Thirty minutes had passed, and the scoreboard told a story that contradicted every expectation the three boys in the stands had brought with them.
Montevideo 2 - 0 Los Pinos
"How?" one of them said, his voice carrying genuine confusion. "They looked terrible in warmups."
"Los Pinos must be having a bad day," the other suggested. "Missing passes they normally make, getting caught in transition—"
"No." The first boy cut him off, his eyes still locked on the pitch. "Los Pinos is playing their normal game. Montevideo's just better organized for what they can actually do."
He pointed toward Che, who was repositioning himself between Los Pinos's midfield and defensive lines as the opposition tried to build another attack. "Watch number ten. Everything goes through him. He doesn't have a goal or assist on the stat sheet, but every dangerous counter starts because he makes the right decision at the right time."
His teammate squinted at the pitch. "He's just passing it simple though. Nothing spectacular."
"Exactly. That's what makes it effective." The first boy leaned forward slightly. "He's not trying to dribble through three defenders or play impossible balls. He receives under pressure, turns, finds the open man. Simple football executed perfectly when it matters most."
"So he's... good at the basics?"
"He's exceptional at the basics. Which at this level is often more valuable than being flashy." The boy paused, studying Che's movement as Los Pinos's midfielder Delgado attempted another pass through the center. "But I have this feeling he's got more. Like he's holding back, only doing what's necessary instead of what he's capable of."
On the pitch, Robles intercepted Delgado's pass before it could reach Ríos. The defensive midfielder's challenge was clean, winning the ball and immediately playing it backward to Álvarez to relieve pressure. Los Pinos pressed high, trying to win it back immediately, but Montevideo's structure absorbed the pressure.
Álvarez played it to Pereira on the left. The left-back took one touch and found Che, who had dropped deep near the halfway line to create a passing option. Castro was already closing from his left-wing position, trying to prevent Che from turning.
Che's first touch took the ball across his body, away from Castro's press. His second touch opened up his stance, and suddenly he was facing forward with space ahead. Los Pinos's defensive shape was still organized—their center-backs holding position, their full-backs tracking Montevideo's wingers—but the space existed on the right side where Cabrera had drifted wide.
Forty meters separated them—Che on the left side of the halfway line, Cabrera near the right touchline in Los Pinos's half. The pass would have to travel the entire width of the pitch, switching play completely, bypassing four Los Pinos players if executed correctly.
Che struck it with the inside of his right foot, putting weight and curve on the ball. It traveled high across the field, dipping as it reached the opposite touchline. Ramírez, Los Pinos's right-back, was tracking Cabrera's run but had positioned himself to defend an inside cut. The ball arrived behind him, and Cabrera collected it in stride with space opening ahead.
The transition was immediate. Silva was already sprinting down the left channel, reading the switch before it happened. Benítez was making his diagonal run from the center, dragging Núñez out of position. Three Montevideo attackers against three Los Pinos defenders, but the momentum was entirely with the attacking team.
Cabrera drove toward the byline, and Ramírez had to make a decision—commit to the challenge or hold position and wait for support. He committed, stepping forward aggressively.
Cabrera's touch took him past the defender's left shoulder, getting him to the byline before Ramírez could recover. The cross came low and driven, aimed at the near post where Benítez had timed his arrival perfectly.
The striker didn't need to adjust. The ball was exactly where it needed to be. He redirected it with his right foot from four meters out, the contact simple but effective. Martínez dove desperately, but the angle was impossible. The ball crossed the line before his hand could reach it.
Montevideo 3 - 0 Los Pinos
Benítez turned, arms raised, his face showing disbelief at completing a hat-trick in his first tournament match. His teammates converged on him, but the celebration was measured—professional, almost. They were winning comfortably, but the match wasn't over.
In the stands, the three boys sat in stunned silence.
"That's three," one finally said.
"All from counters," the other added. "Every single goal came from winning the ball and immediately going forward."
The first boy was nodding slowly, his expression showing something between respect and calculation. "Los Pinos doesn't know what to do. They have the ball, but they're scared to commit forward because every time they lose it, Montevideo punishes them. And number ten—" he gestured toward Che, "—is making it worse. That pass just now, switching play forty meters? That's not basic football. That's vision most players at this level don't have."
Los Pinos kicked off with visible frustration. Their touches were heavier now, their passes slightly rushed. The psychological impact of trailing by three goals was showing in their execution. When Campos tried to play Torres through the center, his weight was wrong, and Vargas intercepted easily.
Another Montevideo counter began, but this one broke down when Silva's first touch was heavy and rolled out for a throw-in. The pattern continued—Los Pinos trying to build attacks while managing the fear of being caught in transition, Montevideo defending with discipline and exploding forward whenever space appeared.
"The game's over," the first boy said, standing. "We should leave."
"You sure?" his teammate asked. "Still thirty minutes left."
"Doesn't matter. Los Pinos is broken. They're not coming back from three-nil, not against a team this organized." He started moving toward the exit. "We've seen what we needed to see."
His teammates followed, their voices fading as they left the stands. Behind them, the match continued with the same pattern—Los Pinos possessing the ball without creating danger, Montevideo waiting for mistakes and capitalizing ruthlessly.
The second half began with Los Pinos making two substitutions, trying to inject fresh energy into their attack. But Montevideo's approach didn't change. Compact defensive shape, quick transitions, ruthless efficiency when opportunities appeared.
In the fifty-third minute, another counter developed after Robles won possession in midfield. He played it immediately to Che, who turned and drove forward five meters before finding Cabrera on the right. The winger's cross found Benítez arriving at the back post, and the striker's header was perfect—placed just under the crossbar where Martínez had no chance of reaching it.
Montevideo 4 - 0 Los Pinos
Benítez's fourth goal. A complete performance from a striker who'd been invisible for large stretches but had finished every clear chance created for him.
Ramón began his substitutions in the sixtieth minute. Che came off first, replaced by Torres in midfield. As the thirteen-year-old jogged toward the touchline, his teammates on the bench stood to greet him—hands reaching out for high-fives, voices calling encouragement. He'd played exactly as the system demanded—simple, effective, making the right decisions without forcing moments that didn't exist.
Four more substitutions followed over the next twenty minutes as Ramón rotated the squad, giving playing time to reserves who hadn't featured in the qualifiers. Los Pinos created a few half-chances in the final fifteen minutes, but nothing that genuinely threatened. Rodríguez was barely tested, making one routine save when Moreno finally managed a shot from distance.
The final whistle sounded with the scoreboard unchanged.
FULL TIME: Montevideo 4 - 0 Los Pinos
Montevideo's players gathered at the center circle, their celebration measured but genuine. They'd won their first tournament match convincingly, had executed the tactical plan perfectly, and had proven they belonged at this level.
Che stood with Cabrera and Silva near the touchline, all three of them breathing hard despite being substituted. The first match was complete. The performance had been professional, controlled, exactly what Ramón had prepared them for.
"Four-nil," Silva said, still processing. "In our first tournament match."
"Benítez with four goals," Cabrera added, shaking his head. "He's going to be impossible to deal with now."
Che smiled but said nothing. The scoreline was impressive, but he understood what it really represented—confirmation that their approach worked, that counter-attacking football could be effective against teams with more technical ability, that the month of preparation had been worth it.
But this was just the beginning. Los Pinos had been their weakest group opponent. Nacional's academy team was still waiting. And the tournament had thirty-one other teams, many of whom would be significantly better than what they'd faced today.
The celebration continued around them, teammates embracing, coaches offering congratulations. Che's new boots were dirty now, grass-stained and scuffed from sixty minutes of competitive football. They'd performed exactly as he'd hoped—comfortable, reliable, a reminder of why this journey mattered.
But the journey was just starting. And Montevideo understood that winning one match, no matter how convincingly, meant nothing if they couldn't sustain it.