Técnico circulated possession across their backline, the ball moving from Campos to Costa to Martínez. The pattern was familiar—patient buildup, probing for openings—but something had shifted. The tempo had slowed. Passes that should have been played with one touch were taking two. Movement off the ball was less dynamic, less purposeful.
Olivera noticed it immediately from his center-back position. He could see his teammates in midfield receiving the ball but hesitating, not finding the angles they'd been exploiting earlier. Montevideo's defensive shape had compressed further, cutting off the central penetration that had created chances in the opening twenty minutes.
We're losing momentum, Olivera thought, watching Gómez receive the ball and play it backward rather than forward. Need to reset the tempo before they gain confidence.
He stepped forward from his defensive position, his movement immediate and decisive. "¡Suárez!" His voice carried across the pitch, and the midfielder looked up to see Olivera already advancing into the space between Montevideo's midfield and defensive lines.
Suárez played it to him, and suddenly the circulation had purpose again. Olivera's first touch was forward-facing, his second opened up his body to survey options. Morales was making a run on the right, Santos positioning himself on the left. Ibarra had dropped slightly to create a passing angle centrally.
Olivera played it to Morales with the outside of his right boot, the pass weighted to arrive just as the winger reached space behind Pereira's positioning. Morales controlled it and drove toward the penalty area, his movement forcing Montevideo's defense to shift.
The cross came in fast, aimed at the penalty spot where Acosta was arriving. But Fernández had tracked the run, his positioning perfect. Both jumped simultaneously, the striker getting a touch but not clean contact. The ball deflected off Fernández's shoulder and fell to Ibarra at the edge of the box.
The striker struck it first time with his right foot, his technique clean. The shot was rising, aimed at the top corner. Rodríguez dove, getting both hands to it, the save spectacular. He couldn't hold it—the power was too much—but his positioning ensured the deflection went to his chest. He gathered it on the second attempt, securing possession.
Momentum building, Olivera thought, already retreating toward his defensive position. Keep pressing. They're starting to crack.
But Rodríguez didn't hold the ball. The moment he secured it, his eyes were scanning forward, looking for the quick distribution that could catch Técnico's high positioning out of shape.
He threw it immediately to Esteban on the right, the ball arriving at the right-back's feet before Técnico could fully reorganize. The defender's first touch took him forward, and Montevideo's counter was developing.
Except Técnico's defensive shape was already set. Olivera and Martínez stood on the halfway line, their positioning perfect. The full-backs were recovering, the midfielders dropping to compress space. What should have been a moment of vulnerability was already controlled.
Esteban played it forward to Cabrera, who took one touch and immediately looked for Che. The attacking midfielder had dropped deep to create the passing option, and the ball arrived at his feet thirty meters from his own goal.
Che's first touch redirected it away from Gómez's press, his second took him forward. Space was opening—not much, but enough if he could accelerate into it quickly. He drove forward five meters, drawing Suárez toward him, then played it left to Silva.
The winger's movement had created separation from Santos. Silva controlled it and immediately played it back to Che—a one-two combination that bypassed Suárez's positioning. Che was in Técnico's half now, momentum building, options developing around him.
Benítez was making his diagonal run from the right, Cabrera overlapping on that side. Silva had continued his movement on the left. Three options, space still existing ahead.
Che drove forward, his dribbling tight and controlled. Olivera was dropping back to defend, but he was still fifteen meters away. Martínez was holding his central position, reading Che's body language, calculating which option would be chosen.
But Olivera's voice cut through the noise. "¡Ríos, inside! ¡Costa, compress left! ¡Gómez, track the runner!"
The instructions were sharp, precise, immediate. His teammates responded instantly—not just the defenders, but the entire backline plus recovering midfielders. The shape transformed in seconds from potentially vulnerable to completely organized.
Ríos shifted inside from his right-back position, cutting off Cabrera's overlapping run. Costa compressed the left side, eliminating the space Silva had been exploiting. Gómez tracked Benítez's diagonal movement, ensuring the striker wouldn't receive unmarked.
Che saw it happening—the space that existed two seconds ago disappearing as Técnico's entire defensive unit responded to Olivera's organization. He tried to drive through centrally, but Martínez's positioning forced him right, away from goal.
He played it to Cabrera, who had adjusted his run after Ríos closed the initial angle. The winger's first touch took him toward the penalty area, but the space was compressed. He tried to cut inside, creating a yard of separation, but Costa had already recovered into position.
Cabrera played it backward to Vargas, who had advanced to support. The defensive midfielder took one touch and tried to play Che through centrally, but Olivera stepped across. The libero's positioning was perfect—not just intercepting the pass, but ensuring the deflection went to Martínez rather than breaking loose for Montevideo to recover.
Martínez controlled it, and Técnico had possession again. The counter that should have created danger had been neutralized through organization and communication, with Olivera's instructions ensuring every defender knew their responsibility before the ball even arrived.
In the stands, the grandfather leaned toward his grandson. "You see that? The tall one—number five. He didn't just defend his position. He organized everyone. Called out instructions that transformed their entire defensive shape in seconds."
"I heard him shouting," the young man said. "But they were already in position, weren't they?"
"They were scattered," his grandfather corrected. "Recovering from their attack. He told each player where to go, and they trusted him completely. That's leadership from a center-back. Rare at any level, exceptional at this age."
Montevideo didn't give up. When Gómez tried to play forward to Ibarra, Robles intercepted with a perfectly timed challenge. The ball broke to Vargas, who immediately played it wide to Silva. The winger's movement had created space again, his acceleration taking him past Santos's initial positioning.
Silva drove forward and played it inside to Che, who had dropped to receive. The attacking midfielder's first touch was under pressure from Suárez, but his body positioning shielded the ball. He took another touch, creating space, and suddenly he was facing forward with options developing.
He drove at Olivera, his dribbling quick and purposeful. The libero held his ground, not committing, reading Che's body language. At the last moment, Che cut right, using a sharp change of direction to create separation.
Olivera's recovery was immediate, but Che had gained a yard. He played it to Cabrera on the right, whose movement had pulled Martínez slightly out of position. The winger took one touch and crossed low toward the penalty spot where Benítez was arriving.
But Costa had tracked back, his recovery run putting him in position to challenge. Both jumped, neither getting clean contact. The ball spilled to Silva at the edge of the box, arriving at his feet with space to shoot.
Silva struck it with his left foot, the technique decent but the connection slightly off. The ball rose, aimed at goal but without the power or placement needed to beat Campos. The shot sailed over the crossbar by two meters.
Close. Closer than Montevideo had gotten all match. But still not converted.
Campos collected the ball from behind his goal, holding it for a moment to slow the tempo. Then he played it short to Martínez, who had positioned himself to receive just outside the penalty area.
The defender's first touch was forward-facing, his second opened his body to scan the field. Olivera had already advanced into midfield, calling for it, but Martínez saw something else. A different option that most center-backs wouldn't even consider attempting.
Ibarra had made a run from his striker position, exploiting the space behind Robles who had advanced to press. The gap existed for maybe three seconds—a channel between Montevideo's midfield and defensive lines where Técnico's striker was accelerating into space.
Martínez struck the pass with the inside of his right foot, the ball traveling forty meters through the air. It wasn't a hopeful clearance or a simple long ball. It was weighted perfectly, dipping as it approached Ibarra, arriving exactly where the striker's run would meet it.
Ibarra controlled it with his chest, the ball dropping to his feet twenty-five meters from Montevideo's goal. Fernández was recovering desperately, but the striker had momentum. His first touch took him toward the penalty area, his second set himself for the shot.
He struck it with his right foot from eighteen meters, the connection clean. The ball rose, dipping as it approached goal, aimed at the top corner. Rodríguez dove, fully extended, but couldn't reach it.
The metallic sound of ball striking post echoed across the pitch. The shot had beaten the goalkeeper, had been placed perfectly, but the angle was millimeters wrong. The ball rebounded off the post and out for a corner, Técnico's attack ending with the closest chance of the match so far.
In the stands, the grandfather was shaking his head in appreciation. "Did you see that pass? From the center-back?"
"Lucky," his grandson said. "He just hit it long hoping someone would get it."
"That wasn't luck, mijo. Watch the replay in your mind. The defender—number four—he identified the run before the striker made it. That pass was forty meters, weighted perfectly, arriving exactly where it needed to. That's not hoping. That's vision."
He leaned back in his seat, his voice carrying wonder. "They're not just defending. They're playmaking from center-back. Both of them. You see that kind of ability from professional players, sometimes. But at this level? In a youth tournament? That's exceptional."
On the pitch, Martínez was receiving acknowledgment from his teammates—Olivera clapping once, Ibarra raising his hand despite the shot not converting, even Campos nodding approval from his goal. The pass had been extraordinary, the kind that created genuine danger from nothing.
Che stood near the center circle, processing what he'd just witnessed. It wasn't just that Olivera and Martínez were elite defenders. It was that they operated as playmakers too—seeing passes most center-backs wouldn't attempt, executing them with precision that transformed defense into attack in seconds.
We're not facing normal defenders, Che thought, watching both of them organize for the corner. We're facing complete players who can do everything.
And breaking through would require something more than what Montevideo had shown so far.