This chapter was uploaded before it was supposed to be.
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Roaring Tide! Roar!
Roaring Tide! Roar!
The voices of seventy thousand fans echoed above Bryant-Denny Stadium. Even though Lance knew the sea of crimson before him wasn't exactly his enemy, when he looked down at his white jersey, he could still feel the layers of pressure weighing down on him. As an individual, he felt so small.
Yet, it was precisely because of this that a surge of pride rose within him.
A storm? So what?
Let the storm co harder!
The more difficult it got, the calr he beca. The more dangerous it got, the more excited he felt. Lance's thoughts suddenly cleared, and he realized he had been rushing things.
The first drive had been so smooth and easy, and the fact that he hadn't faced a real challenge during the spring training camp made him a bit overconfident. Despite constantly reminding himself that football was a team sport, he hadn't fully grasped the pressure and impact that a united defense could bring.
Naturally, this led to him being too eager for big gains.
But Clark had told Lance before that a running back's progress on the ground often faces heavy resistance. Gaining one or two yards was the norm, and getting tackled behind the line of scrimmage for a loss of one or two yards was common too. That's why the average gain for a running back was often three to four yards per carry. Anything over five yards was considered elite.
In other words, small gains were the norm, and intense, close-quarter battles were the standard.
He needed to adjust his mindset a bit.
"Hey, Batman, are you ready? It's our turn now."
Bateman was nervous, his mouth dry. The Red Team had just erupted with energy, showing their true strength. The entire crowd was cheering for them. Could they stop the montum of the starters?
Hearing Lance's words, Bateman turned his head to look and was t with Lance's bright eyes and calm smile. There was a quiet confidence, a certain fearlessness that seed to flow from Lance. Bateman swallowed hard.
Lance locked eyes with Bateman. "This ti, let's go with a play-action fake. How about that?"
Bateman blinked. He wasn't confident, but seeing the determination in Lance's eyes, he found himself blurting out, "Alright."
Sensing Bateman's uncertainty, Lance flashed a big smile and stretched lazily. "Hey, buddy, you're not fighting alone."
Bateman froze, then felt a bit more reassured.
The White Team's offense took the field.
At their own 25-yard line.
First down.
Bateman took a deep breath and, out of habit, glanced back at Lance. He didn't know why, but seeing Lance's confident gaze through his helt gave him the last bit of reassurance he needed.
Then—
"Hike!"
Bateman took the snap, dropped back, and faked the handoff to Lance. The two of them split, continuing their separate paths.
Lance didn't try to hide anything. He acted as if he had the ball, scanning the field for a gap while running forward. He spotted Allen and Foster amidst the chaos.
Lance cut inside. He moved through the middle as if he intended to break through the line, and Allen quickly disengaged from his blocker and closed in on Lance.
In the crowd of bodies, Allen locked onto Lance's figure—
Tackle!
Allen grinned as he made contact.
But then he paused—sothing felt off. Not only was he tackling Lance, but Lance was also wrapping his arms around him.
Blocking. It was a trap.
A realization flashed through Allen's mind. He glanced up and saw Lance smirking through his helt. A sinking feeling gripped his heart.
Uh-oh!
Allen imdiately looked past Lance, only to see the football soaring through the air, landing perfectly in the arms of another White Team player. In his peripheral vision, he caught sight of Foster, desperately trying to recover and slipping in the process. It was clear—they had been fooled.
Eight yards.
The Red Team's defense had reacted quickly, flooding the short passing lanes. Given Bateman's limited ability to hit deep passes, the defense focused primarily on covering the short and interdiate routes, gaining a slight advantage.
Although the White Team's wide receiver, Robert Foster, had successfully caught the pass, he was tackled almost imdiately and couldn't advance further.
An eight-yard gain but no first down.
Despite the shared surna, wide receiver Foster and linebacker Foster weren't related, and they had grown up in entirely different environnts. The team distinguished the two Fosters by their jersey numbers—Robert Foster wore number 1, while the linebacker wore number 10.
Even though number 1 Foster didn't secure a first down, the White Team's play-action fake had been executed perfectly. Bateman's pass was tily and accurate.
And it was a passing play.
As the Red Team had found their rhythm, the White Team settled down as well, finding so focus of their own.
Bateman let out a small breath of relief and gave Lance a high-five in celebration.
So might wonder: why not focus more on passing? A single pass can gain 30 or 50 yards, whereas a running play might only grind out three to five yards at a ti.
In today's NFL, teams rely increasingly on passing attacks, but even the smartest top-tier coaches never abandon the running ga.
Here's why.
The running ga keeps the defense honest, opening up opportunities for the pass. Conversely, passing success can disrupt defensive sches, creating lanes for the run ga.
A balanced attack of both passing and running is the key to a successful offense. Lean too heavily on either, and the offense faces increasingly tougher challenges.
This short pass didn't result in a first down, but it opened up the passing ga, forcing the Red Team's defense to make adjustnts.
Bateman quietly observed the Red Team's defense, trying to figure out the intentions of Allen and linebacker Foster. However, he couldn't glean much—they were sticking to their usual setup. What should the next play be?
Bateman glanced back at Lance and saw the fighting spirit in his eyes.
They understood each other without words.
As a quarterback, Bateman might lack creativity, but he knew how to operate within the frawork of standard plays. He quickly gathered the offense, and before the 40-second play clock ran out, they lined up again—
Ready.
Lance stood behind Bateman. He couldn't see much from his position, only Bateman's back, but by the sa token, the defense couldn't see him either. They had no way of knowing what Lance would do next.
Total concentration.
"Hike!"
At the snap, Lance pushed off with his legs, sprinting straight toward Bateman's position.
Just as it seed they might collide, Bateman stepped aside to the left and, with his right hand, extended the ball to Lance.
Lance smoothly tucked the ball under his arm without breaking stride, charging forward along a straight path.
Ahead, the offensive line executed perfectly, pushing the defensive line to the sides. The once impenetrable wall of bodies parted like the Red Sea, leaving a wide-open lane.
The door was wide open!
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