MATCH: Escuela Técnica Superior Montevideo vs. Instituto San José
U15 High School Tournament - Qualifier Round 2
MONTEVIDEO STARTING XI (4-2-3-1):
GK: Rodríguez RB: Esteban | CB: Fernández | CB: Álvarez | LB: Pereira CDM: Robles | CDM: Vargas RM: Cabrera | CAM: Che Hernandez | LM: Silva ST: Benítez
SAN JOSÉ STARTING XI (4-2-3-1):
GK: Morales RB: Ferreira | CB: Costa | CB: Suárez | LB: Miranda CDM: Rivas | CDM: Cardoso RW: Medina | CAM: González | LW: Sebastián Ortega ST: Acosta
Both teams emerged from the tunnel into late morning light that had broken through the earlier cloud cover. The crowd had grown since Montevideo's arrival—maybe a hundred and fifty people now scattered across the stands. Students wearing school colors occupied entire sections—San José's blue and white on one side, Montevideo's red and black on the other. The noise was constant, voices rising and falling, creating atmosphere that elevated this beyond just another qualifier.
Che walked beside Matías—the captain had been given the day off from starting, moved to the bench to manage his workload after playing ninety minutes with ten men last week. The lineup shift meant Che was starting for the first time in a competitive match. Not coming on as a substitute. Not waiting for the second half. Starting.
His boots felt solid beneath him—the repairs had held through warm-ups, the industrial adhesive his mother had applied creating bonds that showed no signs of weakening. The right sole stayed flush against the upper. The left boot's split remained sealed. They'd carry him through this match.
Near the technical area, Ramón stood with his arms crossed, watching both teams take their positions. Álvarez was beside him, clipboard in hand.
"He's earned this," Ramón said quietly, gesturing toward Che. "Three weeks of the hardest training I've seen from a thirteen-year-old. Every morning before anyone else arrives. Every drill executed perfectly. He deserves to start today."
Álvarez nodded. "And if San José underestimates him because of his age, that's their mistake."
"They will," Ramón said. "They've been watching Ortega for weeks. They think this match is about him. They haven't prepared for Che."
The referee gathered both captains for the coin toss. Montevideo won, choosing to receive. The teams spread across the pitch—Montevideo's 4-2-3-1 slightly more compact than San José's, their two defensive midfielders positioned to control the center, Che operating in the space between midfield and attack where he could receive the ball facing forward.
San José's formation mirrored theirs, but their intent was different. Sebastián Ortega positioned himself wide on the left, giving himself space to attack one-on-one against Esteban. The right-back would have his hands full today—everyone in the stadium knew it.
The referee checked both teams were ready. Raised his whistle.
The match began.
Benítez touched it back to Che at the center circle. The ball arrived cleanly, and for a moment, Che had time—San José's press wasn't immediate, their shape giving Montevideo space to build. He took one touch forward, surveying options. Robles was positioned to his right. Silva had width on the left. Cabrera was making a run down the right channel.
Che played it to Robles, then immediately repositioned himself, moving into space between San José's midfield and defensive lines. The System was already active, showing him passing lanes, highlighting where pressure would come from.
Robles took one touch and played it back to Fernández. The center-back looked upfield, but San José's press was arriving now—Acosta closing from the striker position, González cutting off the central passing lane. Fernández played it sideways to Álvarez under pressure.
San José won the ball. Álvarez's pass was slightly underhit, and González intercepted before it could reach its target. The midfielder didn't hesitate—one touch forward, immediate pass to his left.
Sebastián Ortega.
The crowd's noise level jumped instantly. Students in San José's section were already on their feet. Scouts' pens moved across clipboards.
Ortega collected the ball thirty-five meters from Montevideo's goal, wide on the left side of the pitch. Esteban was already positioned to defend, but the right-back's body language showed awareness of what he was facing—this wasn't just any winger. This was someone being watched by Nacional's academy. Someone with pace that could destroy defenders in one-on-one situations.
Ortega's first touch was perfect—the ball sticking to his boot like it was connected by invisible thread. He took one look at Esteban, reading the defender's positioning, then exploded forward.
The acceleration was immediate and violent. Not just fast—explosively fast, the kind of pace that left defenders flatfooted. Esteban backpedaled, trying to contain without committing, but Ortega was already at full speed. The winger cut inside with his right foot, creating separation, and suddenly he was in the channel between Esteban and Fernández.
Che was tracking back, recognizing the danger, but he was fifteen meters away. Robles was moving to cover, but Ortega had already created the space he needed.
The crowd was roaring now—not just San José's supporters, but everyone who appreciated pure athletic ability. An older man in the stands leaned toward his companion, shouting over the noise.
"¡Mirá eso! Look at that pace! That's why Nacional wants him!"
His companion was nodding, already pulling out his phone to record. "Kid's going to be special. Watch—he's going to embarrass someone today."
Ortega drove forward another five meters, now twenty-five meters from goal with only Fernández between him and Rodríguez. The center-back held his position, refusing to be drawn out, but Ortega wasn't trying to dribble through him. He played the ball inside to González, who had continued his run from midfield, arriving at the top of the box.
González took one touch and struck. The shot was powerful, rising toward the top corner. Rodríguez dove, getting fingertips to it, deflecting it over the bar.
San José's corner. Twenty seconds into the match.
Their small section erupted. Students were chanting Ortega's name. Scouts were making notes. Even Montevideo's supporters had to acknowledge what they'd just seen—that was elite-level talent, the kind that separated academy prospects from school players.
On the pitch, Che was processing what had just happened. Ortega's acceleration wasn't just fast—it was a weapon. Esteban had been positioned correctly, had done everything right technically, and still got beaten. That level of pace changed how you had to defend, how you had to organize your entire defensive shape.