The shift was immediate. Where Montevideo had been defending with desperation five minutes ago, now they pressed with aggression that bordered on reckless. Robles won a fifty-fifty against Cardoso through sheer commitment, his challenge late enough that the referee raised his hand in warning. Vargas fouled Suárez just as the attacking midfielder tried to turn, earning a whistle but stopping Nacional's buildup before it could develop.
Nacional still controlled possession—their technical superiority couldn't be erased by one goal—but their circulation had lost its purpose. Figueroa received the ball in his own half and instead of immediately looking forward, he played it sideways to Sosa. The center-back took two touches, scanning for options, then passed it back to Vega.
The goalkeeper collected it and held it, trying to reset Nacional's rhythm. But when he distributed to Peralta on the left, Cabrera was already pressing. The left-back's pass inside to Figueroa was hurried, the weight slightly off. Figueroa controlled it but couldn't turn—Che was already closing, forcing him to play backward again.
"They're scared," Silva said to Pereira as they jogged back into position. Not loud enough for Nacional to hear, just an observation between teammates. "Watch how they're playing. They're afraid of another counter."
Pereira nodded, noticing it too. Nacional's midfielders weren't pushing as high anymore. Cardoso, who'd been bombing forward to support attacks in the first thirty minutes, now stayed deeper, positioned to track back if possession was lost. Even Suárez's positioning had dropped—operating fifteen meters deeper than before, linking play but not taking the risks that had created their early chances.
The ball circulated across Nacional's backline again. Méndez to Sosa to Quintana. The right-back tried to play it forward to Oliveira, but his pass was intercepted by Pereira. Montevideo transitioned immediately, but Nacional recovered quickly, forcing the clearance. Back and forth, neither team establishing sustained pressure.
The referee checked his watch and raised his whistle.
HALFTIME: Nacional 2 - 1 Montevideo
Nacional's changeroom carried tension that hadn't existed after their second goal. Players sat on benches, drinking water, some staring at the floor. Their coach stood at the front, arms crossed, his expression showing frustration mixed with calculation.
"They're a one-man team," he said, his voice carrying authority that demanded attention. "Number ten. Che Hernandez. That's their entire threat. Everything dangerous they create goes through him or comes from him."
Suárez looked up from retaping his ankle. "He's good, Coach. Really good."
"I know he's good. That goal proved it—dribbled past three of you like you weren't there." The coach's tone wasn't angry, just matter-of-fact. "But he's one player. Thirteen years old. Playing against an entire academy squad. The only reason they scored is because of his individual brilliance, not because their system works."
He gestured toward the tactical board, though he didn't write anything on it. "Second half, we play the same way we started the first. High press, patient possession, create chances. If number ten gets the ball in dangerous areas, foul him. Tactical fouls. Don't let him run at our defense like he did before. But don't change our entire approach because of one moment."
Méndez raised his hand. "What about their other players? They're fighting harder now."
"They got one goal back and found some confidence. That happens. But their technical quality hasn't changed—they're still limited. Keep the ball, make them chase, they'll tire themselves out again. Second half, we finish this."
Across the corridor, Montevideo's changeroom buzzed with energy that had been absent fifteen minutes ago. Ramón stood near the tactical board, but he wasn't pointing at formations or drawing plays. He was just looking at his squad, seeing the transformation Che's goal had created.
"You can win this," Ramón said simply. "Not might win. Can win. You just proved that when you create chances, you can finish them. When you defend with discipline and explode on the counter, you're dangerous. That hasn't changed."
Matías leaned forward from his seat. "They're better than us technically. Everyone knows that."
"So what?" Ramón's voice carried challenge rather than question. "Technical quality matters less than belief. Right now, they're questioning themselves. They dominated for thirty minutes and you're only down one goal. That's in your heads, and it's in theirs too."
He pointed toward the door, toward where Nacional was preparing in their own changeroom. "Second half, they'll try to control possession again. Let them. Stay compact, stay disciplined. But when you win it—and you will win it—go forward with everything. Don't hesitate, don't play safe. If we're going to lose this match, we lose it trying to win, not just trying to survive."
The squad absorbed this in silence. Then Fernández stood, his voice carrying determination. "We fight. All forty-five minutes. No matter what the score is."
"All forty-five," Álvarez agreed.
One by one, the team rose, their energy infectious. They'd trailed 2-0 and clawed one back. Why not find another?
The second half began with Nacional pressing high immediately, trying to reclaim the dominance they'd held in the first half's opening. Their passing was sharp again—Figueroa to Cardoso to Suárez, building with the same patient precision that had suffocated Montevideo earlier.
But Montevideo had adjusted. When Nacional tried to play through the center, Robles and Vargas compressed space more aggressively. When Costa received the ball wide, Esteban and Cabrera double-teamed him before he could drive forward. The defensive structure wasn't just organized—it was aggressive, forcing Nacional into decisions before they could settle.
The match compressed into genuine competition. Nacional created a half-chance when Oliveira cut inside and struck from distance, but Rodríguez saved comfortably. Montevideo countered when Silva won the ball on the left, but his cross was overhit and sailed out for a goal kick. Back and forth, both teams creating moments without converting them.
Fifty-fifty. That's what it looked like to everyone watching—two teams of equal quality fighting for control, neither able to impose themselves completely.
Then Che forced the issue.
Nacional was building from the back, Quintana receiving the ball near the right touchline in his own half. His first touch was slightly heavy, the ball bouncing ahead of him more than intended. Che saw it from his position centrally—saw Quintana's weight distribution wrong, saw the space opening if he could just get there fast enough.
He sprinted from his central position toward the right side, abandoning his shape, gambling that he could win the ball before Quintana recovered. The right-back saw him coming and tried to play it quickly to Cardoso, but Che's positioning cut off that angle. Quintana's only option was to try turning with it.
Che arrived as Quintana's second touch arrived. The tackle was clean—Che's right foot making contact with the ball before the player, winning it cleanly and accelerating away in one movement. Quintana tried to recover, reaching out, but Che was already gone.
Suddenly Che was driving forward from Nacional's right defensive area, the ball at his feet, space opening ahead. He cut inside, now twenty meters inside Nacional's half, and played a simple pass to Vargas in the center. The defensive midfielder took one touch and immediately returned it—another one-two, this time bypassing Figueroa's positioning.
Che was accelerating toward Nacional's defensive third, and their backline was scrambling. Méndez and Sosa were communicating frantically, organizing who would step to Che and who would cover Benítez's run. Cardoso was sprinting back, trying to help defend.
But Nacional's coach's halftime words were echoing in Cardoso's mind: One-man team. Everything goes through number ten. Don't let him run at our defense.
Che was twenty-eight meters from goal, driving forward, and Cardoso made his decision. He grabbed Che's shirt from behind—not subtle, not disguised, just a firm pull designed to stop the attack before it developed.
Che felt the tug and started to fall, his momentum carrying him forward even as Cardoso's grip pulled him back. But as he went down, his right foot pushed the ball forward—not a pass exactly, more of a desperate shove toward where Silva was making a run on the left.
The ball rolled ahead just as Che hit the ground. The referee's whistle sounded, his arm raised. "¡Ventaja! Advantage!"
Cardoso released Che's shirt immediately, his hands going up in acknowledgment. But his eyes went wide as he realized the ball had still traveled forward, that Silva was collecting it, that the attack was continuing despite the foul.
Silva controlled the ball thirty meters from goal, slightly left of center. Che was still on the ground behind him, Cardoso standing over him. Nacional's defenders had relaxed for a split second—the foul had been obvious, they'd expected the whistle to stop play. But the referee was waving play on, and suddenly they were scrambling to reorganize.
Silva took one touch forward, seeing space opening as Nacional's shape was caught between defending and expecting a free kick. He played it inside to Robles, who had continued his run forward after the initial one-two with Che. The defensive midfielder took it in stride and immediately played it wide to Cabrera on the right.
The quick combination—three passes in five seconds—had completely bypassed Nacional's midfield. Now Cabrera was driving at Peralta on the right wing, and Nacional's defense was still adjusting from the moment they'd thought was stopped.
Cabrera reached the edge of the box and crossed low toward the penalty spot. His delivery was dangerous, aimed at the space between Nacional's center-backs where Benítez was arriving.
Sosa tried to step across, cutting off the passing lane, but Benítez's positioning was perfect. The striker got his foot to it, redirecting toward goal from six meters out. His contact wasn't clean—the ball deflected off his shin rather than his boot—but it was heading toward the net.
Vega reacted instinctively, diving to his right, getting a hand to it. The save was spectacular, but he couldn't hold it. The ball spilled to his left, rolling toward the goal line.
Bodies converged. Méndez was sprinting back desperately. Fernández was arriving from deeper, having pushed up for the corner they'd been expecting before the advantage. The ball was loose, bouncing once, rolling toward the six-yard box.
Silva got there first. The winger had continued his run after playing the initial pass, his positioning taking him toward the far post. The ball arrived at his feet with Vega on the ground, with Méndez arriving a half-step too late.
Silva didn't try to be clever. He just swung his right foot through the ball, making contact slightly off-center but with enough power to send it toward the empty goal. Méndez threw his body across, trying to block it on the line, but the trajectory was wrong. The ball passed his shoulder and crossed the line before anyone else could reach it.
Nacional 2 - 2 Montevideo