said, "This is what La Liga feels like. If you want to survive here, you don't get the luxury of finding your rhythm. You earn it. Or you suffer."

The second half began with a small flicker of hope- Neymar wriggled past two defenders and fired just wide. Athletic responded like a seasoned boxer hip shooting down a jab.

In the 57th minute, a corner was poorly cleared and the ball fell to Javi Martínez, who lashed it first time from the edge of the box.

2-0. No trap. No pattern. Just power.

Laurence stood still on the sideline, hands in pockets, eyes fixed on the pitch. His system was shutting down. Not tactically—it was being drowned.

Athletic were quicker. Stronger. More physical.

It ended 2–0.

It could easily have been more than that.

Back in the press room, Laurence faced the cameras.

"It was a lesson," he said. "A lesson we needed. There is a very big difference between playing in LaLiga and belonging in La Liga. Tonight, we didn't belong."

No excuses. No fluff.

Afterward, on the team bus as it rumbled along the dark roads back to the airport, Laurence sat on his own with a small notebook open on his lap and was slowly writing words down:

"We have no grind. No presence. No maturity. Not broken—but not ready."

The loss hurt.

Not because they were embarrassed.

But because it showed him—clearly—how high the mountain really was.

And how far Tenerife still had to climb.