Maldonado moved the ball with surgical precision, each pass opening another angle, another pocket of space. Montevideo chased shadows. Matías pressed high on Romero, only for the attacking midfielder to roll the ball backward to Suárez, who immediately found Peralta drifting into the vacated space. When Vargas stepped to intercept, Peralta had already played it back to Romero.
The pattern was suffocating. Montevideo's midfield couldn't get close enough to disrupt without being bypassed. Their forwards were isolated, making desperate runs that went unsupported. Every clearance came back faster than the last.
Torres won a rare aerial duel in the center circle, nodding it toward Benítez. The striker tried to shield the ball, but Navarro was already on him—physical, compact, winning it cleanly with his chest. The ball went straight to Suárez, and Maldonado was attacking again.
On the bench, Che leaned forward. His hands gripped his knees. The System was showing him everything his teammates couldn't see from their positions—the gaps opening when Romero dropped deep, the space behind Maldonado's aggressive full-backs during transitions. But he was fifteen meters from the action, watching Montevideo struggle to survive.
Romero collected the ball near the center circle after another turnover. Matías closed him down immediately, but the Maldonado midfielder had already mapped his options. He rolled the ball to his right, drawing Matías another step forward, then accelerated into the space behind him. Vargas tried to cover, stepping out of position, but Romero played a quick one-two with Peralta that bypassed both midfielders entirely.
Now Romero was driving forward with the ball, twenty-five meters from goal, Montevideo's defense scrambling to reorganize. Fernández held his line, refusing to be drawn out. Santos was communicating—"Hold! Cover!"—but Romero wasn't looking to dribble through the defense.
He took one touch to set himself, his right foot positioning the ball perfectly. Then he struck it.
The shot was driven low with his laces, rising slightly, curling away from Rodríguez's desperate dive. The goalkeeper threw himself right, arm fully extended, but his fingertips found only air. The ball buried itself in the side netting with a crack that carried across the pitch.
Maldonado 1 - 0
Romero raised both arms, turned toward his teammates. The small crowd erupted. Che's head dropped, his jaw tightening. His hands pressed harder into the aluminum beneath him.
When he looked up, Montevideo was resetting for kickoff. Matías was gesturing to Vargas about positioning. Fernández was pulling his defensive line deeper. Adjusting after the damage was already done.
The game restarted, and nothing changed. Maldonado pressed high, won the ball back within seconds, and began building another attack. Their confidence was visible in every movement—quick combinations, aggressive pressing, bodies committing forward without hesitation.
Montevideo tried to respond. Cabrera won possession on the right side after Acosta's pass was slightly heavy. He looked up, saw Torres making a diagonal run between the center-backs, and attempted the through-ball. But Ramos had already read it. The center-back stepped across, intercepting with his thigh, and the ball bounced straight to Suárez.
Maldonado transitioned immediately. Suárez to Romero. Romero spreading it wide to Costa on the left. The winger drove at Esteban, forcing the right-back to make a decision—commit or hold position. Esteban held, backpedaling, and Costa cut inside, creating a shooting angle. His strike was powerful but rising. It cleared the crossbar by a meter.
Montevideo's defense looked stretched. Every clearance felt temporary, every possession fragile. They were fighting—throwing bodies into challenges, communicating constantly, refusing to collapse—but they couldn't build anything meaningful. Torres and Benítez were isolated up front, receiving passes with their backs to goal and immediately surrounded by defenders.
Silva won the ball in the left channel after intercepting Ortiz's pass. He tried to push forward, but Acosta was already tracking him. The Maldonado right-back stayed compact, forcing Silva wider and wider until the passing angle disappeared entirely. Silva played it backward to Pereira, who attempted a cross into the box. The delivery was too floated. Ramos headed it clear without pressure.
The ball landed at Romero's feet again. He controlled it, surveyed his options, then switched play with a raking forty-meter pass to Ortiz on the right. The winger brought it down cleanly and immediately drove at Pereira, who was scrambling to recover. Ortiz reached the edge of the box and crossed low toward the penalty spot. Machado arrived, sliding to meet it, but Santos got there first. His clearance was desperate, sending the ball thirty meters upfield and out for a throw-in.
Che's fingers pressed into the bench. Beside him, Luna was saying something about the heat, but Che wasn't hearing it. His focus was locked on the pitch—on Romero's positioning, on the gaps in Montevideo's shape, on the spaces the System was highlighting that his teammates couldn't exploit.
Matías won a tackle near the halfway line, dispossessing Peralta cleanly. He immediately played it forward to Vargas, who tried to turn and drive into space. But Suárez was already pressing him, cutting off the forward angle. Vargas played it sideways to Silva, who attempted another attack down the left. Acosta contained him again, forcing the ball backward. Eventually, Pereira tried another cross. This one didn't even reach the box—Navarro intercepted it easily.
Maldonado was back in possession, building another attack. The pattern was relentless. Pass, press, recover, attack. Montevideo defending deeper and deeper, their midfield compressed, their forwards isolated.
Benítez finally won a free kick on the right side after Ibarra fouled him while tracking back. It was Montevideo's first dangerous set piece. The entire squad pushed forward.
Cabrera delivered the cross toward the far post where Torres had positioned himself. The striker jumped, competing with Navarro, and got his head to it. The contact was decent, but Méndez—Maldonado's goalkeeper—was positioned perfectly. He caught it cleanly, then immediately threw it out to Acosta.
Maldonado countered. Acosta to Peralta. Peralta to Romero. The attacking midfielder driving forward, Montevideo's midfield scrambling to recover. He played it wide to Ortiz, who was sprinting into the space behind Pereira. The right winger reached the box and crossed low. Machado struck it first time from the penalty spot.
Rodríguez dove, getting a hand to it, deflecting it just wide.
Montevideo had tried to attack and within seconds were defending another corner. The clearance eventually came, but the message was clear: Maldonado was in complete control.