The roar of the Heliodoro still reverberated in the tunnels below the stands as the players huddled, panting, around their bench. Sweat streamed down from their faces, their hearts pumped manic adrenaline and there was clarity in their gazes. The clarity in their eyes had been forged through fire. For a brief moment, the stadium rolled not with noise, but with belief.
Sergio Aragoneses, the goalkeeper-turned-goalscorer for Tenerife, leaned against the nearest advertising board, breathing heavily. His gloved hands shook—not from fear, but from the adrenaline of what he had just done. He put a goal in, an equalisier. A goalkeeper, in a Copa del Rey quarterfinal match, put a glancer in to force extra time. The stuff of legends.
Laurence Gonzalez stood at the center of the huddle, one hand resting on Kitoko's shoulder and another hand pointing at the players. Now was not the time to celebrate, now was the time to continue the battle.
His voice cut through the remaining heavy air. "You did the impossible. You came back from 2–0 down. But the battle isn't over yet."
Eyes on him—Casemiro catching his breath after that last-minute mad dash, Griezmann's hair drenched in sweat, mouth open in tension and anticipation, waiting, Kitoko's puffing breaths still bringing air into his lungs, his goal had been the catalyst that changed everything, Casemiro, Griezmann, Kitoko!
"We've got them," Laurence said, his voice rising. "Now we break them."
His message was received loud and clear! They had pulled Bilbao into the mucky swamp of doubt and uncertainty! Now they had to drown them in that swamp!
"If they close the box," he continued, "don't force the pass. Don't try to thread the needle. If the angle is there—hit it! Test their keeper. We have them reeling. Now press. Press until they concede and beg for the final whistle."
Victor stepped in and even more steady and cool than before, "You've taken the tempo away from them. You control this match now, so keep it. Own it."
The whistle was blown. Extra time had begun.
The match restarted but, as anticipated, at a slower pace. Bilbao, rattled and gasping, attempted to find their shape. But Tenerife were not play timid or tentative at the beginning of the night. They were electric. Charged. Everything they touched snapped. Every run they made was purposeful.
Griezmann was involved everywhere – drifting between the lines, helping his teammates, breaking the shape of the Bilbao side. This wasn't playing with style; this was playing with spite. And, as it happened, to his reward in the 98th minute.
Casemiro intercepted a pass near the centre circle, and slid it to Griezmann in the final third. When Griezmann received the pass playing with his back to goal and with a defender from Bilbao on his back, you would have been forgiven for thinking he panicked.
He dropped a shoulder, made a half-turn, and chipped the ball over the midfielder who was pressing him—a ludicrously audacious, almost petulant touch which had managed to leave Bilbao in a trance.
Natalio was long gone.
He rolled between the two centre-backs as easily as a breath—a well-timed virtue, the stadium held itself, expecting the flag to rise. It never did.
The keeper came crying out. Natalio hadn't rushed. He met the ball with the most gentle flick of his forehead, a silk touch. The sort of finish that only comes with being calm in the eye of a storm.
The ball flew just over the out-stretched arms of the keeper, and down into the net. Like raindrops falling out of a still sky.
Tenerife 3 - 1 Athletic Club (3 - 2 on aggregate)
The stadium erupted again, but this time differently; not the wild shock of Kitoko's thunderbolt or the disbelief of Aragoneses's miracle. This was joy. Full, ungovernable, and pure joy. The joyful kind that makes people cry. The joyful kind that writes itself into memory.
Laurence did not jump up; he did not scream. He just stood for a second, and then smiled. Widely. Tiredly. Proudly. His hands dropped to his side, unclenched fists. Behind him, Victor was embracing the staff and grinning like a lunatic.
Over the way, Joaquín Caparrós stood with arms folded, shoulders slumped. The veteran Bilbao coach had seen games slip away before, but this was different. This was a game that was forcefully taken from him.
Tenerife were no longer defending a miracle. They were claiming it.
Bilbao responded with a sense of urgency, moving bodies forward. In the 104th minute, Llorente got a whiff of an opportunity, only for Luna to miraculously slide in and block him with a heroic lunge.
In the second period of home extra time, Muniain twisted past Juanlu and floated in a cross, but Sergio Aragoneses claimed it confidently, like he hadn't only scored a goal half an hour earlier.
Casemiro played as though he had a clarity not typically present in a player of such youth. The mistake that had almost cost them earlier, was now like a weight to shed in every challenge, as he lunged into challenges ferociously. In the113th minute he blocked a shot from Iturraspe with his thigh. He got up grimacing—but did not stop.
Kitoko, indefatigable, chased a lost cause full speed into the corner in the 117th minute, and earned his side a throw-in. It's the small things. It's the big heart.
It was an active siege, but not one of fear, one of relentlessness.
The ref blew the whistle—not full of fanfare, but rather exhaustion. He raised both arms and blew once—long and loud—and it was done.
Tenerife 3 – 1 Athletic Club. 3–2 on aggregate.
Semifinals.
The noise of thousands of celebrating supporters shook the stand. The players lay down on the pitch—some were cramping, and some in disbelief. Kitoko dropped to his knees, arms skyward. Griezmann lay flat on his back, eyes closed, smiling.
Laurence ambled on to the pitch, but not because he was tired. He wanted to take in every single second. Still seeing Aragoneses smiling, Casemiro embracing Victor, Natalio pointed to the fans and crying.
Victor walked up beside him and wiped the sweat off his forehead.
"Well," said Victor half laughter, "we are in the semi-finals of the Copa del Rey."
Laurence chuckled and shook his head still in disbelief. "We don't even have a real sponsor on our kits."
Victor stared at the players. "They are going to remember this for the rest of their lives."
"They will," Laurence said, "because no one was giving us a chance. No one."
Laurence looked back out to the supporters. Thousands of them still singing. Still dancing.
"They believe now," he said quietly.
Victor nodded. "So do I."
As the players passed towards the tunnel with their arms around one another, bruised and smiling, Laurence turned one last time to look at the scoreboard.
Tenerife 3 – 1 Athletic Club.