My Footballing Legend

Back home back under the sun of late September, Tenerife shone clean and bright. The ocean air had a piercingness to it that fit with the focus the team had. The Estadio Heliodoro Rodríguez López was a swarming habitat of caution-tipped anticipation. Sporting Gijón arrived languishing close to the foot of the table—lost in disarray, void of conviction.

Their defensive shape was exactly what Laurence had expected: deep, narrow, compact to the point of fear. Nothing inventive or inspired—just a form of a defence. Laurence—an avid student of the game—had watched hours of Gijón footage. He saw their gamble: concede the flanks with an overpopulated midsection and pray for the odd turnovers. So he didn't squeeze the wings. He lured them in. He left room. He whispered, come take a seat beside me.

Casemiro was starting beside Kitoko in the midfield for the first time. Not just learners but hunters, moving together like mirrored predators—cutting passing lanes, hounding one with a flow and malice. Omar and Neymar crisscrossed the space between the flanks—untethered, aiming to mutilate the defenders completely.

The first goal came at 18 minutes. Kitoko, eyes bright and long strides ferrying him toward the ball, triangulated a lazy square pass intended for Gijón's pivot. One settling touch and one release touch—a miserable ball through midfield to Ricardo León. He glanced up. Neymar was in full flight, driving diagonally out from between the fullback and center half. Ricardo dropped a well-placed ball over the line.

Neymar didn't break stride. Didn't wait. Didn't think. He took it across the keeper with his left foot first-time, the ball brushing the far post into the net.

1-0.

The next goal was by design. They won a corner after sustained pressure. Luna stepped up. He thought he heard Laurence - there was an invitation, even a half-faint pointing, toward the far post. Luna nodded, took a deep breath and curled a wicked ball to the six-yard box. Bertrán exploded out of home base like a hammer and put his foot into it with pace and precision.

2-0.

Gijón were staggered. They floundered into the second half with substitutions, but floundering without purpose. They had no rhythm. Tenerife didn't have to entertain - they simply stayed compact, rotated possession, and kept a boot on the throat of the game.

Neymar flashed a look of mischief, Omar wove passes together and for once the backline looked calm. It was a comfortable win, and a comfort that the crowd could exhale into.

The journalists were already giddy in the post-match press conference. "Are Tenerife the revelation of the season?" one of them asked.

Laurence sat there in his dark suit with his arms crossed, and he replied with a slight smile, "We are learning quickly. Learning nonetheless." 

When he left the press room and stepped down into the concrete hush of the stadium tunnel, he could still hear the question behind him. It didn't matter what the answer was. He already knew what was ahead of them.

_____

The sky above Catalonia was pale with stillness. The combined energy of matchday crackled through the streets like static electricity. Cafés were packed, scarves waved in the wind, buses trundled to one destination. But inside the Camp Nou, silence - a vast emptiness of silence. 

Barcelona were more than just top of the table. They were myth in the flesh. Pep Guardiola's creation, gliding along on genius. Xavi. Iniesta. Piqué. Busquets. And at the front, the little man who imposed his world: Lionel Messi.

Laurence had watched them more than any other team. He had notebooks, diagrams, freeze frames. He understood their patterns, their triangles, their rhythm. Yet he also understood: knowing was not the same as living.

He set Tenerife up in a tight 4-5-1. Neymar isolated at the top. Natalio on the bench. The five midfielders pressed as a single accordion—marking Xavi, closing Busquets, trying to create a bend in the current of their inevitability.

For twelve minutes, it worked.

Then Messi moved.

Not quick. Not flashy. Just... into space. Into the void. He dropped into the half-space between midfield and defence. Kitoko stepped up—too late. Soft feint, a cut of the hips, and he was beyond him. Casemiro lunged and missed. A flick to Pedro, who instinctively gave it back to Messi. Messi didn't break his stride. He ripped it low and clean into the corner.

1-0.

The breach had been made. From there, the tide arrived. Barcelona passed not just accurately, but also cruelly. Neymar was lost. They had even Omar retracing his steps so much that he looked like a third fullback. Every time a Tenerife player touched the ball, he was shuddered. Alves reclaimed the ball, Xavi recycled it, Iniesta toyed.

Messi? Messi feasted.

By halftime it was already 3–0. Each goal belonging to Messi, and each different. One, a curling left-footed thunderbolt from distance. One, a mazy solo run, ghosting past five white shirts. The last, a deflected ball, bouncing into his path - chipped cooly over Aragoneses. Clinical.

Laurence just didn't shout. He did not tell players what to do. He just stood there. Watching. Learning. This was not tactical ineptitude. This was standing in the rain and realizing you couldn't stop the ocean.

In the second half he made changes. He gave minutes to youth players. And we dropped deeper, even if that meant submission. Neymar showed a glimmer of defiance - beating two players on the sideline to win a free kick just outside the box. He stood over the ball, exhaled, struck - put it clean into the wall. But the moment mattered.

Messi was substituted in the 75th. The crowd was deafening, not celebratory but reverent. The score ended up 4–0 but it really could have been something like infinity.

Back through the tunnel, Laurence walked in silence. Neymar followed with his game-face on, pale and unreadable, no smirk, no swagger.

Eventually he asked, "Was that… the best?"

Laurence continued walking. "It was."

Neymar flexed his jaw. "Then I must be better."

Laurence turned to look at him. "Well, start with understanding. What Messi did tonight, it wasn't just talent. It was timing. Patience. Knowing when to not go."

Neymar didn't say anything. He just nodded; once.

They take the flight home in silence. Something has changed. Tenerife didn't just lose—they saw the summit for the first time. There were no more fantasies. No more fairytale. La Liga wasn't just a league. It was a mountain. And Messi?

He was the apex.