Luna had been sitting on the bench for fifty-five minutes, watching the match unfold through the rain. Now he was on it—thrown into a physical battle that was more intense than anything he'd experienced in training. His first touch came thirty seconds after entering, a simple pass from Pereira that he controlled cleanly but without confidence. The pace was faster than he'd anticipated. The challenges harder. The space tighter.
He positioned himself at left-back, marking Páez when Rivergate attacked down their right. The winger tested him immediately—a quick turn, a burst of acceleration. Luna stayed with him, his positioning adequate but not comfortable. When Páez cut inside, Luna's challenge was slightly late. No foul called, but the winger had created the yard of space he needed. His cross went into the box, and Fernández headed it clear.
Luna was adjusting. Not smoothly, but incrementally. Each touch, each positioning decision, becoming marginally more confident.
Montevideo tried to build possession with ten men, but the numerical disadvantage was showing. Every pass required more precision because there was less margin for error. When Matías received the ball in midfield, he was immediately closed down by two Rivergate players. His pass to Cabrera was slightly forced, and Castro intercepted.
Rivergate countered.
Castro played it forward to Ledesma, who immediately looked for Olivera. The captain collected it in space, thirty meters from goal, and drove forward. Montevideo's defense was scrambling—Fernández tracking Olivera, Álvarez covering the central channel, Luna marking Díaz on the left.
Olivera played it wide to Páez on the right. The winger took one touch and crossed low into the box. The delivery was dangerous, aimed at the penalty spot where both Díaz and Rojas were arriving.
Álvarez stepped across to intercept, but the wet ball skidded off his boot instead of being cleared cleanly. It deflected at an awkward angle—not toward safety but directly into the path of Rojas, who was five meters from goal.
The midfielder didn't have time to set himself. He just stuck his foot out, making contact more by instinct than design. The ball deflected off his shin, changing direction completely, spinning past Rodríguez's dive. The goalkeeper had committed to covering the original trajectory—the deflection left him helpless.
The ball crossed the line.
Rivergate 2 - 1 Montevideo
Rojas stood there for a moment, like he wasn't sure what had happened. Then his teammates were on him, celebrating a goal that was more fortune than skill but counted exactly the same. Their small crowd was cheering, relief mixing with excitement.
On the pitch, Montevideo's players didn't drop their heads. Fernández slammed his fist against his thigh once—frustration at the deflection—but was already turning toward his teammates. Matías was calling out immediately.
"¡Vamos! We've been here before! Nothing changes!"
Cabrera was nodding, positioning himself for the kickoff. Benítez—the substitute striker who'd replaced Roque—was clapping his hands together, demanding energy. Even Luna, still adjusting to the intensity, was organizing his positioning with renewed focus.
They weren't settling. The goal hadn't broken them. If anything, it had clarified something: they had nothing to lose now. Down a goal. Down a man. The only option was to fight.
Torres kicked off to Matías, who immediately played it wide to Cabrera. The right midfielder took one touch and drove forward. Castro closed him down, but Cabrera's positioning was better now—he used the space, cut inside, and played it to Pereira, who had pushed higher into Silva's vacated midfield role.
Pereira controlled it and immediately looked for Benítez. The pass was threaded between two defenders, arriving at the striker's feet just as he reached the edge of the box. Benítez took one touch to set himself, but Mendoza was already closing. The striker played it backward to Matías under pressure.
The captain struck it first time from twenty meters. The shot was low, driven, aimed for the bottom corner. Gutiérrez dove, getting a hand to it, deflecting it just wide of the post.
Close. Montevideo creating chances despite being down to ten men.
The corner was delivered by Cabrera, curling toward the near post. Fernández rose highest, but Mendoza was positioned perfectly, heading it clear. The ball went out to the edge of the box where Vargas was waiting. He struck it first time on the volley—a powerful effort that was rising toward the top corner. Gutiérrez leaped, getting fingertips to it, deflecting it over the bar.
Another corner. Montevideo's pressure wasn't relenting.
What was visible now, in the desperation and determination, was everything they'd learned. Not from tactics written on a board, but from three weeks of training with someone who saw the game differently.
Matías's positioning wasn't just reactive anymore—he was anticipating where space would open before it did, moving into passing lanes that wouldn't exist for another two seconds. That was Che's influence, absorbed through repetition.
Cabrera's first touch under pressure had improved. The heavy controls that had plagued him earlier in the season were being replaced by sharper, more economical touches. That was from drilling with someone whose technical standard was higher than anyone else at their level.
Even Fernández's defensive positioning—the way he stepped to cut off passing lanes instead of just marking the nearest attacker—reflected the tactical understanding that had been seeping into the squad through osmosis.
They were using it. All of it. The spatial awareness, the positioning discipline, the belief that they could compete against teams that were supposed to be better. It was visible in every decision, every movement, every refusal to accept the scoreline as inevitable.
On Rivergate's bench, their assistant coach was watching with an expression that had shifted from frustration to something closer to respect. He leaned toward his head coach.
"They're still fighting. Down a man, down a goal, and they're still creating chances."
The head coach nodded, arms crossed. "That's what happens when a team believes in itself. They're not better than us technically. But they're refusing to accept they're beaten."
Olivera was calling out to his teammates—"Stay focused! Don't give them space!"—but his voice carried an edge of concern. Rivergate was still winning, still had the numerical advantage, but they weren't comfortable.
Montevideo won another corner after Torres's shot was deflected wide. The delivery came in—another dangerous ball toward the penalty spot. This time, Álvarez got his head to it, directing it toward goal from six meters out. Gutiérrez was positioned perfectly, catching it despite the pressure.
The goalkeeper held it for a moment, trying to waste time, but the referee gestured for him to continue. Gutiérrez rolled it out to Vega, who immediately played it forward to Núñez.
The defensive midfielder took one touch and struck from distance—a speculative effort that was more about relieving pressure than genuine scoring intent. Rodríguez collected it easily.
Montevideo built from the back again. Rodríguez to Fernández to Matías. The captain was immediately pressed by Ledesma, but his first touch took him away from the challenge. He played it wide to Cabrera, who drove forward with renewed purpose.
The right midfielder reached the edge of the box and crossed low. Benítez arrived at the near post, getting his foot to it, but the contact was awkward. The ball deflected wide.
Another chance created. Another opportunity wasted by the finest margin.
The pattern was relentless. Montevideo attacking with everything they had, Rivergate defending their lead but looking increasingly uncomfortable. The numerical advantage wasn't translating into control—it was just forcing Montevideo to be more efficient with every possession.
Luna won a tackle on the left side, dispossessing Páez cleanly. The substitute was finding his rhythm now, his positioning more confident, his challenges better timed. He played it inside to Pereira, who immediately looked for Matías.
The captain controlled it and drove forward, creating space. He played it to Torres on the right, who cut inside and struck from twenty meters. The shot was powerful but rising—it cleared the crossbar by a meter.
Across the city, Ramón's car navigated through Saturday afternoon traffic with controlled urgency. They'd dropped Che's mother back at the factory—she'd asked to be returned so she wouldn't lose the entire shift's pay—and now were heading toward the stadium.
Che was in the passenger seat, his leg bouncing with unused energy. His phone showed 11:47. The match would be past the hour mark now. His team playing without him. His team fighting.
"How far?" Che asked.
"Ten minutes," Ramón said, taking a turn slightly faster than was probably safe. "Maybe less."
The car accelerated through a yellow light. Outside the window, the city passed in a blur—buildings, streets, people going about their Saturday routines completely unaware that somewhere across town, a football match was being decided that mattered more to Che than anything else.
At the stadium, Montevideo earned another corner after Cabrera's cross was deflected out by Soria. The players pushed forward again, refusing to acknowledge exhaustion, refusing to accept the scoreline.
The corner was delivered. Bodies collided in the box. The ball deflected off someone and went out for a throw-in.
The rain continued. The pitch was deteriorating further. Both teams were covered in mud, their kits indistinguishable from each other except for the numbers on their backs.
Ramón's car pulled into the stadium parking area at 11:52. Che was out before the engine fully stopped, his boots already laced, his kit ready. Ramón followed, both of them running toward the entrance where they could hear the match continuing—voices, whistles, the sound of competition that hadn't stopped despite everything.
They arrived at the touchline just as Montevideo won another free kick thirty meters from goal.