The tunnel echoed with footsteps as both teams emerged for the second half. Montevideo's players moved with energy that suggested renewed purpose—their body language showing focus rather than frustration, determination rather than doubt. The halftime talk had provided something they'd needed. Direction. A plan.
The referee checked both teams were ready, positioned the ball at the center circle, and raised his whistle.
One sharp blast.
Técnico kicked off, Ibarra touching it back to Suárez. The midfielder took one touch and immediately played it to Olivera, who had already stepped forward from his defensive position into the space between lines. The libero's first touch was forward-facing, his second opened his body to scan options.
The circulation was patient, controlled. Técnico's possession-based approach resuming exactly as it had dominated the first half. Olivera to Gómez to Morales on the right. The winger drove at Pereira, forcing the left-back to retreat. The cross came in dangerous but Fernández headed clear.
The ball broke to Robles in midfield. The defensive midfielder controlled it and immediately looked for Che, who had dropped deep near his own penalty area to create the passing option.
Gómez was already there. Positioned three meters away, his body angled to cut off Che's turning space. The shadow marking that had been implemented in the final ten minutes of the first half was continuing—Técnico's adjustment to neutralize Montevideo's creative hub.
But this time, something was different.
FLASHBACK: Halftime - Montevideo's Changeroom
The squad sat scattered across benches, some with their heads down, others drinking water mechanically. The exhaustion was physical and mental—forty-five minutes of defending desperately, creating nothing dangerous, watching their primary attacking approach get identified and shut down.
Ramón stood near the tactical board, waiting for the noise to settle. When it did, his voice carried calm authority that demanded attention.
"They're marking Che," he said simply. "We all saw it. Final ten minutes of the half, their midfielder followed him everywhere. Made it impossible for him to turn, to create. They've identified that everything goes through him, and they're shutting it down."
Che sat on the bench, his expression neutral but his mind processing. The adjustment had been smart. Effective. And it would continue in the second half unless Montevideo changed something.
"So we use it," Ramón continued. "If they want to commit a midfielder to following Che everywhere, we use him as a decoy. Draw that midfielder out of position, create space for everyone else."
He turned to the board, drawing quick lines. "Che, when we have possession in midfield, you move. Not to receive necessarily, but to pull their marker with you. Create space in areas we want to attack. Vargas, Robles—you exploit those spaces. Cabrera, Silva—your runs become more important because Che won't be the one carrying it forward."
Matías raised his hand. "What if they don't follow him?"
"Then he receives and creates like he's been doing all tournament," Ramón said. "But if they commit to the shadow marking, we turn their adjustment into our advantage."
Che absorbed this, understanding his role was transforming from primary creator to tactical chess piece. It wasn't what he wanted—he wanted the ball, wanted to orchestrate attacks, wanted to be directly involved. But if his movement without the ball created chances for his teammates, that was enough.
"Make it subtle," Ramón added, looking directly at Che. "Don't make it obvious you're creating space. Move naturally, like you're looking to receive. Let their defender follow, and when he does, the gaps open elsewhere."
PRESENT: The Attack
Minutes had passed since kickoff, the pattern similar to the first half. Técnico controlling possession, Montevideo defending compactly. But now, Montevideo's counter-attacks were developing differently.
Vargas won the ball in midfield, his tackle on Suárez clean and aggressive. The ball broke to Silva on the left, who controlled it and immediately drove forward. Técnico's high positioning left space, and Montevideo's transition was developing.
Che was positioned centrally, and Gómez was shadowing him exactly as Olivera had instructed. But as Silva drove down the left channel, Che began moving—not toward the ball, but away from it. Drifting right, his movement pulling Gómez with him.
The shift was subtle. Not an obvious run, just repositioning like he was looking for a passing angle from Silva. But the effect was immediate—Gómez followed, and the central space Che had vacated was suddenly open.
Vargas saw it. The defensive midfielder had continued his forward run after winning possession, and now the channel Che had abandoned was available. He sprinted into it, calling for the ball.
Silva played it inside, the pass weighted perfectly. Vargas collected it in stride, now thirty meters from goal with Benítez making a run ahead and Cabrera overlapping on the right.
Olivera read it half a second too late. He'd been watching Che's movement, anticipating that the attack would still flow through the attacking midfielder despite the shadow marking. By the time he recognized Che was creating space rather than occupying it, Vargas was already accelerating into the gap.
But Martínez was already moving. His partner's delayed recognition didn't panic him—he just adjusted his own positioning, shifting left to cover the space Vargas was exploiting. The recovery was instinctive, his speed remarkable for someone his size.
Vargas saw Martínez closing and played it right to Cabrera, whose overlapping run had taken him into space behind Ríos's positioning. The winger controlled it and drove toward the penalty area.
Montevideo's attack was flowing now, momentum building. Three attackers—Cabrera with the ball, Benítez making a diagonal run, Silva arriving late from the left. And crucially, the space Olivera should have been occupying was open because he'd been focused on Che's movement.
This was the plan. Create space through Che's decoy movement, exploit it before Técnico could reorganize.
Cabrera reached the edge of the penalty area and cut the ball back toward the space between Técnico's center-backs. Benítez was arriving, but Martínez had recovered enough to challenge. Both jumped for the ball, neither getting clean contact.
It fell to Silva, who had continued his run from the left. The winger was twelve meters from goal, the ball at his feet, Campos positioning himself but the angle difficult.
But Olivera had been too focused on the initial space, too relaxed when Martínez covered it. He didn't see Silva arriving until the winger was already striking.
Silva's shot came with his left foot, driven low toward the near post. The technique was clean, the placement good. Campos dove, getting a hand to it, but couldn't hold it. The ball deflected off his palm and rolled toward the goal line.
Time seemed to slow as everyone watched its trajectory. The spin was taking it toward the post, the speed decreasing as it traveled. It struck the inside of the post and crossed the line before spinning back out into the six-yard box.
Montevideo 1 - 0 Técnico del Sur
The sound that erupted from Montevideo's small section of supporters was disproportionate to their numbers. Silva turned immediately, not celebrating but grabbing the ball from the net, his teammates converging on him with shouts and embraces that showed relief mixing with joy.
They'd scored. Against the best defense in the tournament. After forty-five minutes of being dominated, they'd found the breakthrough.
On the pitch, Olivera stood near where Silva had struck the shot, his hands on his head. The goal had come from his positioning error—being too focused on Che, too relaxed when Martínez covered the space, not recognizing Silva's late arrival until it was too late.
I should have seen that, Olivera thought, the frustration immediate and sharp. Should have tracked the runner, should have been there.
Martínez had seen Silva's movement developing. From his position slightly left of where he should have been, he'd started sprinting to recover, his legs pumping with maximum effort. His speed was elite—he covered the distance faster than should have been possible for his size—but the angle was wrong. He arrived half a second after Silva struck, his desperate slide coming too late to block.
The ball was already crossing the line when Martínez's boot reached where it had been.
Olivera jogged toward his partner, his expression showing self-recrimination. "My fault. I was watching their ten, didn't track the runner. Should have—"
"Don't," Martínez interrupted, his voice sharp in a way Olivera had never heard before. "We'll get it back. We'll score. We'll make sure of it."
Olivera looked at him, surprised by the intensity. Martínez's expression showed something Olivera had never seen in their entire partnership. His jaw was tight, his eyes focused with absolute determination. This wasn't the casual, carefree partner who treated football like an extracurricular. This was someone who refused to accept defeat.
"You're sure?" Olivera asked, the question coming automatically.
"I'm sure," Martínez said, his tone carrying weight that left no room for doubt. "Now get ready. We score next."
Olivera stared at his partner's eyes and saw complete seriousness there—no trace of the usual relaxed demeanor, no hint of the perspective that football was just a game. Just pure, focused determination to fix what had gone wrong.
He'd never seen Martínez like this before. And somehow, that made the goal they'd just conceded feel less devastating and more like a challenge his partner was ready to answer.