JuJu was getting nervous.
Clearly, the start of the ga had gone completely off track. Even though Trojans' head coach Helton had repeatedly warned them not to underestimate the reigning champions, the Crimson Tide had already shown dominance on both offense and defense, not just gaining the upper hand but completely controlling the ga.
A sense of crisis gripped his heart.
However, there was still hope. Amid the chaotic ss, the one small piece of good news was that everything had happened so quickly, leaving plenty of ti on the clock. This ant that if the Trojans could quickly find their footing, there was still a chance to turn things around.
Taking a deep breath, JuJu steadied himself, jogging back to the sideline while anxiously cheering on the defense. He clenched his fists, giving them as much support as he could.
"We're all Trojans, and we'll fight together. Now it's your turn to shine."
"Co on! You can do this!"
"Let's go, let's go, let's go!"
Next to him, Darnold seed bewildered.
It was his first ti starting as a quarterback, and he hadn't even had a chance to catch his breath before throwing an interception. So, this was the Crimson Tide?
The ga continued.
Because the Crimson Tide had just intercepted the ball and regained possession at the sa spot, there was no need for the special teams. The offense imdiately took over, starting their drive from their own 35-yard line.
Running back Jacobs was subbed in.
Since it was the season opener, Saban wanted to make sure all the running backs got a chance to feel the ga's atmosphere. He couldn't put all the pressure on Lance alone.
In fact, even Saban was surprised by the first ground attack. What was supposed to be a routine play turned into a 75-yard sprint for a touchdown thanks to Lance's incredible ability to break tackles.
It wasn't that it was a bad thing—just that the other running backs hadn't gotten a chance to get into the ga.
No worries. Saban was experienced and imdiately adjusted the strategy for the second drive.
Saban focused on a more stable, tactical running ga to set up the passing attack. The goal was to give Hurts opportunities to open up the passing ga, with Jacobs and Lance rotating in, thodically moving the ball down the field.
At the sa ti, the Trojans' "5-2" defense began to show its strength. Both Jacobs and Lance found themselves caught in defensive traps as the Trojans used their numbers advantage to clog up the running lanes.
This was more like normal football—big yardage plays on the ground were rare.
In this back-and-forth struggle, the Crimson Tide managed to eat up five minutes and thirty-three seconds on the clock, moving all the way to the edge of the red zone, just 13 yards from the end zone.
Saban turned and called, "Clark."
Clark, who had been dutifully cheering on his team, was caught off guard. He sprang to his feet so quickly that the helts of the defensive players resting on the bench were knocked to the ground.
But Clark didn't care. He stood stiffly, staring at Saban with wide eyes.
Saban smiled, "You're in."
Clark nodded repeatedly, taking two steps before hearing Lance shout from behind, "Helt! Master, your helt!"
Master—that was the nickna Lance jokingly gave Clark. Not because Clark was so kind of football genius, but because Lance had learned most of what he knew about running backs and football from Clark. Clark never hesitated to help.
It wouldn't be an exaggeration to say that without Clark's guidance, Lance wouldn't have adapted to the team so quickly.
It had been almost half a year now, but Clark still hadn't gotten used to the nickna. He never considered himself a "master," and each ti Lance called him that, he felt shy and embarrassed.
This ti was no exception.
Hearing Lance's call, Clark stumbled, nearly tripping and becoming the next Cinderella in a famous fall. Amid the Crimson Tide's laughter and applause, Clark turned back, grabbed his helt from Lance, and rushed onto the field, exchanging a quick handshake with Jacobs.
Terry Clark was the first to notice—
"Ronnie!"
"That's Ronnie! Hey, everyone, that's my son out there!"
"Clark! Ronnie Clark!"
"Go, kid, go! Ah! Ahhh!"
Terry couldn't contain his excitent, jumping and cheering wildly, his eyes brimming with tears of joy as happiness lit up his face.
To others, Terry might have seed like a crazy person—it was just one appearance, nothing to make such a fuss about.
But Terry didn't care. He knew how much his son had sacrificed for this mont—countless hours of training, injuries big and small, and the endless waiting fueled by fading hope. All to pursue a dream.
Many had told Terry that it wasn't worth the struggle, reminding him that just making the Crimson Tide roster—even as a backup—was already an honor. Even if Ronnie never got to play, they should be content, they said. They should learn to let go.
Even Terry, in his quiet monts late at night, had wondered whether it would be better to quit. Was his son's persistence really about his own dream, or was he carrying Terry's dream on his back?
In the end, Terry stayed quiet, continuing to support his son in his own way. No matter the outco, he was proud of him.
And now.
Terry knew he looked like a madman, eyes blurry with tears, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered.
Because he knew he wasn't alone.
On the sidelines, Lance waved a towel, cheering for Clark. The other offensive players quickly joined in.
"Roar, Master!"
"Roar!"
Clark was stunned but managed to take a deep breath, focusing on Hurts as he relayed the play. Clark lined up behind him, ready to go.
Saban called for a play-action fake.
Clark was the decoy, and Hurts made a convincing handoff to fake out the Trojans' defense before turning and throwing to Calvin Ridley, the wide receiver on the left.
Imdiately, Clark moved up, blocking any defensive leaks in the pocket. He stood ready to protect Hurts from any rushers.
Even though the Trojans didn't blitz this ti, Clark remained fully focused and diligent, staying alert until he saw the ball arcing through the air. His heart leaped as he followed its flight.
Touchdown?
Could the Crimson Tide score again?
In his peripheral vision, Clark saw bodies clashing and forces colliding.
Ridley had successfully caught the ball, turning upfield and gaining ground. He found a small opening in the short-passing zone and made a determined push forward.
However.
The Trojans' defense tightened in the red zone, locking down every inch of space. Three defenders surrounded Ridley, stopping him at the one-yard line.
No touchdown.
And then.
Before Clark knew it, he was back on the sidelines.
Wait—was that it?
Was it over already?
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