Just ten seconds in—yes, just ten seconds—Ricardo Quaresma made a late, awkward lunge at Evra, desperately trying to reclaim the ball after a botched first touch. It wasn't meant to be malicious, but it was definitely reckless. The referee didn't think twice.
Yellow card.
Laurence Gonzales let out a frustrated sigh, rubbing his temples. He was already annoyed with Quaresma's lack of consistency tonight—the touches were off, the energy was all over the place, and now this.
Victor turned to him. "Should we give him five more minutes?"
Laurence shook his head.
"No. We need stability. And we need goals."
He gestured to the fourth official, signaling for Wilfried Bony, who had been warming up vigorously since halftime.
Quaresma trudged off, his gaze fixed on the grass. He didn't protest—he knew it just wasn't his night.
Bony stepped onto the pitch, bringing an immediate physical presence. Griezmann dropped back, just behind the Ivorian. The formation shifted from a 3-4-1-2 to a more direct 3-4-2-1, with Joel and Neymar flanking Griezmann in the creative zone.
Notably, Mauro was absent in the stadium's only VIP box, where the club chairman Miguel was sitting.
Reports had indicated Mauro flew to Italy the night before to scout a potential summer target and was watching the match from a hotel in Turin. His absence was felt, but not too deeply. Laurence had taken full control tonight.
49th minute.
Neymar had the crowd buzzing again.
He was up against Phil Jones and Antonio Valencia, both known for their physical play—but not for handling dribblers like him. Neymar received the ball from a Griezmann pass near the left edge of the box, feinted right, then pulled it back left with a flourish.
Jones lunged. Missed.
Valencia stepped in. Neymar nutmegged him. Gasps echoed through the stadium.
The Brazilian glided past the two, cut inside, and curled a shot—just inches wide. The stadium groaned in unison.
Laurence clapped slowly. He wasn't angry. He recognized that confident, daring version of Neymar—the one that United feared the most.
But danger was always lurking when facing United.
In the 56th minute, Paul Scholes delivered a stunning diagonal pass to Nani, who expertly controlled it. Nani's cross found Rooney, who was charging into the box.
Rooney leaped into the air.
Everyone held their breath in anticipation.
THUMP.
A downward header—aimed straight for the goal—
But Luna was ready.
With veteran instincts and perfect positioning, he threw himself into the path of the ball, blocking the shot with his chest and taking a hard hit in the process.
He lay on the ground for a few seconds, but when he finally got up, the crowd erupted in appreciation, shaking the concrete stands.
Laurence turned to Victor and said, "He's holding that backline together with sheer will."
Fast forward to the 60th minute.
Bony had been relatively quiet up to this point. Sure, he was physically imposing, but he hadn't posed much of a threat.
Then it happened.
A lightning-fast counterattack. Kante snatched the ball from Carrick and quickly sent it to Joel on the right. Joel sprinted past Evra, cut inside, and delivered a grounded pass toward the penalty spot.
Bony held off Chris Smalling, shifted his weight, and side-footed a low shot into the corner.
2-1 on the night. 5-3 on aggregate.
The stadium erupted once more.
United looked shaken. Sir Alex made a hand signal, urging his players to stay calm.
69th minute.
Another break.
This time, Grimaldo surged down the wing, linking up with Neymar, who was clearly enjoying himself—pulling off outrageous flicks, spins, and quick passes that left the defenders in a daze. Griezmann found some space, drew in defenders, and sent a beautifully lofted chip into the box.
Bony leapt, outmuscled Evans, and powered a header down.
Goal.
3-1 on the night. 6-3 on aggregate.
Laurence looked completely taken aback. Three goals against Ferguson's United in just 70 minutes, six goals over both legs.
Victor wrapped him in a hug.
The bench erupted, players tumbling over one another in excitement. Bellvís, who had faced struggles last month, slammed his hand on the bench in pure joy. Kante exchanged high-fives with Aragoneses.
From the 70th minute onward, Tenerife had something to defend. A 6–3 aggregate lead. A dream. A miracle unfolding. And in front of 24,000 anxious fans at the Estadio Heliodoro Rodríguez López, they fought like their lives depended on it.
United, sensing the threat of embarrassment, pushed everything forward.
Nani, Rooney, Chicharito. Scholes orchestrating from deep. Evra overlapping, Valencia charging ahead. The pressure mounted like a relentless tide. Ferguson stood on the sidelines, arms crossed over his chest, not shouting—but observing, contemplating, calculating. He didn't need to raise his voice anymore. His players understood what was on the line.
Laurence Gonzales, however, was anything but calm.
His coat was off, sleeves rolled up. Sweat clung to his forehead in the humidity. His mouth was a flurry of commands: "Tuck in! Push the line! Kante—track the runner!"
In the 76th minute, Scholes sent a brilliant through-ball to Rooney, who found himself sandwiched between Koulibaly and Luna. Aragoneses rushed out, but Rooney was quicker on the draw. He expertly chipped the ball over him.
It looked destined for the back of the net.
The home crowd collectively held their breath. Meanwhile, the away fans began to rise, celebrating a goal that wasn't quite there yet.
Out of nowhere, the young Dutchman, who had been a doubt for this match due to previous muscle issues, sprinted back and launched himself toward the line.
He slid in.
A flick of his right boot sent the ball thudding against the post.
It bounced back into play. Aragoneses scrambled, diving to snatch it up as if it were a newborn baby.
The stadium erupted with twenty-four thousand voices.
Victor nearly toppled the bench in his excitement. Laurence turned, fists clenched to his mouth, whispering a prayer to the heavens.
De Vrij didn't celebrate. He simply lay there on the line, breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling like a man who had just run a marathon for two days.
Fast forward to the 80th minute.
Grimaldo was cramping up. Kante was limping. Neymar, still not fully fit, pleaded to stay on the pitch, nodding every time Gonzales asked him, "You good?"
United kept pressing. Nani struck the bar. Rooney had another shot saved. Jones almost bundled in a corner. But Tenerife was relentless.
Robertson, just 17, blocked a shot from Valencia and let out a scream as if he'd just scored a goal.
Even Bony was tracking back to make a tackle near the halfway line.
Now we're in the 90th minute. Three minutes added on.
Ferguson glanced at his watch. He exchanged a few words with Phelan. But at this point, it didn't really matter.
Tenerife kept two players up front—just to maintain the illusion of a counterattack. The rest were focused on defending.
By now, the crowd was singing. Not out of nerves—no, they were roaring. It was as if their voices could shield the goal from any threat.
And then, in the 93rd minute, the final whistle blew.
Tenerife 3 – 1 Manchester United.
Aggregate: Tenerife 6 –3 Manchester United.