Chapter 60: Under Siege
The pattern established itself with brutal efficiency. Nacional controlled the ball with a comfort that made possession look easy—Figueroa to Cardoso, back to the center-backs, wide to the wingers, then central again through Suárez. Their circulation was relentless, each pass pulling Montevideo's defensive shape slightly, testing for cracks that might open under sustained pressure.
Montevideo chased shadows. When Che pressed Figueroa, the defensive midfielder had already released the ball to Cardoso. When Robles stepped to challenge Suárez, the attacking midfielder found Costa on the wing with a simple pass that bypassed the pressure entirely. Every time Montevideo thought they'd closed a gap, Nacional found another angle.
The few times Montevideo touched the ball, it was desperate rather than controlled. Fernández won a header from Nacional's long ball and could only direct it toward the touchline, hoping Silva could collect it. The winger reached it, but Quintana was already pressing. Silva's first touch was heavy under pressure, and the ball rolled out for a Nacional throw-in.
Thirty seconds of possession. That was all Montevideo could manage before the cycle repeated.
Álvarez intercepted a pass intended for Ibarra, his positioning perfect, his timing clean. But when he looked up to play it forward, no options existed. Che had dropped deep to show for the ball, but Figueroa was already marking him. Cabrera was wide right, but Peralta had him covered. The passing lanes were suffocated before Álvarez could exploit them.
He played it backward to Rodríguez under pressure from Ibarra. The goalkeeper collected it and immediately booted it long—not toward teammates but toward space, hoping someone could win the second ball. Méndez headed it comfortably back to Figueroa, and Nacional began building again from their defensive third.
The crowd was starting to murmur. Not loud conversations, just the ambient noise of people beginning to question what they were watching. Someone behind the Montevideo bench said something about "lucky first match" that carried just far enough to be heard.
On the pitch, Montevideo's players were focused but straining. Every sprint to press was slightly slower than the last. Every recovery run required conscious effort. Nacional wasn't just technically superior—they were fresher, their rotation and movement patterns designed to tire opponents who had to work twice as hard just to stay organized.
Suárez received the ball thirty meters from goal, facing forward. Robles closed immediately, but the attacking midfielder's first touch took him away from the pressure with minimal effort. He played it wide to Oliveira, who had drifted inside from the right wing, dragging Pereira out of position.
The winger took one touch and played a quick combination with Cardoso—a one-two that bypassed Vargas completely. Suddenly Cardoso was driving into the space behind Montevideo's midfield, and their defensive line had to drop to prevent him from running through completely.
He reached the edge of the penalty area before Álvarez stepped out to challenge. The center-back's positioning was good, forcing Cardoso wide, cutting off the shooting angle. Cardoso passed it backward to Suárez, who had continued his run forward after the initial involvement.
The attacking midfielder struck it first time from twenty-two meters, but his connection was slightly off. The ball rose over Rodríguez's crossbar by a meter. Goal kick.
Close. Too close. Montevideo's defenders communicated quickly—Fernández calling for Robles to track Suárez's late runs, Álvarez reminding Pereira about Oliveira's tendency to drift central.
But the pressure kept coming. Nacional's corner was cleared only to the edge of the box, where Figueroa controlled it and immediately played it back to Peralta on the left. The left-back whipped in a cross toward the far post. Rodríguez came off his line, calling for it, but misjudged the flight slightly. The ball sailed over his outstretched hands.
Fernández was there at the back post, heading it clear desperately. The clearance went only as far as Cardoso, who struck it first time from distance. The shot was powerful but rising, clearing the crossbar by two meters.
Another corner. Nacional's pressure was becoming suffocating.
This corner was delivered toward the near post with pace, curling away from Rodríguez but toward the cluster of players. Bodies jumped—Fernández, Álvarez, Méndez, Ibarra all converging in the six-yard box. Someone got a touch, redirecting it toward goal.
Rodríguez reacted instinctively, diving to his right, getting a hand to it. The save was spectacular, deflecting it onto the post. The ball rebounded back into play, rolling toward the penalty spot where three Nacional players were converging.
Vargas threw himself into the space, sliding to clear it before anyone could strike. His clearance was desperate but effective, sending the ball thirty meters upfield and out for a Nacional throw-in. He stayed down for a moment, chest heaving, then forced himself back to his feet.
Montevideo's defensive line reset, everyone communicating, everyone aware that the next wave was already building.
Costa received the throw-in on the left, fifteen meters inside Montevideo's half. Esteban was positioned to defend, but the winger's first touch took him inside, creating separation. He drove five meters forward before playing a diagonal pass toward Ibarra, who had dropped deeper to create space.
The striker's back was to goal, Fernández pressing from behind. But Ibarra's touch was clean, shielding the ball, his positioning making it impossible for Fernández to challenge without fouling. He played it to Suárez, who had drifted to the right side to receive.
One touch to control, a second to set himself. Suárez struck it with his left foot from twenty meters, aiming for the bottom corner. The trajectory looked good—low, dipping, heading toward the post. Rodríguez dove, getting both hands to it, but couldn't hold it. The ball spilled out to his right.
Oliveira was arriving, his run perfectly timed. He struck it first time from eight meters, but Álvarez had recovered into position, throwing his body in front. The shot deflected off the center-back's chest and out for another corner.
Nacional's fifth corner in fifteen minutes. Their pressure was unrelenting, and Montevideo's resistance was starting to show cracks.
The delivery came in fast—a driven ball toward the penalty spot with pace that made it difficult to defend. Méndez rose highest, meeting it with his forehead. His contact was good, but the angle sent it slightly wide of the near post. Goal kick.
Rodríguez collected the ball, holding it for a moment, trying to waste time. But the referee gestured for him to continue—no time-wasting allowed. He launched it long again, hoping for any relief.
Sosa won the header comfortably, directing it back to Figueroa. Nacional was attacking again within five seconds.
The pattern continued. Nacional building with patient precision, Montevideo defending with desperate organization. Every clearance came back stronger. Every moment of possession was fleeting.
Then Nacional found the breakthrough.
Figueroa received the ball in his own half and played a long diagonal to Costa on the left wing. The pass was perfect—fifty meters, weighted precisely, arriving at Costa's feet just as he reached the halfway line. Esteban was already tracking him, but the winger's first touch pushed the ball forward, accelerating into the space.
He reached the edge of the penalty area, and Esteban had to commit. The right-back stepped across, trying to force Costa away from the dangerous central area. But the winger's next touch cut inside sharply, creating a yard of separation.
His cross came fast—not high toward the back post but driven low and hard, a mid-height ball that curved away from Rodríguez but toward the six-yard box. The delivery was unexpected, the pace making it difficult to defend or clear.
Ibarra had timed his run perfectly, arriving at the near post ahead of both Fernández and Álvarez. He didn't try to control it or adjust—just redirected it with the inside of his right foot. The contact was simple but clinical. The ball changed direction, slipping past Rodríguez's dive and crossing the line before the goalkeeper could react.
Nacional 2 - 0 Montevideo
Ibarra turned immediately, running toward the corner flag, his celebration showing the confidence of someone who'd known it was coming. His teammates converged—professional acknowledgments, quick embraces, then preparing for the restart. This was expected. This was what academy teams did to school-level opponents.
In the stands, the murmuring grew louder. Someone said "fluke" loud enough that multiple people heard. Another voice agreed—"They got lucky against Los Pinos. This is their real level."
A woman near the halfway line checked her phone. "Thirty minutes played. If it stays like this at halftime, we can leave. Match is over."
Her companion nodded but didn't commit yet. "Let's see what they do now. If they get one back before the break, maybe they fight in the second half."
On the pitch, Montevideo's players were processing the second goal. Fernández slammed his fist against his thigh once—frustration at being beaten on the run, at not tracking Ibarra's movement better. Álvarez was bent over with his hands on his knees, breathing hard. Even Rodríguez looked defeated, his shoulders slumped despite making several good saves already.
Che stood near the center circle, his mind racing through what needed to change. Nacional was better—that wasn't in question. But the gap wasn't insurmountable if Montevideo could just keep the ball for more than thirty seconds, could build something instead of constantly defending.