Third and thirteen.
The situation was grim. On the first down, Lance was tackled behind the line of scrimmage, losing three yards, putting the offense under immense pressure. On the second down, Bateman attempted a mid-range pass, but once again, the offensive line faced heavy pressure, and Bateman's hurried pass fell incomplete.
Now, it was third and thirteen.
But that's the nature of football. Each play alters the strategy for the next, with the situation constantly evolving. From Clemson's last offensive drive and their current defense, it was clear Coach Swinney had adjusted his tactics. The game had shifted into a war of attrition, with time being Clemson's key ally. The defense tightened, especially on the front line, aiming to force Alabama into mistakes and create opportunities.
For the difficult third quarter, Swinney had crafted a more calculated strategy.
With thirteen yards to go, Alabama couldn't rely on their ground game. It hadn't been effective and was too easily swarmed by Clemson's defensive front.
Unless Saban was willing to give up on this drive and play it safe by running the ball to secure better field position for the punt.
But was that even an option?
Alabama was still trailing by ten points, and time was running out. They couldn't afford to waste any offensive opportunity.
So, a passing play?
The pressure was now squarely on Bateman's shoulders.
Bateman could feel the weight of thousands of eyes watching him, the intensity burning through his equipment, making his fingers tingle with a slight sweat. He glanced over at Lance, who met his gaze with bright, confident eyes.
"We've got this."
That was the message Lance's look conveyed. It made Bateman clench his fists, summoning his resolve.
He called for the snap.
Standing on Alabama's own twenty-two-yard line, Bateman was ready.
"Attack!"
At his command, Bateman took the snap from the center and immediately turned. Lance was already in motion, and the two executed a perfect misdirection.
A run play?
Surely not, right? Would Alabama actually attempt a run on third and thirteen?
Or was it a fake run with a pass play?
In a split second, the defense hesitated, caught between the subtle movements of Lance and Bateman. The slightest delay caused Clemson's defense to shuffle their feet, preparing for a pass by stepping back. But as they did, the deceptive movements between Lance and Bateman caused them to pause again.
In that brief moment, each player made their own judgments, and the battle unfolded across the field.
Simultaneously, Lance moved to the right while Bateman moved left, the two spreading apart, their actions shrouded by the offensive line's blocking, making it difficult for the defense to determine who had the ball. Clemson's defense was forced to split, covering both sides.
But they didn't panic. They knew Alabama needed to convert thirteen yards for a first down. Even if they allowed a gain of five or eight yards, as long as they held firm, Alabama would still face a fourth down and have to punt.
With that mindset, Clemson's defense loosened their coverage in the short-pass areas while packing the mid-range, ensuring that nothing over ten yards got through.
However, one thing remained constant—
The defensive line.
Regardless of the play, they held their ground.
That's when Ferrell saw it.
Lance.
It was Lance with the ball.
What was Saban thinking? Running the ball in this situation?
Ferrell barely had time to process the shock. Even he had been caught off guard by the unexpected play call, causing him to get tangled up with his blocker, Lester Cotton.
Damn!
Ferrell couldn't waste another second. He shoved Cotton's helmet aside.
Whistle!
The referee immediately threw a yellow flag.
In football, there's no yellow card system like in soccer, but a flag still meant a penalty. And depending on the severity, it could cost valuable yards.
Grabbing an opponent's helmet could result in a serious injury, especially to the neck, so the rules strictly prohibited it. If the referee deemed it a helmet violation, Alabama would automatically be awarded fifteen yards and a first down.
But to Ferrell, it wasn't helmet grabbing, just a push—maybe a holding penalty at most, which would be a ten-yard penalty. Still, he didn't have time to think about that.
Ferrell had only one thing on his mind—Lance.
Especially after tackling him on the first down, he couldn't wait to bring him down again.
With a shove and a spin, Ferrell broke free from Cotton and took a lateral step to charge at Lance.
But he didn't expect Cotton to grab his leg, hindering his movement.
Push.
Ferrell stumbled, losing his balance, but he still lunged forward, managing to gain some ground as he dove toward Lance, arms outstretched.
Tackle!
He hit his mark.
Ferrell felt a surge of triumph, watching as Lance's body followed his tackle, toppling forward. Amid the chaos, Ferrell's grip slipped, and before he could secure the tackle, he saw Lance's legs kick free, continuing to run.
Ferrell: ???
What just happened?
Hadn't he tackled him?
Indeed, Ferrell had tackled Lance.
But Lance, sensing the looming defense, knew he didn't have time to evade. His only option was to press forward before the defense closed in completely—and he ran straight into Ferrell.
Lance couldn't shake the tackle off.
But he didn't give up.
Ferrell's tackle lacked firmness, thanks to Cotton's interference. Though Lance had lost his balance, he hadn't lost control of his body.
As he stumbled forward, Lance thrust out his left arm, planting it on the ground. He channeled all his strength through it, using the ground as leverage to push himself back up.
With a powerful thrust, his core engaged, and before he had fully regained his footing, he started running again.
One step. Two steps.
Staggering, but moving, Lance somehow managed to stay on his feet. In a mere moment, he had covered five yards.
But there was no room. The defenders quickly converged, closing every gap.
Lance stayed calm. He noticed the yellow flag, but he wasn't content to rely on a penalty. The play wasn't over yet. He wanted to take control of the situation and finish the drive on his own terms.
Cool-headed yet fueled by adrenaline—
Bring it on.
Scanning the field, Lance didn't charge recklessly. He spotted a sliver of space and carefully calculated his next move before darting forward.
One step, two steps...
Just as he made his second step, a defender came hurtling from the side like a freight train, slamming into Lance's ribs.
Bam!
A heavy thud echoed as Lance's insides felt like they were twisting.
-----
Powerstones please.