Che was fifteen meters away now. Twelve. The space between them closing with every stride. He looked right toward Cabrera, his body shape suggesting the pass was coming. Olivera read it immediately, shifting his weight to cut off that angle.
But Che played it left instead—a driven pass toward Silva, who had continued his overlapping run and was now in space on the left side of the penalty area. The winger's first touch was clean, taking him toward the byline with Martínez forced to commit.
Silva looked up and saw Benítez arriving at the penalty spot, Cabrera making a late run from the right. The cross came in low and driven, aimed between both defenders toward where the striker would arrive.
But Martínez had already calculated it. The moment Silva's body shape indicated where the cross would go, the defender adjusted his positioning. Not stepping fully to Silva—that would leave Benítez unmarked—but angling his body so that when the cross came, he was directly in its path while still maintaining awareness of the striker behind him.
The ball struck Martínez's outstretched leg and deflected, but not out for a corner. The defender's positioning ensured it deflected toward Olivera, who had held his ground centrally rather than committing to either attacker.
Olivera controlled the deflection with his first touch, his body immediately shielding it from Che's press. Benítez was closing from behind, trying to win it back, but Olivera's strength and positioning made it impossible to dispossess him without fouling. The defender's body was low, his center of gravity perfect, using his size to protect the ball while scanning for his next option.
Cabrera sprinted toward him from the right, trying to apply pressure from a different angle. But Olivera had already seen it. He took one more touch, creating just enough space, and played it simple—a pass back to Campos in goal. Perfect weight, rolling directly to the goalkeeper's feet.
No panic. No desperate clearance launched downfield. Just controlled defending that neutralized three attackers without ever looking threatened, ending with possession returned safely to their keeper.
In the stands, the young man gestured at the pitch with visible frustration. "They got lucky there. Should've been a goal—we had them three against two."
His grandfather shook his head slowly, his eyes never leaving the pitch. "That wasn't luck, mijo. Watch how the center-back positioned himself for the cross. He knew where it was going before the winger struck it. And the tall one—he didn't commit to the ball carrier because he understood his partner would handle it. That's planning. That's excellence."
The young man frowned, unconvinced. "Looked lucky to me."
"That's why you're watching from the stands and they're being scouted by professional clubs," his grandfather said, not unkindly. "Experience teaches you to see the difference."
On the pitch, Che stood near the edge of the penalty area, his chest heaving, staring at both defenders. They'd stopped the counter without fouling, without desperation, without even allowing a clear shot attempt. Everything about that defensive sequence had been calculated.
"Unlucky," Cabrera called, jogging back toward midfield. "We had them outnumbered. Bad bounce off the defender."
"Should've scored," Silva agreed, his tone showing frustration. "That deflection killed us."
But Che knew better. That wasn't unlucky. That wasn't a bad bounce. That was intelligence. Anticipation. Martínez had positioned his body knowing exactly where Silva's cross would go, ensuring that even if he didn't block it cleanly, the deflection would go to his partner rather than to Montevideo's attackers.
Olivera and Martínez were walking back into position, both smiling. Not arrogance—just confidence born from executing exactly what they'd trained for. Their teammates were congratulating them—Gómez clapping once as he jogged past, Suárez nodding approval, even Campos raising a hand in acknowledgment from his goal.
The defensive sequence had been textbook, and everyone on Técnico's side knew it.
The match continued. Técnico resumed their possession-based approach, building patiently from the back with Olivera orchestrating from his libero position. Their shape was aggressive again—both full-backs pushing high into Montevideo's half, both strikers staying advanced, midfielders operating in the final third. Only Olivera and Martínez held deeper positions, standing together near the halfway line.
The entire team was committed to attack, ten players operating in Montevideo's territory, probing for the breakthrough that would validate their defensive confidence.
Montevideo absorbed the pressure with the same discipline they'd shown all match. When Morales tried to cut inside from the right, Pereira's positioning forced him backward. When Gómez attempted a through ball to Ibarra, Fernández stepped across to intercept. Every attack was met with organized resistance that refused to break.
Then Robles won possession in midfield, his tackle on Suárez clean but aggressive. The ball broke loose toward Vargas, who controlled it and immediately looked forward.
Transition.
Space was opening—Técnico's commitment to attack left massive gaps that could be exploited. Vargas drove forward three strides and played it to Silva on the left. The winger's first touch was perfect, taking him past Santos's recovery attempt.
Che was sprinting through the center, calling for it. "¡Silva!"
The pass came to him, driven and accurate. Che's first touch redirected it immediately toward Cabrera on the right, who had already begun his overlapping run. The winger collected it in stride, now driving at Costa with space opening ahead.
Four Montevideo attackers. Silva recovering on the left after his initial pass. Cabrera with the ball on the right. Benítez making his diagonal run through the center. And Che following the play, providing support.
Four against two. Again.
On Montevideo's defensive line, Fernández was watching Técnico's recovery runs. Gómez was tracking back, yes, but without real urgency. Suárez was jogging rather than sprinting. Morales on the far side was making an effort, but his body language showed he wasn't desperate to arrive.
They're not worried, Fernández realized, the observation hitting him with sudden clarity. They trust those two completely. They know they'll handle it.
Cabrera drove toward the penalty area, his pace forcing Costa to retreat. He called for Che—"¡Che, aquí!"—and played the ball backward. The pass was weighted well, arriving at Che's feet twenty meters from goal with options developing around him.
Che took one touch to set himself, his vision scanning. Benítez was arriving toward the near post. Silva had continued his run on the left, now positioned wide. Cabrera had moved into a different channel after his pass. Three targets, all in dangerous positions.
Che played it left to Silva, the pass driven and low. The winger's first touch took him toward the penalty area, angling for a shot or cross. Olivera was already moving to intercept, his recovery speed remarkable for someone his size.
Silva saw him coming and tried to accelerate past, but Olivera's positioning cut off the angle. The defender didn't dive in recklessly—just maintained his stance, using his body to control the space, forcing Silva to take another touch.
That extra touch was all Martínez needed. While Olivera engaged Silva on the left, Martínez had been reading the entire sequence. He saw Benítez's run toward the near post and shifted his positioning to intercept any pass in that direction. When Silva attempted to play it across the penalty area toward the striker, Martínez stepped forward, his body angled perfectly.
The interception was clean. The ball arrived at Martínez's feet with four Montevideo attackers around him—Che pressing from behind, Benítez closing from the side, Cabrera and Silva both within five meters. But the defender's first touch was composed, his body positioning immediately shielding the ball.
Che tried to dispossess him, but Martínez's strength made it impossible without fouling. The defender took another touch, creating space, his vision already identifying his next option. Benítez lunged from a different angle, trying to force an error, but Martínez had seen him coming.
The defender's pass came driven and accurate—not to a nearby teammate under pressure, but forty meters forward to Olivera, who had already positioned himself in space. The ball traveled through the gap between all four Montevideo attackers, perfect weight and placement, bypassing them completely in one pass.
Olivera controlled it with his first touch, his positioning already advanced into midfield. Suárez had dropped to receive, positioned between Montevideo's pressing forwards and their retreating midfielders. Olivera played it to him immediately, and suddenly Técnico was attacking again, their transition from defense to offense seamless.
The four Montevideo attackers stood in Técnico's half, watching the ball travel past them, watching their counter-attack transform into an opposition attack within three seconds.
Che's chest was heaving, his mind processing what had just happened. No shot attempt. No corner won. Not even a throw-in or deflection. Just complete defensive control from two players against four attackers, ending with a pass that eliminated all of them and started Técnico's own attack.
Cabrera jogged past, his expression showing disbelief. "How did they do that? We had four against two. Four!"
Silva was shaking his head, returning to his defensive position. "They didn't even look threatened. Like they knew exactly what we'd do before we did it."
Benítez said nothing, his body language communicating what words couldn't. The frustration of creating numerical advantages that meant nothing. The recognition that positioning and intelligence could neutralize speed and numbers.
Che looked toward where Olivera and Martínez had already reorganized their defensive shape, both standing near the halfway line again as Técnico built their attack. The libero was communicating with his partner through hand signals, both of them smiling slightly—not celebrating, just acknowledging another job done well.
We're facing a wall, Che thought, the realization settling with absolute clarity. Not just two good defenders. An actual wall. One that thinks, anticipates, adjusts. One that turns our advantages into nothing before we can exploit them.
And breaking through would require something they hadn't found yet.