There’s a scene in “Moneyball” where Brad Pitt’s Billy Beane walks into the A’s clubhouse, eyeing up the whiteboard, knowing every move, every tweak can be the difference between a season that goes on forever and one that gets snuffed out on a Tuesday afternoon in Cleveland. That’s how this Lanús-Godoy Cruz matchup feels—a cold-eyed look at the standings and, suddenly, you realize everything’s on the line for Lanús, and Godoy Cruz is the club standing in the way, like the scrappy underdog in every good sports movie who refuses to hand over an easy three points.

Lanús is rolling into this one perched dangerously high in second place, just a stone’s throw from the big prize. Twenty-three points from twelve matches, offense humming along at exactly the same average as a Quentin Tarantino movie runtime—about 0.9 goals per game, not too fancy, just deadly efficient. They’re fresh off a 2-0 surgical job away at Independiente, with Walter Bou doing his best “John Wick”—methodical, clinical, no wasted movement, no wasted bullets; the guy’s got three goals in the last five—a real-life cheat code right now for Lanús. Rodrigo Castillo and the rest of the supporting cast are chipping in just enough, keeping defenses honest.

And on the other side of the bracket you’ve got Godoy Cruz, stuck in that 14th spot like a B-movie villain who just won’t die no matter how many plot twists you throw at them. One win in twelve, seven draws—a team that drags you down into the mud, locks the doors, and says, “Fine, let’s see who likes nil-nil more.” They average a paltry 0.2 goals per game in their last ten, which is basically “Attack of the Clones” energy: all buildup, no payoff. Agustín Auzmendi is their lone bright spot, top scorer with four, but even he’s had about as much support as a forgotten Netflix pilot.

Tactically, it’s got the makings of a street fight in a back alley rather than a samba on the beach. Lanús will roll out in that tightly knit, counter-punching shape, letting Bou drift between the lines, with Sasha Marcich and Lautaro Acosta pushing up just enough to keep everyone guessing. José Canale, meanwhile, is the guy you need at every heist: sees the angles, locks down the middle, and picks his moment to stride forward. The plan is simple: keep possession, break lines, finish chances.

Godoy Cruz, meanwhile, is going to turn this into a “Survivor” immunity challenge. They’ll clog the passing lanes, flood the midfield, and dare Lanús to play through them. They average five-and-a-half corners per game, which tells you they’re not exactly shy about dropping numbers back and playing for set pieces, hoping for a bounce, a header, a miracle. Their “attack” is more “Home Alone defense”—set the traps, hope the bad guys trip.

Which brings us to the real stakes. For Lanús, this is the game you circle on your “can we win the title?” flowchart. With River and Boca nipping at their heels, every three points is oxygen. Drop points at home to a team with one win, and suddenly you’re in a chainsaw fight for top-four, not a title hunt. The fans want more than just pretty play—they want that “Rocky II” payoff, not just another montage.

For Godoy Cruz? Nothing to lose is a dangerous thing. They’re playing for pride, for the one highlight that’ll make the end-of-year DVD. If they can slow down the Lanús machine—steal a point or, god forbid, all three—they inject chaos into the whole league.

So here’s where the popcorn comes out. Watch Walter Bou—if he scores early, it’s lights out and check, please. But if Godoy Cruz drags this into the second half at 0-0, every minute starts to feel like that never-ending “Sudden Death” overtime, and the pressure shifts, the crowd gets restless, and who knows? Maybe Nicolas Fernandez sneaks a counterattack in, and the script goes sideways.

Prediction? I’m not calling it a lock, because in Argentine football there are no locks—only sliding doors and alternate endings. But Lanús at home, with the crowd breathing popcorn and fire, should have enough to break Godoy Cruz’s marathon of draws. Think 2-0, maybe 2-1 if there’s late drama, and Bou walks off the hero, John McClane in a maroon kit, ready for his sequel.

But if Godoy Cruz finds a way to ugly this up for 90-plus minutes, hold onto something. This is Argentina, where every game could be a movie and every week a new plot twist. You can’t script this stuff—but you sure wouldn’t miss it for the world.