Maldonado kicked off with urgency replacing their earlier composure. The equalizer had shaken them, and now they pressed forward with the desperation of a team that understood they'd nearly lost control. Romero collected the ball in the center circle and immediately looked to build an attack, but Montevideo's defense was compact now, organized, refusing to give easy space.
Che tried to track back, his legs responding slower than his mind demanded. When Peralta received the ball thirty meters from goal, Che moved to press, but his acceleration was gone. The midfielder simply turned away from the challenge and played it wide to Ortiz. The gap between what Che's body could do twenty minutes ago and what it could do now was widening with every sprint.
His first professional match. Thirty-five minutes of playing time against opponents two, sometimes three years older. Bodies that had developed muscle and endurance he hadn't built yet. The difference between training alone in Barrio Pérez and competing in a real match was becoming visceral. In training, he controlled the intensity, the duration, the recovery. Here, the game dictated everything, and his body was telling him it had reached its threshold.
Montevideo won possession through Álvarez's interception, and immediately players were looking for Che. Matías called his name, playing the ball toward him on the left. Che moved to receive it, his first touch still clean despite the fatigue, but when he tried to turn, his legs wouldn't explode like before. Costa closed him down easily, and Che had to play it backward to Pereira.
The pattern repeated. Che's positioning remained intelligent—he was still reading the game, still seeing the spaces—but his body couldn't execute what his mind recognized. Passes that would have split defenses twenty minutes ago now lacked the precision because his legs couldn't generate the power. Dribbles that would have beaten defenders were ending in simple dispossessions because his acceleration had abandoned him.
Both teams fought. Maldonado created half-chances that Montevideo defended desperately. Montevideo countered when they could, but their attacks broke down before reaching dangerous positions. Che was involved, but peripherally now, his influence fading as his stamina drained below critical levels.
Stamina: 24%. Motor function significantly impaired. Reaction time delayed. Decision-making capacity declining.
The System's warnings were constant, but Che ignored them. He kept moving, kept trying to contribute, even as his body betrayed him.
Then Maldonado won a corner.
It came from a sequence where Ortiz had driven at Pereira, forcing the left-back into a desperate clearance that went out for a corner on Maldonado's right side. Their players pushed forward, sensing opportunity. Montevideo's defense organized in the box—Álvarez, Fernández, Matías, all positioning themselves to defend the cross.
Che stood at the edge of the box, tasked with marking Suárez if the ball came short. His legs were shaking slightly, the fatigue so complete that even standing required conscious effort.
Costa took the corner, delivering a dangerous inswinging ball toward the near post. The delivery was precise, curling away from Rodríguez but toward the cluster of players. Álvarez jumped to challenge, but Ramos—Maldonado's center-back—had timed his run perfectly. He rose above everyone, meeting the ball with his forehead, redirecting it toward the far post.
The ball took a slight deflection off Fernández's shoulder, changing its trajectory just enough to wrong-foot Rodríguez. The goalkeeper dove, his hand reaching, but the angle was impossible. The ball crossed the line, settled into the side netting.
Maldonado 3 - 2 Montevideo
Ramos turned, arms raised, sprinting toward the corner flag. His teammates converged on him. Their bench erupted. The small crowd behind the goal was celebrating like they'd won a championship.
On the pitch, Montevideo's players stood motionless. Matías had his hands on his knees, breathing hard. Fernández was staring at where the ball had crossed the line. Cabrera turned away, not wanting to see the celebration.
Che felt it settle in his chest—not just the goal, but the weight of his own limitation. He'd been positioned at the edge of the box, too far from the play to affect it. His legs hadn't had the strength to challenge for the ball even if he'd been in position. He'd been a passenger on that sequence, watching it happen, unable to change the outcome.
This was what the System had been warning him about. Training alone was controlled, predictable. Matches were chaos. They demanded more than individual brilliance—they demanded endurance, physicality, the capacity to maintain performance when your body was screaming to stop.
Montevideo kicked off, but the momentum had shifted permanently. Maldonado pressed with renewed confidence, winning the ball back quickly, building attacks that Montevideo defended with increasingly desperate measures. Che tried to help, tried to create, but every touch was heavy, every movement labored.
Roque won a header in midfield, directing it toward Che. He controlled it, tried to turn, but Peralta dispossessed him easily. Another turnover. Another Maldonado attack.
The final minutes compressed into survival mode. Montevideo defending their box, Maldonado probing for the insurance goal that would seal the victory. When the referee finally blew the whistle, signaling full time, Maldonado's players celebrated with relief rather than joy. They'd won, but barely.
On Montevideo's side, Che's legs gave out completely. He dropped to his knees, then fell forward onto his hands, his entire body shaking. His vision was blurring slightly. His chest heaved, trying to pull in air that didn't seem sufficient.
Matías reached him first, hands grabbing his shoulders. "Che. Che, you okay?"
Che nodded, unable to form words yet.
Roque arrived next, then Cabrera, then the entire squad surrounding him. Hands pulling him to his feet, supporting his weight when his legs couldn't fully bear it.
"You're a jewel," Matías said, his voice carrying genuine emotion. "You understand? An absolute jewel."
Cabrera was nodding. "We were losing two-nil. Dead. And you came on and changed everything."
"We almost won," Roque added. "Against them. Because of you."
Fernández clapped him on the back. "First match. Against players three years older. And you were the best player on the pitch."
Che's breathing was slowly steadying. He looked around at his teammates—exhausted, defeated on the scoreboard, but somehow energized. Their eyes were bright. Their voices carried excitement rather than disappointment.
"We lost," Che managed to say.
"This time," Matías said. "But next match? With you from the start? We're going to destroy teams."
Across the pitch, Maldonado's players were gathering their things, their celebration already muted. They'd won, but the margin had been terrifying. The small thirteen-year-old had nearly single-handedly erased their two-goal lead.
On their bench, the assistant coach was watching Montevideo's group with visible confusion. He turned to the head coach.
"Why are they celebrating? They lost."
The head coach was packing his clipboard, his expression thoughtful. "They're not celebrating the result. They're celebrating what they just discovered."
"What?"
"That boy," the head coach said, gesturing toward Che, who was being supported by Matías and Cabrera. "He's going to elevate that entire team. Right now, they're mediocre. But with him? In six months? A year? They'll be dangerous."
The assistant watched Che being helped toward the bus, his teammates surrounding him protectively. "He looked exhausted."
"Of course he did. It's his first real match against proper opposition. But he lasted thirty-five minutes and created more danger than their entire squad had managed in the previous sixty. Imagine what he'll be capable of when his body catches up to his mind."
The assistant fell silent, processing this.
"Mark this," the head coach said. "We just played against someone who's going to be professional. Maybe even national team level. Remember his name."
On the bus back to Montevideo, Che sat by the window, his body feeling like it weighed twice what it had that morning. Every muscle ached. His legs were cramping intermittently. But his teammates kept coming to his seat, one after another, to tell him what they'd seen, what he'd done, what it meant.
Ramón stopped beside him before taking his own seat at the front. The coach didn't say much—just placed a hand on Che's shoulder and nodded once, his expression communicating more than words could.
Che watched the landscape pass outside the window—the same rural-to-urban transition he'd observed on the way to Maldonado, but reversed now. The match was over. They'd lost 3-2. His first professional match had ended in defeat.
But his teammates were laughing, replaying moments, already talking about the next match. And Che understood what had happened today. He'd announced himself. Not just to Maldonado, but to his own team, to the coaches, to himself.
His body had reached its limit. But his potential? That was just beginning to emerge.