Rivergate kicked off with urgency that hadn't existed at halftime. Olivera touched it back to Ledesma, who immediately played it wide to Páez. The winger's first touch was sharper now, more purposeful. He drove at Pereira with directness that forced the left-back to make an immediate decision.
Pereira committed to the challenge, but Páez had already cut inside, using the space created. He played it to Rojas in the center, who took one touch and struck from twenty-five meters. The shot was powerful but rising—it cleared Rodríguez's crossbar by a meter.
The message was clear: Rivergate wasn't absorbing pressure anymore. They were bringing it.
Montevideo tried to respond through their possession game, but Rivergate's press was more aggressive now. When Matías received the ball from Rodríguez's goal kick, both Ledesma and Rojas closed him down before he could turn. The captain was forced to play it backward to Fernández, who launched it long toward Torres.
Mendoza won the aerial duel cleanly, heading it back to his goalkeeper. The pattern that had characterized the end of the first half—Montevideo dominating territory, Rivergate defending desperately—had been disrupted.
The coach's halftime words were visible in every Rivergate movement. Don't sit back. Press high. Take control. They'd absorbed the message and were executing it with renewed discipline.
Gutiérrez rolled it out to Vega, who pushed forward with more confidence. Silva tracked him, but the right-back's positioning was better now—always maintaining an angle that made pressing difficult. He played it inside to Núñez, who immediately looked for Olivera.
The captain collected it, turned away from Álvarez's press, and drove forward. Montevideo's midfield was scrambling to recover. Olivera played it wide to Díaz, who cut inside and struck from the edge of the box.
Rodríguez dove, getting both hands to it, deflecting it out for a corner. Rivergate was creating chances again.
The corner was delivered with precision toward the near post. Soria rose highest, meeting it with his forehead. The header was powerful, aimed at the bottom corner. Rodríguez was positioned perfectly, diving to his right, catching it cleanly despite the wet conditions.
The momentum had reset. Not completely—Montevideo still had their organization, still had their belief—but the overwhelming pressure they'd generated before halftime was being matched now by Rivergate's renewed intensity.
The physicality escalated. Both teams were challenging every ball like the match was in injury time instead of the opening minutes of the second half.
Cabrera received the ball on the right wing and tried to push forward. Castro closed him down aggressively, his shoulder making contact with Cabrera's back. The right midfielder went down, and the referee's whistle blew immediately.
Free kick to Montevideo. Castro was already receiving the yellow card, the referee's hand pulling it from his pocket with practiced efficiency. The left-back accepted it without protest, jogging back into position.
The free kick was taken quickly by Silva, finding Matías in space. The captain controlled it and tried to turn, but Núñez was on him instantly—physical, uncompromising. The ball broke loose, and when Vargas challenged for it, his studs caught Núñez's ankle.
Another whistle. Another yellow card. This one for Vargas.
The pattern repeated. Roque held the ball up, shielding it from Soria, but his elbow came up slightly as he turned. The center-back went down, clutching his face. The referee blew his whistle, reaching for his pocket again.
Yellow card. Roque.
Two minutes later, Olivera drove at Montevideo's defense, forcing Pereira to make a desperate sliding challenge. The tackle was late—not malicious, just mistimed—and the referee showed no hesitation.
Yellow card. Pereira.
The rain continued, making the pitch more treacherous. Players were slipping on turns, challenges were harder to time, frustration was building on both sides. The referee was losing control of the physical play, and both teams were taking advantage.
Silva went down in the center circle after Vega's challenge caught him late. The referee blew his whistle but reached for his pocket again.
Yellow card. Vega. Rivergate's second.
The free kick was played short by Matías to Cabrera, who tried to switch play to Torres. But the pass was intercepted by Ledesma, and Rivergate countered. The midfielder drove forward, drawing Álvarez toward him, then played it wide to Páez.
The winger cut inside past Silva's challenge—too late, too aggressive—and the referee's whistle sounded again.
Yellow card. Silva. Montevideo's third.
Álvarez was standing in his technical area, hands cupped around his mouth. "¡Cuidado con las tarjetas! Watch the cards!"
But the warnings came too late. The match had descended into something more than competition—it was personal now, physical, both teams determined to impose themselves regardless of consequence.
Torres won a header in midfield, directing it toward Roque. The striker tried to hold it up, but Mendoza was physical behind him. When Roque tried to turn, his arm came up to create space. The referee saw it differently.
Free kick to Rivergate. And worse—the referee was reaching for his pocket again, calling Roque over.
Another yellow card. Montevideo's fourth. And Roque already had one from earlier in the half.
The striker knew what was coming. He didn't protest, just stood there as the referee showed him the second yellow card, then immediately followed it with red.
Roque was off. Sent off. Montevideo would play the rest of the match with ten men.
The striker walked toward the touchline, hands on his head, disbelief and frustration visible in every step. His teammates watched him go, the weight of the sending-off settling across them like the rain.
Álvarez was already signaling for a substitution. The board went up—Roque's number off, and in his place, a fresh player: Benítez, one of the substitutes who'd been watching from the bench all match.
But that wasn't the only change. Silva already had a yellow card, and his positioning as left midfielder meant he'd be targeted by Rivergate's increasingly aggressive right side. Álvarez made the decision quickly.
Silva's number went up. Coming off. Replaced by Luna, the defender who'd been sitting beside Che on the bench during the Maldonado match.
The substitution meant a tactical shift—Montevideo would have to reorganize their shape, pulling back slightly to protect against being overwhelmed by the numerical disadvantage. Luna moved into left-back, allowing Pereira to push into midfield where Silva had been operating.
The changes took time to process. Players were repositioning, calling out new assignments, trying to maintain organization while absorbing the reality that they'd be defending a draw—or pushing for a win—with ten men for the remaining thirty minutes.
Rivergate's players recognized the advantage immediately. Their voices were rising—"Press them!" "Push forward!" "We have the numbers!"—energized by the sending-off that had just shifted the tactical balance in their favor.
The referee placed the ball for Rivergate's free kick, checking that both teams were organized. Núñez stood over it, twenty-five meters from goal, considering options.
He struck it with power, aiming for the top corner. The ball was rising, curling slightly, heading toward the upper-right corner of Rodríguez's goal. The goalkeeper leaped, fully extended, getting fingertips to it. The ball deflected off his hand and over the crossbar.
Another Rivergate corner. Their momentum was building again, and now they had the numerical advantage to exploit it.
Montevideo's ten remaining players organized themselves in the box, compressed and defensive. Álvarez was shouting instructions from the sideline, but his voice was barely audible over the rain and crowd noise.
The corner was delivered toward the penalty spot. Bodies collided. The ball deflected off someone's shoulder and went out for another corner on the opposite side.
Rivergate was relentless now. Every clearance was being won back. Every transition was being cut off. And Montevideo, down to ten men, was beginning to feel the pressure mounting in ways they couldn't quite contain.