The second half kicked off — and quickly turned into a nightmare.
Argentina tried to push forward with desperate energy, but it was chaos.
Misplaced passes.
Hesitation in midfield.
Weak finishes up front.
Uruguay, in contrast, looked sharp, disciplined, dangerous on the counterattack.
Another goal felt inevitable.
On the sidelines, Mateo watched in silent agony.
He could see it all so clearly:the spaces left open, the bad positioning, the lack of creativity.
He could feel it inside his chest —the rhythm of the game, begging for someone to control it.
Begging for someone like him.
In the dugout, Coach Cárdenas paced like a caged animal.
He barked orders.He gestured angrily.
Nothing worked.
The assistant coach leaned closer and muttered something.
Cárdenas growled under his breath — clearly furious.
But then, with a disgusted shake of his head, he turned toward the bench.
Toward Mateo.
"Warm up," he snapped.
Mateo's heart leapt in his chest.
He didn't need to be told twice.
He sprang to his feet, jogged along the touchline, loosening his legs, feeling adrenaline course through him.
The crowd noticed.
Murmurs spread through the stands.
Was this the 'European wonderkid' they had heard so much about?
The cameras zoomed in.Reporters scribbled furiously.
The narrative was about to shift —one way or another.
Minutes later, Cárdenas barked:
"Come here."
Mateo jogged over.
The coach grabbed him roughly by the shoulder and leaned close, his voice low and harsh.
"You've got ten minutes.Don't screw this up."
No tactical instructions.No encouragement.
Just a threat.
Mateo simply nodded, eyes burning with focus.
He stripped off his bib and moved toward the fourth official.
The substitution board went up:
#24 OUT#17 Mateo González IN
As he stepped onto the field, the world seemed to narrow into sharp focus.
The noise of the crowd faded.The weight of months of training, years of sacrifice, his father's voice, Klara's hope, Bayern's trust —it all condensed into a single, crystal-clear moment.
This was his chance.
His only chance.
He crossed himself, whispered a silent prayer, and sprinted toward the midfield line.
The ball rolled toward him.
Without hesitation, Mateo took his first touch.
Clean.
Smooth.
Alive.