Darting left and right, moving with grace—
Lance's light and agile steps wove through the chaotic battlefield of bodies, his flexible movements cutting through the heated action like a blade through fire.
A leap, a confrontation, a quick change of direction.
All of it happened within mere seconds. The oxygen he had just inhaled hadn't even finished circulating through his lungs before he was already making his move—like a blade drawn from its sheath.
Like a knife slicing through the chaos.
Number 23 broke free from the tangled mess of players, leaving behind the roaring heat of the battle. Then, Lance unleashed his full speed.
Pushing off.
Gaining power.
Accelerating.
It was only at this moment that Lance's speed was fully released without holding back.
But!
Having faced so many collisions and disruptions in the dense pack of players, Lance's balance was slightly off, and his breathing irregular. His initial acceleration was slower than usual, and two red-jerseyed players were closing in from both sides like a storm, shrinking his space to maneuver.
What now? In the midst of the turmoil, Lance made a split-second decision, pushing off his left leg and cutting sharply to the right.
Amid the chaos and jostling, he kept his legs driving, his power erupting from deep within, pushing off his left leg and leaving the player on that side behind. He cut toward the right, into the narrow space between the other red-jerseyed player and the sideline, accelerating further.
Thud.
Lance caught sight of Jackson's face growing larger in his vision as he broke free of the other player's grasp. The price of escaping that player was a direct confrontation with Jackson.
But Lance wasn't panicked.
Thud.
With another push, Lance prepared to use his speed to overtake him, but Jackson moved first, lunging in to tackle him.
With a solid grasp, Jackson locked his arms around Lance. "Got him!" Jackson thought with joy.
However, before he could even celebrate, he felt a tremendous force smash into him.
Lance was still moving.
Not only was Lance pushing forward, but his explosive power surged through him, slamming into Jackson and driving him backward. Jackson scrambled to keep his feet beneath him, trying to brake with his legs, but Lance's momentum was overwhelming.
Ugh! Like a bulldozer.
Although strength wasn't Lance's primary advantage, it wasn't Jackson's either. With their similar size and build, Lance used his speed and positioning to his advantage, slamming into Jackson at just the right moment. The impact caused Jackson to stagger backward, victim to his own momentum.
Argh! Argh! Lance seized the moment and kept pushing forward.
Jackson was forced to retreat.
Then.
Thud.
With another surge of power, Lance took advantage of Jackson's unbalanced state, breaking free, accelerating, and performing an unbelievable second burst of speed.
"Oh my God!"
ESPN's official commentator, Dave Pasch, was utterly stunned. He could hardly believe what he was seeing. What were they witnessing?
After all, it was just a practice game—starters versus substitutes. The plan was to enjoy the event and treat it like a festival. Everything was supposed to be lighthearted.
Just moments earlier, Pasch had been casually flipping through the substitute team's offensive roster, assuming the focus would be on the starting defense. But now, he was left speechless, able only to utter a string of words.
"Jump. Hurdle."
"Stiff-arm. Oh, another stiff-arm."
"Change of direction."
"Another cut."
"Incredible!"
"Tackle—Jackson finally tackled… number 23."
That exclamation of "Oh my God!" came when Pasch widened his eyes, staring in disbelief at the running back wearing the number 23 white jersey.
Everyone knew to watch out for the running backs on the Crimson Tide.
But last season, Derrick Henry's brilliance overshadowed the rest, and now that Henry had gone pro, even if Alabama could groom another elite running back, it would likely take a season or two. Expectations for this season had been tempered.
But now? "Oh no!"
"Number 23 hasn't stopped. He's still running, still breaking through."
"He's broken free!" "Jesus Christ!"
"Number 23 has shaken off Jackson's tackle. That's the third tackle he's evaded on this single drive. Unbelievable! He's still moving, still accelerating."
"Fifteen yards!"
"Twenty yards!"
"This number 23 hasn't just gained a first down, but he's still breaking through! The Crimson Tide defense pushed up too far, leaving the backfield wide open. Now every red-jerseyed defender is chasing number 23 in white. It's a pack of wolves chasing down a gazelle."
"Harrison is closing in!"
Ronnie Harrison, the other safety for Alabama, was a strong safety.
He was supposed to be the one to intercept Lance—he was the best match-up for the running back. But Lance had spotted Harrison's approach and cut toward Jackson's side.
In the chaos, Harrison's route to cut in was disrupted, and he couldn't get there in time. The situation had shifted completely.
"It's a footrace!"
"Number 23 and Harrison are neck and neck in a sprint. Harrison is closing in fast. His burst speed is impressive, and the gap between them is shrinking rapidly."
"Thirty yards!"
"Harrison—oh, and Humphrey is coming up behind too!"
"Thirty-five yards!"
"What? What?!"
"Number 23 just accelerated! His speed has maxed out, and Harrison can't keep up. He's falling behind, the distance widening again. Now it's just down to Humphrey."
"Humphrey had been tied up earlier, but now he's chasing with everything he's got."
"Oh my God!"
"Forty-five yards! Fifty yards!"
"Number 23 is only getting faster! Humphrey is barely keeping pace but can't close the gap. There's only about an arm's length between them."
"Humphrey is pushing harder, sprinting with all his might, closing in."
"Here's the chance!"
"This is the moment!"
"Humphrey lunges for a desperate tackle."
"Beautiful!"
"Number 23 lifts his leg—almost as if he has eyes in the back of his head—dodging Humphrey's tackle with a high step."
"Evaded!"
"Humphrey was so close—just inches away, but he missed by the slimmest margin."
"No one can stop him now. There's no one left! He's running free! Charging all the way!"
"Touchdown!"
"A 75-yard rushing touchdown. Unbelievable! Absolutely incredible! Seventy-five yards, breaking through five tackles in total to make it happen."
"The white team takes the lead with a 75-yard touchdown run! Wow! Astonishing!"
Pasch couldn't contain his excitement anymore. He jumped to his feet, overcome with joy as if a volcano had erupted inside him.
"Who is this number 23? Who is he?"
In the end zone, Lance finally stopped, panting heavily, his face flushed red. He turned to look back at the chaos and destruction he had left behind, a smile creeping onto his face.
That mess was his achievement.
Then, he raised both arms high in the air, pointing to the sky.
This was the official touchdown gesture in football—arms stretched up like a goalpost to signal success.
Bryant-Denny Stadium went wild, utterly losing control. They hadn't been ready, and already the first big moment of excitement had hit like a tidal wave.