Nacional threw everything forward. The tactical discipline that had defined their play for seventy minutes dissolved into pure attacking intent. Méndez pushed up from his center-back position, joining the attack like an extra midfielder. Quintana abandoned his right-back duties completely, positioning himself on the edge of Montevideo's penalty area. Even Vega had advanced to the halfway line, ready to launch himself forward if a set piece was awarded.
Montevideo's shape compressed into something that barely resembled a formation anymore—just bodies defending the penalty area, everyone marking space rather than specific players, surviving on instinct and desperation.
Number 14 received the ball thirty meters from goal, and for the first time all match, he had time. Real time. Montevideo's press had disintegrated under exhaustion, leaving him space to set himself, to scan the field, to see every option developing around him.
Che tried to close him down from ten meters away, his legs moving but without the explosive acceleration that had characterized his earlier pressing. Number 14 saw him coming and had already decided what to do before Che arrived.
The cross came from deep—not a hopeful punt but a precisely calculated delivery. Number 14 struck it with the outside of his right boot, generating curve that took it away from the near post and toward the back post area. The trajectory was high, giving it time to travel the full width of the penalty area, aimed at the space where defenders were least organized.
Montevideo's players tracked the ball's flight. Fernández was at the near post, Álvarez central, Torres somewhere in between. Luna was trying to cover the back post area, but he'd been dragged slightly central by number 11's movement.
The ball curved through the air, dipping as it approached the far post. And there, arriving with timing that suggested he'd read the delivery before it was struck, was number 11.
The striker had made his run from the edge of the area, accelerating into the space behind Luna's positioning. His movement was intelligent—not starting too early where he'd be tracked, but late enough that when he arrived, he was unmarked.
He met the ball at the back post, six meters from goal, with Rodríguez scrambling across his line but too far away to reach. The header didn't require power—just direction. Number 11 redirected it downward, using the ball's momentum, placing it inside the near post where no defender could block it.
The ball crossed the line before anyone could react.
Nacional 3 - 3 Montevideo
Number 11 turned immediately, sprinting toward the corner flag, his arms raised, his face showing relief more than joy. His teammates converged on him—Figueroa first, then Suárez, then the entire squad joining the celebration. Their voices rose together, not in triumph but in acknowledgment that they'd avoided disaster.
One minute remained on the clock. The fourth official held up the board showing the time, and Nacional's celebration stretched those seconds, taking as long as the referee would allow before forcing them to restart.
Montevideo's players stood scattered across the pitch, processing what had just happened. Fernández had his hands on his hips, staring at where the ball had crossed the line. Álvarez was bent over, hands on his knees, exhausted beyond measure. Even Rodríguez, who'd made saves all match, just collected the ball from his net with mechanical efficiency, his face showing nothing.
But they weren't devastated. Che saw it in how they moved—shoulders that should have been slumped with defeat staying mostly straight. Faces that should have shown crushing disappointment instead carrying something else. Recognition, maybe, of what they'd just accomplished.
The referee blew his whistle, signaling for Nacional to finish their celebration and reset for kickoff. Benítez touched the ball back to Che, who played it to Torres. The substitute defensive midfielder took one touch and launched it long toward Nacional's half—not attacking, just clearing space, running down the clock.
Nacional won the header and tried to build one more attack, but the referee's whistle sounded three times in quick succession before they could develop anything meaningful.
FULL TIME: Nacional 3 - 3 Montevideo
The contrast in reactions was immediate and stark.
Montevideo's players dropped where they stood, some to their knees, others sitting on the grass, chests heaving. But their faces showed something unexpected—smiles breaking through exhaustion, Cabrera laughing despite having nothing left in his legs, Torres shaking his head in disbelief at what they'd just survived.
Nacional's squad gathered near the center circle, their body language showing relief mixed with frustration. They'd avoided defeat, had clawed back from trailing 3-2 in the final minutes. But they'd been expected to win comfortably, and instead they'd been forced to fight desperately for a draw against a team that wasn't supposed to compete with them.
Matías was first off Montevideo's bench, sprinting onto the pitch despite not having played, pulling Che up from where the thirteen-year-old had dropped to his knees. "You insane kid! That free kick! That goal from nowhere!"
Fernández joined them, his arm around Álvarez's shoulders. "We held Nacional. We actually held them."
"Drew with the eighth-ranked team," Robles added, his voice hoarse from shouting all match. "Three-three against academy players."
The celebration was genuine but measured—they understood this was a draw, not a victory. One point instead of three. But the context made it feel like more. They'd trailed 2-0, fought back to lead 3-2, then survived the final onslaught to secure the draw.
On Nacional's side, their coach was speaking with the referee about something, his expression tight. When he turned back to his team, his voice carried frustration. "Changeroom. Now."
The academy players moved as a unit, their professionalism showing even in disappointment. But their captain—the midfielder who'd played the full ninety minutes—paused to shake hands with Matías. The gesture was perfunctory, professional, nothing more.
"You fought well," he said simply.
"So did you."
The Nacional captain nodded once and walked away, but his shoulders carried the weight of what this draw meant. His team had been favored to win Group C. They'd dominated possession for seventy minutes. And they'd let a school team—a team with one exceptional thirteen-year-old and ten players fighting beyond their limits—take points from them.
In the stands, the crowd that had grown to maybe a hundred people was dispersing. Conversations carried across the emptying stands—people processing what they'd witnessed, trying to reconcile Montevideo's previous four-nil victory with this performance against significantly better opposition.
"That number ten," someone said. "Did you see that free kick? From thirty meters?"
"The whole team fought," another voice replied. "Not just him. Everyone."
Ramón gathered his squad near the touchline as they prepared to leave. His expression showed pride mixed with pragmatism. "One point. Against the eighth-ranked team. That's huge for group standings."
"We could've won," Cabrera said, his voice carrying no complaint, just statement of fact.
"We could've lost," Ramón countered. "They had us under siege for the final fifteen minutes. We survived because we refused to quit. That matters more than the point."
Che stood slightly apart from the group, his new boots covered in grass stains and dirt, his kit soaked through with sweat and effort. His legs were trembling—not from emotion but from pure physical exhaustion. Seventy-five minutes as the primary creative outlet, tracked constantly by academy players who'd been training professionally for years.
The System displayed his performance data, the numbers clinical and precise.
MATCH PERFORMANCE ANALYSIS
Che Hernandez | 75 minutes played vs. Nacional (Academy)
Goals: 2 (Solo run from own half, 32-meter free kick) Assists: 0 (Key passes leading to both Montevideo goals in first comeback) Pass Completion: 78% (31/40) under sustained pressure Dribbles: 8/12 successful Distance Covered: 8.2km Defensive Actions: 9
Final Stamina: 12% (Critical exhaustion)
Technical Grades: First Touch: B+ (Declining final 15min under fatigue) Vision: A- (Maintained despite physical deterioration) Press Resistance: B (Physical disadvantage exploited by fresh academy players) Finishing: A (Two high-difficulty goals converted)
Overall Match Grade: A (93%) XP Gained: +680
CHE HERNANDEZ → LEVEL 8 Progression: 290/3,500 to Level 9
NEW TRAIT UNLOCKED: Clutch Performer (B-) Ability to execute high-difficulty actions in critical match moments. Performance quality maintained or improved under pressure situations.
CRITICAL ANALYSIS: Performance against academy-level opposition demonstrates current ceiling. Technical execution excellent, decision-making elite, but physical limitations remain exploitable by players with professional training regimens. Nacional's substitutions in final twenty minutes exposed stamina deficiency—fresh academy players physically overwhelmed exhausted school-level opposition.
Tactical Note: Draw represents significant achievement given opposition quality, but final fifteen minutes showed what happens when physical capacity reaches zero regardless of technical ability or tactical understanding.
Che closed the display, feeling the weight of seventy-five minutes settling into his muscles. He'd scored two goals that would be remembered. Had created chances that changed the match. Had performed at a level that forced academy players to take him seriously.
But he'd also been completely exhausted in the final fifteen minutes. Had been unable to help defensively when Nacional pushed forward. Had watched his team defend desperately while he stood too far away to contribute, too tired to sprint back.
The tournament wasn't over. Two matches remained in group stage. And Montevideo had just proven they could compete with teams everyone expected to dominate them.
But they'd also shown their limitations. And every team watching would have seen exactly where those limitations existed.
The game ended with a 3-3 draw, but the Montevideo players weren't sad but happy with the draw, but the opposition were relieved with a draw but they weren't happy they drew to a team they expected to beat.