The sky in Barcelona was pristine blue, and Camp Nou stood steadfast like a behemoth, the multiple tiers of concrete and steel resonating with the low hum of 80,000 hearts beating as one.
Laurence González ambled over the touchline, the sound of his boots softly crunching synthetic grass just above the din of a stadium when again he crossed the threshold of this stadium that had humbled him only months earlier. That first match, back in September, had been an education. No, a reckoning. They didn't just lose, they were dismantled. Messi picked his way through Tenerife's lines like a true virtuoso while Neymar stood slack-jawed at the edge of the pitch, a teenage boy in awe of everything in front of him, even the shame of being embarrassed.
But today felt...different.
Laurence glanced to the far side where Neymar was now jogging through his warm-up, bright yellow boots throwing turf in all directions, and to his right Griezmann stretched with his headphones still draped around his neck. Kitoko was pacing like a fighter being called to their title bout, while Casemiro had that calm scowl he wore before the big matches. They were still underdogs — painfully so — but now they were not wide-eyed.
They were not scared.
From the side of his eye he saw Pep Guardiola walking fully toward him, coat buttoned up high and calm. He stopped a few feet away. He smiled - polite by thoughtful.
"You know," Pep said, hands behind his back, "I've watched all your matches since October."
Laurence blinked; wondering if it was a compliment or being scouted.
"That boy of yours," Pep continued, nodding toward Neymar. "He doesn't just dribble; he... dances with the ball."
Laurence laughed. "You're already starting to convince me to write a transfer pitch."
Pep smiled wider, just enough to acknowledge the truth of the joke. "Not today. Today we play." Pep nodded one last time and returned to his bench.
Laurence turned back to his team.
In the tunnel before they walked onto the pitch, he kept the message simple.
"No fear. No pretending. We're not trying to be them. We're playing like us. We're doing what got us here. And if we lose, we lose on our own terms."
As the whistle blew, the game was on — and from the opening touch, Barcelona looked like Barcelona. They played short passes and built quick triangles with Iniesta and Xavi working in sync, the ball moving between them like notes on a piano.
But Tenerife were no longer collecting misfits.
Casemiro controlled the pivot like a seasoned vet, always adjusting, and Kitoko stayed close to Iniesta, not too aggressive just annoyingly close. Natalio pressed from the front with unexpected energy, and Griezmann floated like a ghost between lines, always providing an outlet.
But still genius finds its cracks.
In the 19th minute it was Xavi, of course, who picked the lock. A diagonal ball from midfield broke the last line and Alves accelerated his run forward. His low cross was a bullet. Messi — who else? — flashed into the blind spot slightly behind both centre backs and tapped it in.
1-0
Laurence didn't flinch. Not really. He just mumbled, "Well that was inevitable."
Victor stood in disbelief with his arms crossed and let out a dry sigh. "I swear he has cheat codes."
But Tenerife would not budge.
Ten minutes later, Neymar was receiving the ball in foul territory on the left line. Abidal crept in low and cautious. Neymar kept a pause, shifted weight to another side, faked out one way, and sliced in another, nimbler than a rocket. A blink later, Piqué steps up--too late. Neymar slipped his little body between the two, remained on his feet, and took a curling strike with that lazy, storybook swing of his right boot.
Valdés dove
What did it matter.
1--1.
Away section erupted. A few Barça fans even provided some golf claps.
Laurence turned back to Victor with proud joy bubbling inside of him. "He's no longer watching Messi."
"No," Victor replied gravely. "He's trying to become him."
From that moment on, the game turned into a battle of football philosophies. Messi dropped deeper, running the show like a maestro. He gave Pedro a no-look pass and almost scored again from twenty-five yards, superbly parried away by the keeper from Tenerife.
And yet Neymar was not shrinking.
In the 40th minute, he swapped wings and took on Maxwell on the right. He lifted a cross, to every origin of all elegance, letting the gravity of the ball do the work for Griezmann's run. A full volley — and mere inches over.
Laurence clapped once, and that was goods and services.
The half had ended where it had started. 1–1. There was no speech in the locker room. Only breath. Sweat. Water bottles popped open. Jokes murmured. But belief... the belief was there, now.
The second half started, and Barcelona were faster. There was an anger to Messi — not a yelling anger, but an inward burning rumble. In the 55th minute, Casemiro, after what felt like an eternity, hesitated for a split-second, and Messi arrived. Left footed. Pure. Bottom corner.
2–1.
Laurence frowned but remained.
He clapped his hands once.
"Stay high! Keep the press! The next one's ours!"
They listened.
And in the 74th minute, it happened. Griezmann drifted wide to the right, pulling Mascherano with him. Kitoko found him. One touch. A turn. Then a cut-back across the box.
And Neymar - like he had seen the play even before it happened - met the ball with the outside of his boot.
2–2.
A gasp rolled through the stadium. Perfect silence. A rare thing at Camp Nou.
Even Pep tilted his head, then gave a small, respectful nod.
For the last ten minutes, it was siege. Messi probed, Pedro fired wide, and Xavi curled in a free-kick. One last header from Puyol went over the bar.
And then came the whistle.
2-2.
Laurence exhaled, finally, and walked onto the pitch. At the doorway to the pitch, Pep met him at the halfway line, hand extended.
"You have built something," he said quietly. "Protect it."
Laurence did not answer. He just shook the hand. Nodded once.
Behind him, Neymar jogged off. Messi joined him and quietly said something into the younger player's ear.
Neymar smiled.
And for the first time, Laurence saw it not as awe, but as mutual understanding - one star speaking to another, eye-to-eye, under the lights of a cathedral, built for kings.