Silva's celebration was brief—arms raised, a shout of pure release, then immediately turning back toward his own half. Montevideo's players converged on him with controlled energy, quick embraces and words of encouragement before dispersing. They were level, but twenty minutes remained. Nothing was decided yet.
Nacional kicked off with visible frustration. Ibarra touched it back to Suárez, who played it immediately to Figueroa. The defensive midfielder took two touches, looking for options, but Montevideo's press was immediate. Che closed from the front, Robles tracked Cardoso's movement, and suddenly the comfortable passing lanes that had existed in the first half weren't there.
Figueroa played it backward to Méndez under pressure. The center-back tried to switch play to Quintana on the right, but his pass was slightly heavy. Esteban intercepted before the right-back could control it, and Montevideo transitioned.
The ball went to Cabrera, who drove forward five meters before playing it inside to Che. The attacking midfielder took one touch to set himself, now thirty meters from goal with space opening ahead. Benítez was making a diagonal run from the center, Silva was wide left calling for it, and Vargas was supporting from deeper.
Che's second touch pushed the ball forward, and he accelerated into the space. Cardoso closed immediately, recognizing the danger, but Che's change of direction was sharp—cutting right, then immediately left, creating separation. He was twenty-two meters from goal now, and Nacional's defense was scrambling.
He played it wide to Silva on the left. The winger took one touch and immediately crossed low toward the penalty spot. Benítez was arriving, Sosa trying to step across, their bodies colliding as both challenged for the ball. The contact sent it spinning toward Cabrera, who had continued his run from the right.
The winger struck it first time with his right foot, but Méndez threw his body in front. The block was desperate but effective, deflecting it out toward the touchline where it rolled harmlessly for a Nacional throw-in.
Close. Montevideo's momentum was tangible now—not just defending and countering, but creating sustained sequences that looked like they belonged to the team with better technical quality.
Nacional built from the throw-in, but their circulation lacked conviction. Peralta to Figueroa to Cardoso. When the midfielder tried to play Suárez through centrally, Vargas read it and intercepted. Another Montevideo transition.
Vargas played it forward to Che, who turned smoothly away from Figueroa's challenge. He drove forward three meters, drawing both Cardoso and the defensive midfielder toward him, then played a simple pass to Robles on his right. The one-two bypassed Nacional's midfield completely, and suddenly Che was accelerating into space again with options developing around him.
Silva was sprinting down the left channel. Benítez was making his run through the center. Cabrera was overlapping on the right. Three options, and Nacional's defense was stretched trying to cover all of them.
Che pushed the ball forward with his right foot, committing Sosa to step out and challenge. The center-back had to make a decision—if he didn't engage, Che would drive straight at Vega. He stepped forward, and Che immediately played it left toward Silva's run.
The pass was weighted perfectly, arriving at Silva's feet just as he reached the edge of the box. Peralta was tracking him, but the winger's first touch took him inside, creating a yard of separation. He was twelve meters from goal with Vega positioning himself, with Sosa recovering desperately.
Silva struck it with his left foot, aiming for the far post. The shot was rising, curling, heading toward the top corner. Vega leaped, arm fully extended, but the trajectory was perfect—
Cardoso appeared from nowhere.
The midfielder had sprinted thirty meters to get back, his lungs burning, his legs screaming. He reached Silva just as the shot was released, his hand grabbing the winger's shirt from behind—not subtle, not disguised, just a firm pull designed to disrupt the strike.
Silva felt it, his body jerking backward slightly. Not enough to prevent contact with the ball, but enough to affect the power and accuracy. The shot that would have found the top corner instead sailed just over the crossbar by half a meter.
The referee's whistle sounded immediately. His hand reached into his pocket.
Yellow card. Cardoso's second foul pulling an opponent's shirt in ten minutes. The first had been on Che during the buildup to Montevideo's second goal—a warning then, but no card because advantage had been played. This time, there was no advantage to give.
Cardoso accepted the yellow without protest, his hands raised in acknowledgment. He knew what he'd done. Better to give away a free kick from distance than allow a clear shot from twelve meters.
The free kick would be taken from thirty-two meters out—just outside the penalty area's extended arc, slightly left of center. Far enough that most players wouldn't even consider shooting. Close enough that with perfect technique, it wasn't impossible.
Che walked toward the ball, his mind already calculating angles. The System activated, overlaying his vision with trajectory lines, showing him wind direction, goalkeeper positioning, defensive wall formation.
FREE KICK ANALYSIS - 32 meters, 15 degrees left of center
Optimal trajectory: High curve, dipping late Target zone: Top right corner (Vega's positioning favors near post) Wall coverage: 4-5 players expected, blocking near post angle Required power: 82-85 km/h for dip timing Success probability: 18% (accounting for distance, angle, wall positioning)
Che placed the ball carefully on the spot the referee had indicated, adjusting it slightly so the valve faced down. He stepped back three paces, his eyes moving from the ball to the goal, measuring the distance, feeling the grass beneath his boots.
Everyone was watching now. Montevideo's players positioned themselves outside the penalty area, ready to challenge for rebounds if the shot was saved or blocked. Nacional's defense organized their wall—five players, Figueroa, Cardoso, Suárez, and two others, arranged to block the near post angle completely.
In the stands, someone laughed. Not cruelly, just disbelief. "He's not actually going to shoot from there, is he?"
"That's thirty meters," another voice said. "Maybe more. No way he scores from that distance."
On Montevideo's bench, Matías leaned toward Ramón. "Is he shooting?"
"Looks like it," the coach said, his expression unreadable.
"That's really far."
"I know."
On Nacional's side, their coach watched Che's preparation with growing concern. Something about the thirteen-year-old's body language—the calm, the precision in how he'd placed the ball—suggested this wasn't bravado. The kid believed he could score.
"Wall up!" Nacional's goalkeeper Vega shouted, positioning himself slightly toward the far post, anticipating that if Che did shoot, he'd try to curl it around the wall's right edge. "Hold your positions!"
Che took a deep breath, his eyes locked on the target area—not the entire goal, but a specific zone in the top right corner where the angle and distance converged into a space Vega couldn't easily reach even if he read it correctly.
His teammates had stopped moving. Fernández was standing at the edge of the penalty area, his hands on his hips, watching. Silva was positioned for a potential rebound, but his attention was entirely on Che. Even Benítez had stopped his usual movement, just standing there, waiting to see what would happen.
The crowd had gone quiet. Not complete silence—there were still scattered conversations, some people not paying attention—but the noise level had dropped enough that Che could hear his own breathing, could feel the weight of the moment settling around him.
He took three more steps back, giving himself space for the run-up. His right foot would strike it, his left providing balance and direction. The approach angle was slightly diagonal, not straight-on, to generate the curve he needed.
The referee raised his whistle to his lips, checking both teams were ready. He blew it once.
Che began his run-up.
Three strides, building momentum but not rushing. His eyes stayed locked on the ball until the final moment, when they shifted to the target zone. His left foot planted beside the ball, his body leaning slightly left to generate the curve. His right foot made contact with the inside portion of the ball, striking it just below center.
The sound of impact carried across the pitch—a clean connection that everyone recognized as perfect technique. The ball lifted immediately, rising over the wall with curve that was visible from the moment it left his boot. It traveled high and fast, the trajectory arcing toward the right side of the goal.
Vega saw it clear the wall and reacted instantly. He'd positioned himself for a shot around the right edge, and the ball was going exactly where he'd anticipated. He pushed off, diving to his right, arms extending toward where the trajectory would bring it.
But the ball was still rising. Still curving. And then, as it reached the apex of its flight, it began to dip.
The curve was extreme—bending through the air like physics had decided to demonstrate every principle of spin and aerodynamics simultaneously. It was heading for the top right corner, but the dip brought it down faster than a normal shot would drop. Vega's hands were reaching, his body horizontal in mid-air, but the angle was impossible.
The ball struck the inside of the right post with a sound that cracked across the pitch. For a fraction of a second, it looked like it might bounce back out. Then it crossed the line and settled into the side netting.
Nacional 2 - 3 Montevideo
Time stopped.
Che stood where his follow-through had left him, his right leg still extended, his body frozen in the shooting position. His arms began to rise slowly, not in celebration but in something closer to disbelief. His face showed shock mixing with recognition that what he'd just attempted had actually worked.
Then his arms spread wide. He turned toward the stands—not running, not jumping, just standing there with his arms open, facing the small crowd that had grown throughout the match. His expression was pure, unfiltered emotion that had nowhere else to go.
The crowd's reaction was delayed, like they needed time to process what they'd witnessed. Then the noise came—not cheering exactly, more like collective astonishment finding voice. People were standing, some with their hands on their heads, others clapping slowly like they'd just seen something that required acknowledgment even if they didn't fully understand it.
His teammates reached him seconds later. Matías was off the bench first, sprinting onto the pitch despite not being in the match. Silva grabbed Che's shoulders from behind, shouting something incomprehensible. Robles arrived with Vargas, both of them laughing with energy that came from pure disbelief. Even Fernández, usually composed, was grinning as he jogged toward the celebration.
The entire Montevideo squad converged at the spot where Che had struck the ball, their voices rising together, hands grabbing shoulders and heads, everyone trying to process that their thirteen-year-old attacking midfielder had just scored from thirty-two meters with a free kick that looked like it belonged in a professional match highlight reel.
On Nacional's side, the silence was absolute. Vega was still on the ground where his dive had ended, staring at the ball in his net. Méndez stood at the edge of the wall, his hands on his head. Even their coach was motionless, his clipboard hanging forgotten at his side.
Then the coach moved. He turned sharply toward his bench, his voice cutting through the stunned silence. "You two. Start warming up. Now."
Two players who'd been sitting comfortably, probably assuming they wouldn't feature today, looked up in surprise. Their coach's expression left no room for questions. They grabbed their warm-up gear and began jogging along the touchline.
The coach didn't explain. He didn't need to. Everyone understood what the substitutions meant: the plan had failed. The one-man team narrative had been exposed as insufficient. And now, with fifteen minutes remaining and his team trailing by a goal, he needed to change something before this match slipped away completely.