The Canary Islands sun was fading, moving toward the kinder glow of evening, but it still infused the Heliodoro Rodríguez López with a golden warmth that ignited the crowd. It was packed with every seat taken, flags waving, drums beating on the north stand. There was a lingering odor of grilled chorizo from the food stalls.
This was the first home match for Tenerife since that night in Madrid. The win over Real was already part of local lore, but Laurence González knew that folklore did not win football matches. But tonight was different. Tonight was dangerous.
Getafe were not chasing Europe, and they were not fighting relegation. They were just the sort of team that could walk into an expectant big stadium and spoil a party.
But Laurence sensed something else in the air.
Hope.
It all began with Casemiro doing what Casemiro did best—making someone's night miserable. He shut down Getafe's central midfielder with a crunching shoulder, took the ball cleanly and in the same tempo he allowed Ricardo León to slip behind him with the ball.
Ricardo didn't have to think about it. One touch, head up, a quick zip into Neymar's feet.
The Brazilian didn't just control it; he spun on it, rolled away from his marker in one distinct motion that left the defender standing there grasping at air.
Acceleration. A blur of white boots over the green.
One step, two defenders in front. A quick feint left, and then he was between both of them. Into the box. The keeper set himself low, but Neymar's finish was ice—drilled bottom corner right while no one blinked.
1–0.
The Heliodoro erupted. Flags flapped in the wind, shrill voices cracked in the stands. Neymar didn't go loony—he simply jogged towards the corner, tapped the Tenerife badge twice, looked up to the fans and nodded his head.
There is more to come.
Joel Rodríguez, working the left side, won a throw deep in Getafe's half. The visitors dropped their guard for just a second—just long enough.
Joel short threw to Griezmann, who played a quick one-two with Richi. The Frenchman then sent a clever reverse pass behind the defense. Neymar was already on the diagonal run.
One touch was enough to settle. Second touch—gentle, teasing lob over the rushing keeper.
2–0.
This time he turned to the stand behind the goal, arms spread wide. He mouthed words virtually no one could hear, but everyone apparently understood: More.
At this point, Getafe were coming undone.
Victor Ruiz, leaving his position as left centre-back to cover the midfield, noticed room on the far side. His whipped ball found Juanlu in space running down the right wing. Juanlu took it first time, getting into the area and cutting the ball low across the six-yard box.
And there he was again.
Neymar got a foot on the ball and stopped it dead, stepped over it once, waited just long enough for the defender to commit, then dragged it back onto his right foot. The near-post strike had venom and was past the keeper before he reacted.
3-0. Hat-trick. Thirty-three minutes gone.
Laurence allowed himself a brief smile on the touchline. He looked to Victor. "We're watching a star being born."
When the game continued, the noise coming from the stands never really subsided. Tenerife had now had a bit of swagger about them, moving the ball with a bit of pizazz and triangles, flicks and overlapping runs. Getafe looked like they wanted the final whistle.
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The pace slowed after the half, as it usually does with a score line like that. Tenerife were in control, but Neymar… Neymar wasn't finished.
Getafe had figured it out, putting two players when Neymar got the ball. Instead of forcing it, he started to drift deeper, into that area where defenders were less likely to go, but midfielders were reluctant to leave to chase.
On one such retreat, he collected the ball beside the halfway line, and two defenders followed him. He looked up and saw Griezmann making an arcing run off the last man, without any hesitation Neymar lobbed a perfectly weighted and placed pass over the top.
Griezmann let the ball bounce only once; he shaped his body and smashed a shot past the helpless keeper.
4-0.
The Heliodoro erupted once more; not just for the goal, but for the pass - who would have thought a pass could bring the fans to their feet? Even the Getafe players could only shake their heads.
The final minutes were a procession. Neymar came off in the 85th to a standing ovation, every fan in the stadium on their feet. Some were recording it on their phones, others just clapping until their palms stung.
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The press room was full, but it didn't feel as claustrophobic as it had in Madrid. The excitement was palpable. Everyone knew they had just witnessed something remarkable.
The reporter from AS was the first to lean in. "Is this the best Neymar you've seen?"
Laurence wasted no time. "The best so far. There's levels he hasn't even reached yet."
Next, a voice sounded from the back. "What message does this send to Barcelona before the final?"
Laurence took a sip of water, and leaned toward the mic.
"That we're not here to be cannon fodder."
A murmur moved through the room. A few people smiled, while others scribbled furiously.