Matías won possession in the center circle after Núñez's pass was intercepted by Juárez. The midfielder immediately played it forward to Cabrera on the right. The winger took one touch to control the wet ball, then drove at Castro, forcing the left-back to retreat.
Cabrera reached thirty-five yards from goal and looked up. The penalty area was congested—Rivergate's defense compressed into a tight block, Benítez marked closely by Mendoza. No clear passing lane existed. The space ahead was open, but shooting from this distance seemed desperate.
He struck it anyway.
The connection was clean, the ball driven low with his right foot, rising slightly as it covered the distance. Gutiérrez was positioned well, moving across his goal to cover the angle. He dove to his right, getting both hands to it, but the wet ball made it difficult to hold. It deflected off his palms, the power still carrying it forward.
The ball spun back into play, rolling toward the penalty spot where bodies were already converging. Benítez had anticipated the possibility—the striker's positioning wasn't luck but instinct, reading where a deflection might go before it happened. He arrived first, ahead of both Mendoza and Soria.
The goal was open. Gutiérrez was still on the ground, scrambling to recover. The defenders were a step too late.
Benítez struck it with his right foot from eight meters out. No backlift. No time for precision. Just contact, driving the ball toward the empty net.
It crossed the line before anyone could reach it.
Rivergate 2 - 3 Montevideo
For a fraction of a second, there was silence. Then everything exploded.
Benítez turned, arms raised, his face splitting into disbelief and joy mixed together. His teammates were already sprinting toward him—Matías from midfield, Cabrera from the right, even Fernández abandoning his defensive position to join the celebration.
On the bench, Che was moving before his mind consciously registered the goal. He was running toward the pitch, the other substitutes following, all of them converging on the mass of bodies near the penalty area. García reached Benítez first, grabbing his shoulders. Juárez was shouting something incomprehensible. Even Luna, who'd been thrown into chaos an hour ago, was jumping with energy he shouldn't have had left.
Montevideo's small section of supporters were screaming. Parents, siblings, the few locals who'd stayed to watch—all on their feet, voices rising above the rain.
The celebration lasted maybe fifteen seconds before Álvarez's voice cut through it.
"¡Vuelvan! Get back! It's not over!"
Ramón was shouting from the technical area, gesturing for the squad to reset. "¡No se relajen! Don't relax! Stay focused!"
The players separated, jogging back toward their positions. Che returned to the bench, but he remained standing, his hands gripping the railing that separated the touchline from the pitch. Four minutes left. Maybe five with injury time. Anything could happen.
Rivergate kicked off with desperation visible in every movement. They'd gone from controlling the match to losing it. Their earlier confidence had evaporated, replaced by frantic urgency.
Olivera touched it to Ledesma, who immediately played it forward to Rojas. The midfielder drove at Juárez, trying to force him into a mistake, but the substitute held his ground. Rojas played it wide to Páez, who cut inside and struck from distance.
The shot was powerful but rising. It sailed over Rodríguez's crossbar by two meters. Rivergate's finishing was deserting them when they needed it most.
Montevideo built from the goal kick with patience that belied their exhaustion. Rodríguez to Fernández to Robles. The defensive midfielder took one touch and immediately played it forward to Matías.
The captain was being pressed by Ledesma, but his first touch took him away from the challenge. He drove forward three meters, then played it wide to Cabrera. The winger held it, drawing Castro toward him, then played it backward to preserve possession.
Time-wasting now. Not cynical, just pragmatic. Every second the ball was in Montevideo's control was a second Rivergate couldn't equalize.
Rivergate pressed higher, committing more bodies forward. Núñez pushed up from his defensive midfielder role. Their fullbacks were almost playing as wingers. The tactical balance had collapsed into attack-at-all-costs desperation.
This created space in transition. When Fernández intercepted a pass intended for Olivera, Montevideo suddenly had numbers going forward. Fernández to Matías. Matías to Benítez, who had dropped deep to collect.
The striker held it up, feeling Soria's pressure from behind. He played it wide to Cabrera, who was being tracked by Castro but had the yard of space he needed. The winger drove forward, reaching the edge of the box.
He could have shot. Should have, maybe. But Mendoza was closing, and the angle was tight. Cabrera cut back inside instead, looking for support. Matías was arriving, calling for it.
The pass came, but Núñez intercepted—a desperate lunge that won the ball but left him on the ground. Rivergate countered immediately.
Ledesma collected it and played it forward to Olivera. The captain drove at Montevideo's defense with determination that bordered on recklessness. He reached the edge of the box and struck.
The shot was powerful, aimed at the near post. Rodríguez was positioned well, but the ball was moving quickly. He dove, getting a hand to it, deflecting it out for a corner.
Rivergate's last real chance. They pushed everyone forward—even Gutiérrez was standing at the edge of his penalty area, preparing to move up for the corner if needed.
The delivery came in with pace, aimed at the penalty spot. Bodies collided. Soria got his head to it, but Fernández was positioned perfectly, getting enough contact to deflect it away from goal.
The ball went out to the edge of the box where Juárez was waiting. He controlled it and immediately launched it downfield—a clearance that sent the ball sailing toward Rivergate's half, buying precious seconds.
The referee checked his watch. Injury time had to be minimal—maybe two minutes at most.
Rivergate built one more attack. Vega to Núñez to Ledesma. The midfielder played it forward to Olivera, who was being marked by Robles. The captain tried to turn, but the defensive midfielder's positioning was too good. The ball broke loose, and Matías was there, clearing it upfield.
The referee raised his whistle.
Three short blasts.
FULL TIME: Rivergate 2 - 3 Montevideo
The Montevideo players collapsed where they stood—some dropping to their knees, others bending over with hands on their thighs. Not celebration yet, just the physical release of ninety minutes of fighting with ten men against opponents who should have beaten them.
Then the realization hit. They'd won. Not just survived—won.
Matías was the first to move, pulling Fernández up by his shoulders. Benítez was sitting on the wet grass, staring at nothing, his face showing disbelief. Cabrera was already running toward the small section of supporters, arms raised.
On the bench, Che was surrounded by the other substitutes, all of them jumping, shouting, releasing everything they'd been holding back. He'd watched it happen from fifteen meters away, unable to influence it directly, but part of it nonetheless.
Ramón and Álvarez were shaking hands, both of them soaked through, exhausted, but allowing themselves small smiles. The assistant coach had made the call—trust the players to finish what they'd started. And they had.
Rivergate's players walked slowly toward their bench, shoulders slumped, the weight of the loss visible in every step. They'd been the better team on paper. They'd had the numerical advantage. They'd led twice. And they'd lost anyway.
Montevideo's squad gathered near the center circle, arms around shoulders, voices mixing together. They'd won the first qualifier. One down, two to go. But right now, in this moment, that didn't matter.
What mattered was they'd proven something—to Rivergate, to the scouts watching, to themselves. That belief and fight could overcome talent and experience. That ten men could beat eleven. That a team everyone expected to lose could find a way to win.