The match continued with the same rhythm—Técnico controlling possession, Montevideo defending compactly and trying to counter when opportunities appeared. But as the first half wore toward its conclusion, something was shifting. Montevideo's attacks, while still unsuccessful, were coming more frequently. The desperation that had characterized their early counters had been replaced by something more calculated, more purposeful.
Olivera noticed it first. Standing near the halfway line as Técnico built another attack, he watched Montevideo's defensive shape and saw the pattern repeating. Every time they won possession, the ball went to the same player. Every transition started the same way.
Robles would win the ball and immediately look for Che. Or Vargas would intercept and play it to Che. Or Fernández would clear it and Che would drop deep to collect. The attacking midfielder was the constant—the hub through which every Montevideo counter had to pass.
Olivera glanced toward Martínez, who was positioned ten meters away, also observing Montevideo's latest defensive action. Their eyes met for half a second, and Olivera saw the recognition there. His partner had identified the same pattern.
Martínez nodded once. Understood.
The ball went out for a Técnico throw-in near the halfway line, and both defenders converged toward the touchline where Ríos was preparing to take it. Gómez was nearby, waiting to receive, and Olivera called him over with a gesture.
"Their number ten," Olivera said, his voice low enough that only his immediate teammates could hear. "Every attack goes through him. Every single one."
"I've noticed," Martínez added, positioning himself beside his partner. "He drops deep to collect, then either carries it forward or plays the one-two combinations. He's their entire creative outlet."
Gómez nodded, listening. "You want me to press him higher?"
"No," Olivera said, his tone decisive. "I want you to follow him everywhere. Wherever he goes on the pitch, you're in his vicinity. Don't give him space to turn, don't let him receive comfortably. Make him work for every touch."
"But that'll leave gaps in midfield," Gómez said, his expression showing concern. "If I'm tracking him and he drops deep, Suárez will be isolated centrally."
"We'll cover it," Martínez said simply. "The spaces you leave, we'll fill them. Trust us."
Olivera's expression was calm, confident. "You focus on number ten. Everything else, we handle. If he can't function, their entire attack breaks down."
Gómez processed this for a moment, then nodded. "Understood."
The throw-in was taken, and play resumed. Técnico circulated possession through their usual patterns—Olivera stepping into midfield, the full-backs pushing high, building patiently toward Montevideo's defensive third.
But when Robles won the ball with another aggressive tackle on Suárez, Montevideo's transition began exactly as Olivera had predicted. The defensive midfielder looked up immediately, scanning for Che, who had dropped deep near his own penalty area to create the passing option.
Gómez was already there. Not pressing aggressively, but positioned three meters away, his body angled to cut off Che's turning space. When the pass came from Robles, Che's first touch was under immediate pressure. He tried to turn, but Gómez's positioning made it impossible. The attacking midfielder had to play it backward to Álvarez just to maintain possession.
The counter that should have developed quickly was already disrupted.
Álvarez tried to play it forward to Silva on the left, but Morales intercepted before the winger could control it. Técnico had possession again, and Montevideo's attack had been neutralized before it could even begin.
The pattern repeated. Técnico attacked, Montevideo defended, then won possession through Vargas this time. The defensive midfielder immediately looked for Che, who had dropped into midfield to receive.
But Gómez was shadowing him. Wherever Che moved, the midfielder moved with him, maintaining that three-meter distance that made comfortable possession impossible. When the ball arrived at Che's feet, Gómez's press was immediate. Che tried to shield it, but the physical pressure forced a heavy touch. Silva had to come deep to help, and the counter was slowed to the point where Técnico's defensive shape could reorganize completely.
No breakthrough. No dangerous attack. Just Montevideo winning possession and immediately losing momentum because their creative outlet was suffocated.
On Montevideo's bench, Ramón watched this development with visible frustration. His hand went to his jaw, fingers tapping against his chin in the unconscious gesture that appeared when tactical problems needed solving. Álvarez, the assistant coach, stood beside him, his arms crossed, his expression showing he'd identified the same issue.
"They've figured it out," Álvarez said quietly.
"I know," Ramón replied, his voice tight.
"Everything goes through Che. We don't have another creative outlet. If they shut him down—"
"I know," Ramón repeated, his tone sharper than intended. He took a breath, forcing himself to think rather than react. "We adjust at halftime. I have a plan."
Álvarez glanced at him but said nothing, trusting that whatever the head coach was calculating would provide the solution they needed.
On the pitch, the first half was entering its final minutes. Técnico attacked with renewed confidence, their defensive security allowing them to commit more players forward. Olivera stepped into midfield again, received the ball from Costa, and immediately switched play to Morales on the right.
The winger drove at Pereira, his movement forcing the left-back to retreat. The cross came in dangerous, aimed at Ibarra at the near post. But Fernández was there, heading it clear desperately. The ball fell to Suárez at the edge of the box, who struck it first time. Rodríguez saved, diving to his right, securing it on the second attempt.
Montevideo tried to counter again. Rodríguez threw it quickly to Esteban, who played it forward to Cabrera. The winger took one touch and immediately looked for Che.
But Gómez was already positioned between them, his body angled to intercept. Cabrera tried to play around him, but the pass was too ambitious. Gómez stepped across, winning it cleanly, and Técnico's possession resumed.
Che stood near midfield, his chest heaving, his expression showing frustration that he was trying to suppress. Every time he received the ball, Gómez was there. Every time he tried to turn, the pressure was immediate. The space that had existed earlier—limited as it was—had disappeared completely.
The referee checked his watch and raised his whistle. One sharp blast signaled halftime.
HALFTIME: Montevideo 0 - 0 Técnico del Sur
Both teams walked toward their respective changerooms, the scoreline reflecting the tactical stalemate but not the dominance Técnico had exerted. Olivera and Martínez walked together, both defenders talking quietly, their body language showing satisfaction with how they'd adjusted mid-half.
Montevideo's players moved more slowly, their exhaustion visible, their expressions showing frustration mixed with determination. They'd defended well—kept a clean sheet against the tournament's best defensive team—but hadn't created anything dangerous. And now their primary attacking approach had been identified and neutralized.
Ramón walked behind his squad, his mind already working through the tactical adjustment he'd need to implement. They'd prepared for this scenario—had practiced alternatives in training specifically because he'd known that opponents would eventually identify Che as the creative hub and try to shut him down.
But implementing those alternatives under match pressure, with players who were physically and mentally exhausted, would require precision and trust.
As Montevideo's players disappeared into the tunnel, the grandfather in the stands leaned back in his seat, his expression thoughtful.
"Those two center-backs," he said to his grandson, gesturing toward where Olivera and Martínez had just exited the pitch. "Having players like that is a blessing for any coach."
"Why?" the young man asked.
"Because they're coaches on the pitch," his grandfather explained. "They read the game, identify problems, and solve them in real-time. That adjustment they made—having their midfielder shadow number ten—that didn't come from the sideline. That came from them recognizing the pattern and instructing their teammate how to break it."
He paused, watching the now-empty pitch. "Montevideo's players are good. Their coach is good. But to win this match, they'll have to do a lot more than what they've shown so far. Because those two defenders think at a level most professionals never reach. And right now, they're winning the tactical battle."
The young man processed this, his skepticism from earlier in the match diminished by what he'd witnessed. The halftime whistle had come, but the real battle—the tactical chess match between Técnico's defensive intelligence and Montevideo's adaptability—was just beginning.