"Why?"
Despite the embarrassnt, the sha, and the frustration, Chris Jones managed to pull himself together. He focused, temporarily setting aside his pride to return his full attention to football.
He knew that Lance never hesitated to offer help. In fact, whether it was offense or defense, Lance was always learning sothing new. Not just from the younger players either—even seasoned veterans like Houston, Johnson, and Berry had occasionally been left speechless by Lance's questions.
"Why can you always break tackles?"
Jones paused, then corrected himself.
"I an—why are my tackles always broken?"
Ah, that explains it.
Lance suddenly understood. With such a large roster, everyone had their own struggles, obstacles, and breakthroughs. But in professional sports, pure talent or hard work alone can't always break through certain plateaus.
Jones was now entering his third year. If he still couldn't secure a firm spot on the team, everyone knew what ca next.
They might not even wait until the end of his four-year rookie deal. The team could start exploring other options for him by the next offseason.
To many, defensive linen are viewed as mindless tanks, relying purely on brute force. Their job seems to be nothing but crash, crash, crash.
And indeed, players like Rams DT Aaron Donald or Texans DE J.J. Watt built their legacies on sheer physicality and talent. Both spend endless hours pumping iron, seemingly validating that stereotype.
To a degree, it's true—a strong body is essential for any defensive lineman. It's their foundation.
But defensive line play is far more technical than it looks. These players aren't just slamming into people—they need finesse too.
At the most basic level: lowering their center of gravity, maintaining balance, engaging in leverage battles, twisting their bodies to bring down opponents, and finding lanes to penetrate the pocket.
These details are all technical skills, no different from wrestling or sumo. It might look like brute force, but at the top level, it's technical mastery that often makes the difference.
Tackling also involves keen observation. Defensive linen need to read their opponent's center of gravity, ti their grabs precisely at the waist or thighs, and avoid being fooled by jukes or weight shifts.
It's definitely not easy.
That's why, in actual gas, even a seemingly successful tackle can be broken.
From a technical standpoint, Lance—being a running back—had no place lecturing a professional lineman about tackling technique. That was the job of the D-line coach. But what Lance could offer was the perspective of soone being tackled.
In other words, the evader.
"Your eyes," Lance said.
Jones: "???" — "What is this, a comic book? Are you about to say I need 'fighting spirit'?"
"Haha," Lance burst out laughing. A rare glimpse at Jones' other side. "I ant, your eyes give you away. Your decisions aren't confident—or maybe you're unsure what my next move is."
"In practice, you're tackling dummies, pads, or teammates not going full speed. Your brain isn't under stress."
"But in gas, your opponent isn't waiting to be tackled. We observe, predict, calculate. We'll do whatever it takes to break free."
"So, either you pre-plan your tackle and execute decisively, or you stay calm and read the details—feet, knees, hips, shoulders. Observe balance and posture. Then ntally simulate the possible outcos, and adapt your tackle accordingly."
"When I first started playing football, Coach Burns told the first lesson: 'Think.' I had to learn patience and clarity. Football requires more brainpower than people think."
In Lance's eyes, Jones still hadn't fully adjusted to the pro ga—even in year three.
In college, brute force worked. He could bully his way through.
But in the NFL, when that sa force no longer gave him the upper hand, he froze.
Coaches would of course teach all this—but players varied in learning speed. So were just late bloors. And with huge rosters, coaches couldn't track everyone's progress with precision. Naturally, gaps opened up.
Jones paused, thoughts whirling.
Finally, with a blank expression, he looked at Lance. For a mont, it seed his brain had short-circuited.
Then he said, "So what you're saying is…"
Pause.
"Observation and thinking?"
Lance nodded. "Let's try it. Before each rep—or better yet, before the snap—give yourself space to process."
Jones didn't respond. He just stood there, lost in thought.
When Mahos arrived at the facility, this was what he saw: Lance smiling at him while Jones stood completely still, seemingly frozen in ti.
They bumped fists.
"I thought you were resetting your schedule today?" Lance asked.
Mahos shook his head. "Still woke up automatically. I'll train hard today, then tonight force myself to stay up reading the playbook. Hopefully I'll sleep in tomorrow. We on for tonight at your place?"
"Sure," Lance nodded.
Mahos glanced at Jones, puzzled. "What did you do to crash his brain?"
Lance smirked, "Want to crash yours too?"
Mahos barely held back a laugh—on the verge of bursting.
Despite their early arrival, more and more players began showing up soon after, an impressive sign of motivation—
Especially for a defending champion.
Even Kelce showed up next.
Yawning and waving them off, he muttered, "Damn JJ…"
Back in Houston, as J.J. Watt deadlifted in his gym, he suddenly sneezed. Looking around in confusion, he shrugged and returned to his set, the clang of iron echoing like a symphony.
By the ti Coach Reid arrived, thirty minutes ahead of schedule, over half the team was already present—an encouraging sign of their championship mindset.
Defending the title would be a whole new challenge.
Just then, Lance spotted a familiar figure up ahead—and froze, mouth agape in surprise, utterly unable to hide his shock.
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