The meeting room was on the third floor of a municipal building near the Intendencia—sterile white walls, a long table, three chairs on one side occupied by the tournament board members. Two men in their fifties, one woman slightly younger, all wearing business casual clothing that suggested they did this volunteer work between their actual jobs. The fluorescent lighting was harsh, making everyone look more tired than they probably were.
Che sat between Ramón and his mother, his match kit feeling out of place in the formal setting. The board members had introduced themselves—their names passed by too quickly for Che to retain—and now the questioning had begun.
The older man, seated in the center, looked at his papers. "Che Hernandez. Age thirteen. Currently enrolled at Escuela Primaria Número Cuarenta-Tres in Barrio Pérez. Is that correct?"
"Yes," Che said.
"And you'll be attending Escuela Técnica Superior next year when you complete primary school?"
"Yes."
The man's eyes moved to Che's mother. "You're his legal guardian?"
"I'm his mother," she said. Her voice was steady despite the exhaustion still visible in her posture. "I work at the textile factory on Avenida Italia. He lives with me and my family in Barrio Pérez."
The board member made a note. "Has anyone offered you financial compensation for Che to play for Escuela Técnica Superior?"
"No."
"Has the school provided housing, equipment, or any other material benefit?"
"No. I bought his boots secondhand. His kit was provided by the team, same as every player."
The woman on the left spoke next, her tone less formal. "The concern, as I'm sure you understand, is recruiting violations. Private schools sometimes offer scholarships to talented athletes, which creates competitive imbalance in youth tournaments. We need to verify this is a legitimate neighborhood school situation."
Ramón leaned forward slightly. "Che approached our training sessions on his own. I saw him play in pickup games near the school. He asked to join the team. That's the entire recruitment process."
The third board member—the younger man on the right—was reviewing something on his laptop. "His performance at the Maldonado friendly match was documented by their coaching staff. The report says he played thirty-five minutes and had significant impact despite his age."
"That's accurate," Ramón said.
"And you believe he's ready for tournament competition at this level?"
"I wouldn't have requested this meeting if I didn't."
The board members exchanged glances, some silent communication passing between them. The older man in the center closed his folder.
"The regulations allow for exceptional circumstances when a player demonstrates clear ability to compete safely at a higher age group. Based on the documentation and this conversation, I don't see evidence of recruiting violations." He looked at his colleagues, who both nodded. "Che Hernandez is approved to play in the U15 High School Tournament qualifiers and, should your team advance, the tournament proper."
Relief hit Che's chest like physical impact. His hands, which had been gripping his knees under the table, released.
"Thank you," Ramón said, already standing.
The paperwork took another five minutes—signatures, official stamps, a copy for the school's records. By the time they left the building, it was 11:03 AM. The match had started three minutes ago.
Ramón was already running toward his car. "Vamos!"
In Montevideo's changeroom, the squad sat on narrow benches, rain-soaked and mud-streaked but energized. Álvarez stood near the door, his clipboard abandoned on a bench. He didn't need notes for this.
"I don't know what the second half is going to bring," Álvarez said. "I don't know if we'll score again. I don't know if they'll find another gear and come back at us."
The squad was listening, steam rising from their wet kits in the enclosed space.
"But I know this: we just proved something. To them. To everyone watching. To ourselves." He gestured toward the door, toward where Rivergate was having their own halftime discussion. "They thought we were easy. They thought being down our coach and our best player meant we'd fold. And what did we do?"
"We equalized," Matías said.
"We dominated," Cabrera added.
"We made them defend for their lives," Roque finished.
Álvarez nodded. "Exactly. We took everything they threw at us in the first twenty minutes, absorbed it, and then we showed them what we're actually capable of. That goal wasn't luck. That was earned through pressure, through belief, through refusing to accept their narrative about who we are."
He paused, letting that settle.
"Forty-five minutes left. We're level. They're shaken. Everything we've trained for—every drill, every tactical session, every moment Che showed you how to see the game differently—it's all been preparing us for this. For right now."
Silva straightened on his bench. Fernández's jaw set. Even Torres, who'd been quiet all match, was nodding.
"They're going to come out trying to reclaim control," Álvarez continued. "They're going to press us, try to score early in the second half, try to break our momentum. We don't let them. We match their intensity, we maintain our shape, and we keep creating chances. Because if we keep knocking on that door, eventually it's going to open."
Matías stood, adjusting his captain's armband. "We finish this. Not for them. Not for the tournament. For us. To prove we belong here."
The squad rose together, moving toward the door with unified purpose.
Across the corridor, Rivergate's changeroom carried different energy. Their head coach stood at the front, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
"That was unacceptable," he said flatly. "We had control. We scored first. We should be going into the second half protecting a two or three-goal lead. Instead, we're level because we stopped doing what made us successful."
Olivera was staring at his boots. Mendoza was retying his laces for something to do with his hands.
"But here's the reality," the coach continued, his tone shifting slightly. "We're still the better team. We have better technical skills, better tactical understanding, more tournament experience. They caught momentum, and we let them. That ends now."
He moved to the tactical board mounted on the wall, quickly sketching formations. "Second half, we don't sit back. We press high, we force them into mistakes, we exploit their inexperience. Their center-backs are vulnerable to pace—we use that. Their midfield gets overrun when we commit numbers—we do that. We take control back."
The squad was listening now, their earlier shell-shock being replaced by something harder.
"You're better than them," the coach said. "You know it. I know it. But football doesn't care what we know—it cares what we do. So we go out there and we prove it. We win this match, we advance, and we forget this first half ever happened."
Páez stood first, his expression determined. Núñez followed. One by one, Rivergate's squad rose, their confidence not fully restored but returning.
Their captain, Olivera, spoke last. "They surprised us. That doesn't happen twice. Second half, we finish this."
Both teams emerged from their changerooms simultaneously, moving toward the pitch through the steady drizzle that hadn't let up. The stands had filled slightly—maybe seventy people now, drawn by word that the match was competitive.
Montevideo's squad took their positions with the same purposeful energy they'd carried into halftime. No celebration, no overconfidence. Just focus.
Rivergate organized themselves on their half, their formation slightly adjusted—pushing their fullbacks higher, compressing their midfield more centrally. The tactical response to being overwhelmed.
The referee checked both teams were ready. Raised his whistle.
The second half began.