Bang!
A crash, a surge.
Lance felt the impact on his back, like a shockwave straight out of Dragon Ball, hitting him with full force, propelling him uncontrollably forward.
He staggered, disoriented.
Instinctively, his body adjusted, reacting to the violent push. Quick steps, one after the other, allowed him to absorb the impact. Wobbling and stumbling, he fought to keep his balance, as if walking a tightrope in a storm, using inertia to push ahead.
He dug his feet into the ground.
Push!
Push!
From his core to his legs, the energy coursed downward, transferring through his thighs, into his calves, and finally into the ground. His legs churned like bicycle pedals, pushing him forward.
One step, two steps, three, four, five.
He nearly fell, teetering on the brink of collapse, but with sheer grit, Lance clenched his muscles, stabilized his balance, and kept moving forward.
His steps, once shaky, now grew firm, and then—he accelerated.
Huff.
His lungs burned, every breath felt like magma.
But there was no time to relax, no moment for relief. The enemy still surrounded him on three sides, closing in.
Back in 1999, there was a film called The Bachelor.
In the movie, the main character inherits a hundred million dollars, but the condition is that he must marry before his 30th birthday. With only 24 hours left, he announces a public search for a bride.
In one legendary scene, brides in wedding dresses pour in from every corner, chasing the bachelor through the streets in an unstoppable wave.
The movie? Not great.
But that scene became iconic.
And right now, Lance was that bachelor, while the massive men of the Red Team were the brides, charging from all directions, ready to tackle and take him down.
Like a tidal wave, they surged toward him.
Lance, still stumbling, made it past the 40-yard line, swaying as he pushed toward the 50-yard line. The overwhelming pressure was closing in.
Just when it seemed Lance might break free, Jackson appeared directly ahead of him.
Jackson was calm and decisive. He knew Lance's skill and his composure, so he had to act quickly and decisively.
He charged forward and lunged.
Jackson moved fast, but as he neared, Lance cut sharply in the opposite direction.
He predicted it!
Jackson wasn't caught off guard.
If Lance could fool him with the same move every time, Jackson wouldn't deserve to be the starting safety for the Crimson Tide.
Mid-stride, Jackson took a wrong step but quickly corrected his course, anticipating Lance's next move.
Tackle!
Without hesitation, Jackson spread his arms wide, wrapping them around Lance. He could feel the heat from Lance's skin beneath his uniform. But before Jackson could pull him in, he felt a sudden spin.
A twist.
Another twist.
In the blink of an eye, Lance spun counterclockwise within Jackson's grasp, pulling free with a 180-degree turn. Another 180-degree spin, and Lance had escaped.
All of it happened in a split second. Before Jackson could fully lock Lance down, Lance's triple change of direction left him in the dust.
Crash.
Bump.
Squeeze.
Lance hadn't fully regained his speed when he collided with Jackson again. Jackson's weight became a burden, knocking Lance's balance once more, and it looked like he would fall.
His knee buckled.
Damn!
Just a little more—just one more inch, and Lance would be down.
The entire stadium went silent.
They were utterly stunned. It didn't matter whether they knew Lance personally or if their son or neighbor played on the opposite team. At that moment, nobody was an exception.
After three full quarters of back-and-forth, everyone had learned one thing: White Team's number 23 was the standout player of the game. But just when they thought his performance couldn't get any better, the fourth quarter reached an unexpected climax.
Tyree Clark, father of fifth-string running back Ronnie Clark, didn't care that his own son, also a running back, was Lance's direct competitor. At that moment, he clenched his fists, silently rooting for number 23.
What started as a simple short-yardage run from the middle had, after the first down, turned into something much more.
Before long, Lance had pushed 12 yards.
Come on!
Tyree prayed silently.
In his field of vision, number 23, in a near-miraculous display, staggered, somehow using his core strength to squat down, stand up, and, like an arrow loosed from a bow, shot forward.
Behind him, a sea of red was closing in, rapidly swallowing up that speck of white.
Tyree didn't care anymore. Slowly, he rose to his feet, raising his fists into the air.
"Roll!"
The fight song of the Crimson Tide echoed the call, with its chorus shouting, "Roll Tide, Roll!"
And right now, that song was coming to life.
"Roll!"
The 50-yard line. Lance had crossed midfield. The opposing 40-yard line was within reach.
"Roll!"
The 40-yard line.
The rolling tide of defenders closed in, but that lone white figure raced ahead, like sunlight breaking over the crest of a wave.
"Roll!"
The 30-yard line.
It wasn't just Tyree—Bryant-Denny Stadium was in a frenzy. One by one, people stood up, no longer caring about who was a starter or a backup. At that moment, everyone was part of the Crimson Tide, chasing that shining number 23 with their eyes.
"Roll!"
The 20-yard line.
The entire stadium was losing it, wave after wave of excitement crashing higher and higher.
Even though most of them didn't know Lance's name, that didn't matter. They were united in their cheers, the whole stadium swelling with pride. The Crimson Tide had once again unleashed their primal roar from deep within their souls.
"Roll!"
The 10-yard line.
Lance had finally hit his stride, running faster and faster, leaving the surging red wave behind him. He charged ahead, leaving the roaring Crimson Tide in his wake, as their collective energy erupted.
And then—
Straight to the heart.
The end zone.
Touchdown.
Roar!
The stadium erupted into madness, pure and unbridled.
Lance slammed the football into the ground, releasing all his pent-up energy, thrusting his right fist into the air, gripping it tight before letting go, finally free to celebrate.
"Ah!"
Touchdown. His.
"Ahhh!"
What had started as a surprise opening turned into a full-blown opportunity. Lance hadn't panicked, and he never gave up, turning a defensive lapse into his moment.
Boom!
Tyree had completely lost his composure, jumping up and down, fist-pumping and shouting, cheering for the white-clad figure on the field.
"Roll! Roll! Roll!"
The entire stadium, bowing down—
No one could resist.
Who could?
This was what sports were all about—the purest form of excitement, not just about winning or losing, but about the fight, the battle, and the unbreakable will to never give up.