American Football: Domination

A fake handoff turned into a running play.

After two unsuccessful passing attempts, facing a daunting third-and-long, Andy Reid made an unorthodox decision: call a running play.

The logic was clear: exploit New England's focus on deep-pass defense, which left short-pass zones relatively open. Reid wasn't expecting a miracle. He just hoped Lance could pick up some yards to improve field position for a potential field goal attempt.

At worst, the Chiefs could secure three points.

And it worked.

Before Lance even secured the ball, he noticed the defensive alignment—linebackers, corners, and safeties all shifted back, anticipating a pass.

Space.

Taking the ball from Alex Smith, Lance wasted no time. Instead of adjusting, he surged forward immediately, targeting the left side of the field. With Kelce and Hill occupying defenders on the right, New England's left side was thinly guarded.

No sooner had Lance begun his advance than a blue jersey emerged from the fray.

Trey Flowers.

The defensive end broke through the Chiefs' O-line with the ferocity of a caged tiger.

Reid's miscalculation was clear: Belichick had prepared for the possibility of a sneaky run. Though linebackers hung back, New England's defensive line remained hyper-focused. Kansas City's offensive linemen, hesitant to risk penalties, had failed to hold the line, leaving Flowers with a clean shot at Lance.

In a split second, Lance assessed the situation.

The priority wasn't to bulldoze through Flowers—it was to gain as many yards as possible before the secondary collapsed. Even a few extra steps could mean the difference between a manageable field goal or a wasted possession.

Lance made his decision.

He veered slightly left, angling to avoid a direct collision, and dug in, pushing off the turf with explosive force.

One step.

Flowers wasn't going to let him slip by. Years of pent-up frustration and humiliation flared up in his eyes. Summoning a burst of speed, the bulky defender lunged forward, throwing his entire weight into a desperate dive.

Flowers reached out.

Contact.

His arms locked around Lance's waist.

"Got him!"

Flowers grinned as he tightened his grip. He felt gravity pulling them both down, ready to drag Lance to the turf and possibly force the Chiefs out of field goal range.

Gillette Stadium roared in anticipation. This was their moment.

But.

Something was wrong.

The initial collision should've taken Lance down, but the rookie's core strength kept him upright.

"What the—?"

Flowers could feel his grip slipping. Lance didn't slow down. Instead, he powered through, shifting his weight and breaking free.

One shove.

One twist.

Gone.

Flowers tumbled to the ground, defeated.

Lance surged forward, his balance barely intact, but his resolve unshaken.

One step. Two steps.

Before he could gather momentum, two more defenders closed in:

Malcolm Butler on the left.

James Harrison on the right.

Flowers' effort hadn't been in vain. His sacrifice gave Butler and Harrison the time they needed to converge. Lance had no blockers. The Chiefs' receivers were tied up elsewhere.

It was two against one.

For a fleeting moment, the air in Gillette Stadium seemed to freeze.

Lance had no time to hesitate. Every millisecond counted.

Instinct kicked in.

Right.

He cut toward Harrison's side.

But Harrison didn't fall for it. The veteran linebacker tracked Lance closely, his years of experience keeping him poised.

Then, a quick feint. Lance pretended to shift left, only to swing right again.

Harrison wasn't buying it.

"Come here, rookie."

Harrison lunged forward, ready to wrap Lance up.

But Lance wasn't finished.

A third move.

With an impossible burst of agility, Lance abruptly halted. His sudden deceleration threw off both defenders. Harrison, overcommitted to the fake, stumbled forward.

Butler hesitated, his eyes locked on Lance.

The rookie smirked.

"One more."

Fourth move.

Lance sidestepped right, avoiding both defenders. His movement was so fluid that Harrison and Butler collided briefly, leaving them tangled up for a split second.

It was all the time Lance needed.

Open field.

He was free.

From the stands, it was impossible to catch all the intricacies of Lance's footwork. To the naked eye, it looked like a blur of motion—a rookie somehow weaving through two seasoned defenders.

The stadium gasped as Lance broke free, cutting inside and surging ahead.

How?

How was this rookie so composed under pressure?

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Powerstones?

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