Valencia's Mestalla has always had a unique vibe—loud but not chaotic, sharp yet friendly. However, on this particular night, there was a different energy in the air. A quiet respect. An unspoken recognition that CD Tenerife was no longer just a surprise team or an underdog.
They were a real challenge.
The lineup was a mix of rotation and necessity. Koulibaly—who had been on the pitch for nearly every minute over the last two weeks—was given a break. This led to a back three of Bellvís, Luna, and Stefan de Vrij. Bellvís brought experience and composure; Luna added energy and aggression; de Vrij, as always, was the steady voice of reason.
Kante teamed up with Kikoto in the midfield pivot. The plan was straightforward on paper: cut off Valencia's passing lanes, dominate the center, and launch quick counterattacks. In practice, it was much more complex. In front of them, Quaresma was the connector, floating behind a striking duo of Bony and Griezmann. Joel and Neymar were instructed to maintain their width, holding the flanks no matter how much Valencia tried to crowd the center.
From the very start, Unai Emery's Valencia made it clear that fluidity was lacking. They pressed smartly—Piatti sneaking inside to shut down passing lanes, Jonas slipping into those tricky half-spaces to throw Luna off his game, and Jordi Alba charging forward so fiercely that Joel felt more like a second full-back than a right midfielder.
The early moments weren't a total disaster, just a bit… messy.
Passes were arriving half a second late. Through balls were a meter too long. Neymar found himself in promising positions but was quickly surrounded by two orange shirts. Quaresma floated into open spaces but rarely got the ball in stride. Griezmann kept checking back, only to see the switches come in way too slowly.
Laurence stood there, arms crossed, taking in the little breakdowns.
"Too slow," he muttered quietly. "Everything's at half-tempo."
The first real chance came in the 18th minute-Neymar cut in from the left, noticed Bony making a run, and tried to slide him through, but the pass was a bit weak. Rami intercepted and took off upfield.
A few minutes later, Kikoto won a duel and passed to Joel, who tried a diagonal ball behind the defense. But once again, it didn't connect. The angle was right, the idea was solid—but the ball bobbled off his foot and rolled harmlessly wide for a goal kick.
Victor leaned in and whispered, "We're reading the game well. It's the execution that's off."
Laurence didn't respond. He was too busy pacing back and forth.
As the half went on, those missed opportunities became more frustrating. Quaresma kept slipping between Valencia's lines but was getting passes behind him instead of in front. Twice he tried to flick the ball forward, and twice it ricocheted off a defender's shin.
"Keep it simple!" Laurence shouted, his voice bouncing off the walls.
But simplicity was proving elusive.
In the 32nd minute, they finally managed to string together a decent play. Griezmann drifted wide, noticed Quaresma making a run into the box, and sent a lovely diagonal ball his way. Quaresma brought it down with his chest, set up for a volley- but Guaita made a stunning, instinctive save, tipping it over the bar.
Laurence slammed his hand against the back of the dugout in frustration-not out of anger at the players, but because of the cruel twist of fate. Just when Tenerife got something right, the goalkeeper was there to thwart them.
At halftime, he kept the team talk steady, but the tension was palpable in the way he clutched the tactics board.
"Listen," he said, taking a deep breath. "You're reading the game well. But our passes are just a bit off. Our timing is half a second late. We don't force it. We don't panic. We stay compact. And if chances don't come, at least we take something home."
Victor added in a calm tone, "They're trying to lure us into overcommitting. Don't give them those transitions."
The players nodded, feeling more mentally drained than physically tired.
The second half didn't bring any relief.
If anything, the frustration only intensified.
Neymar attempted to connect with Griezmann-misjudged the run.
Joel sped down the flank-ball pushed too far ahead.
Quaresma tried to slip Bony through-overhit by a step.
Kante made a brilliant interception-then sent a pass straight out of play.
Laurence rubbed his temples, feeling the weight of the moment. "We're rushing. We're forcing it."
But the harder they tried to fix things, the more out of sync their internal rhythms became.
By the 60th minute, Valencia could sense blood—not in the scoring sense, but in the way a team was struggling to find its groove. They tightened their formation, pressed a bit harder, and waited for mistakes.
Laurence wasn't about to sit back either.
In the 70th minute, Casemiro came on for Kikoto. Instantly, the midfield had more bite, but still lacked fluidity. Casemiro was breaking lines with his passes, but the forwards just weren't connecting. Another through ball slipped just out of Neymar's reach, and another was intercepted by Rami.
"Again," Laurence muttered, his frustration palpable. "Everything's just off."
With ten minutes to go, he switched to a back four—Luna pushed wide, Robertson (who came on for Neymar) dropped deeper, and Joel moved higher to overload the flanks.
It made a difference. For a moment.
In the 84th minute, Bony muscled past his defender and unleashed a shot that looked destined for the bottom corner—but Victor Ruiz threw himself in the way to block it.
Just two minutes later, Valencia almost made Tenerife pay on the counter, sending in a dangerous corner that Luna misjudged before de Vrij launched himself into the six-yard box to clear the danger.
When the final whistle blew, it felt like a collective sigh.
0–0.
Not a disaster. Just a point that neither coach could really celebrate.
As he walked down the touchline, Laurence's face was set in a rigid expression. Not angry—just profoundly, professionally dissatisfied.
In other words, he was very angry.
In the press conference, he didn't sugarcoat it.
"We didn't create enough," he said plainly. "Too many imprecise actions. Too many ideas that didn't connect. Defensively we were fine, and that's important. But the forward rhythm wasn't right today."
There was eerie silence before the reporters started to ask questions.
Laurence left the room, leaving them looking at the other coach-Emery, who silently cursed Laurence for leaving him to deal with drama alone.