The ball spun toward Mateo's feet the moment he entered the pitch.
Without hesitation, he danced past the first Uruguayan midfielder — a feint to the left, a cut to the right — leaving his marker flat-footed.
The crowd gasped audibly.
It was the kind of effortless brilliance that only true talents could summon.
He surged forward, spotting a golden opportunity: Nico Rivas, the center-forward, was making a run behind the defense.
Mateo threaded a perfect pass through the defenders —an exquisite through ball, leading Nico into open space.
It should have been a clean break toward goal.
But then, at the last second,Nico slowed down.
Just enough.
Just enough to make it seem like the pass was too heavy.Just enough to make the play look like Mateo's mistake.
The ball rolled harmlessly to the Uruguayan goalkeeper.
Immediately, Nico turned around, throwing his arms up theatrically.
"¡Pásala bien, che!" he barked, loud enough for everyone — players, referees, commentators — to hear.
Mateo stared at him, stunned.
He knew what he had seen.
Nico had sabotaged the play.
Deliberately.
Up in the commentary booth, the Argentine analysts pounced.
"Oof, bad pass by González.""Overhyped? Maybe the German air got to his head, no?"
Mateo clenched his fists, feeling heat rise behind his eyes.
He wanted to scream.
He wanted to rip off the mask they were all pretending to wear.
But there was no time.
Uruguay attacked again.Argentina recovered the ball.
Mateo pushed forward.
Another chance.He dribbled past two players with ease, cutting open the midfield.
He slipped another pass toward the left winger.
But instead of running onto it, the winger stopped, hands on hips, glaring at Mateo.
Another "failed" pass.
Another set of boos from parts of the crowd.
The pattern repeated:
Mateo created space.
Mateo passed perfectly.
His teammates slowed, mistimed, hesitated —all designed to make him look bad.
The commentators shredded him ruthlessly.
"González seems off pace...""Not reading the game like the others...""Maybe he's not ready for South American football."
Each word felt like a dagger between Mateo's ribs.
And his so-called teammates grinned behind their hands,pretending innocence.
Still, he refused to give up.
He fought for every ball.He demanded the passes.He tried to organize plays.
But it was like playing with chains around his ankles.
He wasn't just fighting Uruguay.He was fighting his own team.
On the sidelines, Coach Cárdenas watched coldly, arms crossed, saying nothing.
And somewhere deep inside Mateo, a storm was building.
Not of despair.
Of anger.Of defiance.
If they thought they could bury him this easily,they had no idea what he was truly capable of.
Not yet.