The whistle produced an abrupt start to the second half at the Heliodoro Rodríguez López Stadium that wasn't panic, but a calculated tactical change. Laurence González stood next to his assistant coach Victor by the touchline.
Just before the whistle, he had pulled Joel and Ricardo León to the side to give some final instructions. The shape was unchanged—he wasn't about to shred a game plan that had kept Real Madrid scoreless for 45 minutes—but there were changes. Finer, adjusted movements to utilize any space negotiated from the Mourinho version of Madrid.
"Casemiro has to step earlier when Alonso gets it," Laurence said while watching Madrid's bench. "Force them into our trap. Griezmann drops deeper—which is fine—but if he can pull Khedira out of position, it's space for Natalio and if we can get him to run into that space..."
Laurence turned to Joel, putting a hand on the young fullback's shoulder. "When Neymar gets crowded...don't wait. Don't wait to overlap. Overlap hard. Take Ramos out wide, all we need is one clean moment. Just one."
Victor nodded to Laurence and was scanning the pitch. "They are committing too much on the wing..." he muttered. "They are a step too aggressive."
The whistle shrieked once more. The second half commenced.
Tenerife entered the field with teeth out, pressing with purposeful intent and aggression, but timing it correctly. In just three minutes after the sting of the whistle, Griezmann intercepted Khedira on the halfway line, and burst into the heart of the pitch. Natalio lost the defender tracking him, latched onto the through-ball, and spanked a shot just over the bar. The crowd roared. Not roared in disappointment—just the sound of an estimated thousand hearts believing once again.
On the sideline, Laurence's fists were clenched: they were so close. Closer than any of them had imaged.
And then, like a thunderous clap signalling good weather to come, the match broke open.
Cristiano Ronaldo cut inside from the left flank with all of the precision of a machine, accelerating to sprint past Joel, who could not have been better positioned—laissez faire, never biting fully on Ronaldo's exaggerated movements. They reached the edge of the area, where Ronaldo, whom we know well, leaned into Joel, alluded to the slightest contact, then threw himself to the ground like an opera star.
The referee did not hesitate. He pointed to the penalty spot.
Laurence erupted.
He marched out of the technical area, face flushed, hands flapping through the air. "Are you kidding me? That was a dive!" he yelled, walking towards the fourth official. "He touched the air, not the player! You saw that!"
Victor quickly grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back. "Laurence. Not here. Not now."
The stadium was a cauldron of rage. Booing echoed off the walls as fans screamed in disbelief. Joel stood with his hands on his hips, disbelief etched across his features. He hadn't touched Ronaldo. Not really. Not enough to create that reaction. But often, reputation overrode reality.
From twelve yards, Ronaldo stepped up. Aragoneses had gotten it right, dove the correct way - but it was the perfect finish. Low, accurate, just out of reach.
1-0 to Real Madrid.
Laurence looked at the scoreboard and then at his bench, jaw clenched. "We didn't deserve that," he muttered, but it was lost in the noise.
Madrid, buoyed by their lead, had shifted into a higher gear. Wherever they had been tentative, now they struck with chilling efficiency. Di María and Özil were starting to find each other with greater frequency. Xabi Alonso, always a metronome, began to dictate possession like a conductor returning to tempo. Their swagger was back. Pepe and Ramos pushed higher up, crushing Natalio every time he attempted to turn.
Then, there was another scare. Özil, gliding through midfield like a wisp of smoke, went between two Tenerife defenders to slip in a ball. Benzema had timed his run perfectly, broke clear and coolly slotted it past Aragoneses.
But the flag went up.
Offside.
The crowd roared not in joy, but in relief so immense you'd think they had triumphed. People were hugging one another. On the sideline, Laurence turned to Victor and gave a short, bitter laugh.
"Well," he said dryly, "that's a balance I guess."
But still, Madrid kept on pressing them. Marcelo went down the left and whipped a cut-back across the box. Özil loitered just outside the D, took a shot low that looked destined for the bottom corner. Aragoneses dove. He palmed it wide, calm and composed.
Laurence clapped his hands, not wildly, but out of pride. His keeper was on fire.
Neymar was so bright and electric in the first-half, but now he was a shadow. Madrid had found a way to suffocate him with discipline. Ramos and Khedira would switch their attentiveness to him, closing down on him within seconds. When he received the ball there was a boot waiting for him.
When he tried to dribble the ball away from them, someone clipped his ankles. The fouls were subtle, clever and just short of thing that should have gotten a card. This was the playbook of Mourinho to a tee.
And it was working.
In the 64th minute, Neymar gave away a simple ball - let it slip underneath his foot and out of bounds. He chased back, but it was a heavy, frustrated effort. A moment later he tried to roll a flick over Arbeloa's head and sent a ball soaring into the crowd. He didn't even turn to say sorry. He just stared, head down.
Laurence observed everything from the sidelines. The corner of his mouth began to tighten. He recognized that look—Neymar wasn't just being marked. He was being wiped off the map.
He summoned Joel and signaled for a switch. "Go left. Neymar to right. Give him something fresh. Anything."
Joel nodded and took off to change. But the switch did not ignite the flame Laurence had hoped for. Madrid's momentum was too strong now. Their lines too tight. The game had shifted—and Tenerife were desperately trying to stay afloat.
Laurence checked the clock. Seventy-eight minutes. The tempo was noticeably slower—not because Madrid were tired, but because they understood how to freeze a game. Every foul was deep-pocketed. Every throw-in was executed with care. They limited the amount of tempo they were willing to concede. It was a play of pure mastery at control reminiscent of the Mourinho pesona he built an empire on.
As the final whistle went, Madrid's bench did not explode enthusiastically. They did not erupt in celebration. They simply shook hands.
Laurence paused for a moment and turned slowly towards his players. They made their way toward him—heads down, jerseys wet, legs heavy. They had no excuses. No meltdowns. Just silence, and cold bitterness of a team that fought the good fight and came up short.
The final score was flashing:
Tenerife 0 – 1 Real Madrid
Laurence approached Neymar who was standing next to the touchline with one hand on his hip, eyes blank. The noise from the crowd was still there, but dimmed—a little less frenzied, with more appreciation. They clapped their players off with respect. With love.
Laurence put a hand on Neymar's shoulder. The young forward did not look at him. Did not speak. He stared straight ahead, mouth set.
"It's okay," Laurence said softly. "They worked their whole game plan around stopping you. That means they fear you. That's the biggest compliment you will ever get."
Neymar did not respond. He did not pull away.
They walked off together, into the tunnel, past cameras and chants, past reporters who would write about the score and not the struggle.