The substitution board went up on both sides almost simultaneously. Nacional's changes were announced first—number 9 off, number 11 on. Number 8 off, number 14 on. Fresh legs, tactical adjustments, a coach recognizing that his original approach had been exposed.
Ramón made his own changes. Vargas came off, replaced by Torres—a defensive midfielder with fresher legs to help absorb the pressure that would inevitably come. Pereira was substituted for Luna at left-back, the defender visibly exhausted after seventy minutes of tracking Nacional's right winger. Silva limped off, his hamstring tight, replaced by Juárez on the left wing.
The new Nacional striker—number 11, a lean forward with the predatory movement of someone who lived in the penalty area—jogged onto the pitch and immediately positioned himself on the last line of Montevideo's defense. Not dropping deep to link play, not drifting wide. Just hovering between Fernández and Álvarez, his eyes constantly scanning for space behind them.
Their new midfielder—number 14—took up position beside Figueroa in the center. His first touch as he received a pass from Cardoso showed why he'd been brought on—clean, economical, immediately finding Suárez with a pass that split Montevideo's midfield. The circulation had purpose again.
Nacional pressed forward with renewed conviction. The ball moved faster now, their shape more aggressive. Number 14 received it from Quintana and played a quick combination with Suárez—one-two, bypassing Robles completely. Suddenly Suárez was driving at Montevideo's defensive line, and the new striker was already moving, anticipating the through-ball.
It came perfectly weighted, splitting Fernández and Álvarez. Number 11's run had been timed exactly—staying onside by inches, accelerating into the space behind. He was through, twelve meters from goal, only Rodríguez to beat.
The striker struck it first time with his right foot, but the connection was rushed. The ball rose quickly, too quickly, sailing over the crossbar by two meters. He slammed his fist against his thigh in frustration—the chance had been perfect, and he'd wasted it.
"Stay focused!" Vega shouted from Nacional's goal, sensing his team's momentum building. "Keep pressing!"
They did. Every clearance Montevideo attempted came straight back. Rodríguez's goal kick was headed down by Méndez to number 14, who immediately switched play to Costa on the left. The winger drove at Luna, forcing the substitute left-back to backpedal desperately. Costa's cross came in dangerous and low, aimed at where number 11 was arriving at the near post.
Fernández got his body in front, the ball deflecting off his shin and out for a corner. Nacional's fifth corner of the match.
The delivery was driven toward the penalty spot. Bodies collided—Álvarez, Méndez, number 11 all jumping simultaneously. The new striker got his head to it, redirecting it toward goal from six meters out. Rodríguez reacted instinctively, diving to his left, getting both hands to it. The save was spectacular, deflecting it onto the post.
The ball rebounded back into play, spinning toward the edge of the box. Number 14 was arriving, his positioning perfect. He struck it first time on the volley, but Torres threw his body in front. The block was desperate, the ball deflecting off his chest and out for another corner.
"Hold!" Fernández was shouting to his defense, organizing their positioning. "Stay compact!"
Montevideo's shape was compressed now, everyone defending inside their own penalty area except for Che and Benítez. The attacking midfielder tracked back to help, but his legs were heavy with seventy-five minutes of constant pressing and running. Every sprint required conscious effort.
Nacional's second consecutive corner came in toward the back post. Álvarez won the header, directing it away from danger, but only as far as Figueroa at the edge of the box. The defensive midfielder controlled it and played it wide to Oliveira on the right.
The winger cut inside, creating a yard of space, and struck from twenty meters. The shot was rising, curling toward the top corner. Rodríguez leaped, getting fingertips to it, deflecting it just over the crossbar. Another corner.
The third consecutive corner. Montevideo's players were exhausted, their movements slower, their communication less sharp. Torres was bent over with his hands on his knees between defensive actions. Luna was limping slightly, his fresh legs already feeling the intensity. Even Fernández, who never stopped working, looked like he was operating on determination alone.
The delivery came in high toward the penalty spot. Number 11 rose above everyone, his positioning and timing perfect. His header was powerful, aimed at the bottom corner. Rodríguez dove desperately, but the trajectory looked good—
The ball struck the inside of the left post with a metallic crack. It rebounded across the goal face, rolling toward the six-yard line where three Nacional players were converging. Álvarez threw himself forward, 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.
The center-back stayed down for a moment, chest heaving, then forced himself back to his feet. Nacional was attacking again before Montevideo's defense could fully reorganize.
Che received the ball near the halfway line after Torres won a tackle and immediately tried to drive forward, to relieve the pressure, to create something that would give his teammates a moment to breathe. He took three strides before number 14 closed him down, the midfielder's positioning cutting off the forward angle.
Che tried to turn away, but his legs wouldn't respond the way they had earlier. The fatigue was showing in his first touch, in his acceleration, in the sharpness that had defined his performance. Number 14 won the ball cleanly, and Nacional transitioned again.
Figueroa to Suárez. The attacking midfielder played it forward to number 11, who had dropped slightly to create space. The striker's back was to goal, Fernández pressing from behind, but his first touch was clean. He shielded it, turned his head to scan, and played it backward to number 14, who was arriving from deeper.
The midfielder struck it first time from twenty-two meters, but Rodríguez was positioned perfectly. He caught it cleanly, holding it for a moment, trying to waste time, trying to give his team a breath.
The referee gestured for him to continue—no time-wasting. Rodríguez launched it long, but Nacional won the header easily. The ball came straight back.
The pattern was relentless. Nacional attacking with waves of pressure, Montevideo defending with desperation that was increasingly fragile. Every clearance required maximum effort. Every challenge left players slower to recover. The substitutes—Torres, Luna, Juárez—were doing better than the exhausted starters, but even they were feeling the intensity.
Che tried to help defensively, tracking back to his own penalty area, but his positioning was reactive rather than proactive. He couldn't read Nacional's patterns the way he had in the first half. His body was telling him it was done, that seventy-five minutes against academy players who rotated constantly was beyond what a thirteen-year-old could sustain.
But the score remained 3-2. Somehow, through desperation and determination and Rodríguez making saves that shouldn't have been possible, Montevideo held.
Nacional won another corner after Luna's clearance went out under pressure from Costa. Their eighth corner of the second half. Number 11 positioned himself at the near post, Fernández marking him tightly. The delivery came in fast, and both jumped simultaneously.
The ball deflected off someone—impossible to tell who—and spun toward the far post. Oliveira was arriving, completely unmarked, his positioning perfect. He struck it from four meters out, but Álvarez appeared from nowhere, throwing his body across the goal line. The ball struck his shoulder and deflected over the crossbar.
Another corner. The ninth. Montevideo's players were holding on through pure will now, their technical execution deteriorating under exhaustion, but their commitment unwavering.
The referee checked his watch. The fourth official raised the board indicating additional time: four minutes.
Four minutes. Two hundred and forty seconds. That's all that remained between Montevideo and victory against the eighth-ranked team in the tournament.
National attacked with everything they had left. The corner was cleared, but they won it back immediately. Number 14 to Figueroa. The defensive midfielder to Suárez. The attacking midfielder driving forward, forcing Montevideo's defense deeper. He played it wide to Costa, who crossed toward the penalty spot for the twentieth time.
Number 11 was there, his movement intelligent, his positioning always finding space. His header was powerful, aimed low. Rodríguez dove, got a hand to it, couldn't hold it. The ball spilled to his right, rolling toward the goal line.
Torres slid desperately, his body horizontal, his foot reaching. He made contact just before number 11 could strike the rebound, sending it out for yet another corner.
The players could barely stand. Fernández was calling out instructions, but his voice was hoarse. Álvarez was bent over between defensive actions. Che had his hands on his knees near the halfway line, too far from the play to help, too exhausted to sprint back.
But the score was still 3-2. And four minutes of additional time was ticking away.