Landing, twisting, diving.
The motion flowed in one continuous arc—Revis reacted instantly the moment the football slipped past his fingertips by the slimmest of margins.
In the midst of the dizzying chaos, Revis locked onto Ertz's number 86 jersey.
No hesitation—his body launched like a torpedo straight at him.
A tackle?
No—not possible.
Revis knew: in the 2015 season, he missed ten tackles. That was the reason the New York Jets cut him. The tight end already had a matchup advantage, and with Revis' current physical condition, wrapping up Ertz was an extremely difficult task.
Tonight's game had already proven that again and again.
And now, he couldn't afford to make a mistake. He couldn't let pride cloud his judgment.
He had to stay grounded.
So, not a tackle—but a hit.
Weight, force, and gravity all combined—Revis flung himself like a wrecking ball, slamming directly into Ertz with everything he had.
Even if it shattered him—so be it.
Bang!
A thunderous collision.
The entire world spun into a storm.
"Stopped!"
"It's a stop!"
"Revis stopped Ertz on the spot—unbelievable!"
"Revis correctly read the play. He anticipated Foles going to Ertz and almost intercepted it."
"But!"
"He didn't give up."
"A second reaction, pivoting off a single leg and leaping into a tackle—an aerial, diving collision that gave Ertz no chance."
"Incomplete pass!"
"Ertz couldn't maintain balance or complete the catch—the most crucial reception of the entire game, and he missed it."
"…My God!"
"Three and out for the Eagles."
The words burst out before thought could catch them, but then silence and awe took over. Collinsworth and Michaels exchanged glances, their minds roaring.
After the first sack and first turnover of the game—now came the first punt.
Although the Chiefs had forced two previous three-and-outs, the Eagles had gone for it on fourth down both times—and succeeded.
So, up until this point, there hadn't been a single punt in the entire game.
But now, it was certain—Pederson wouldn't gamble this time.
The Eagles were at their own 24-yard line, facing 3rd and 6. This was dangerous territory.
Whether it was a failed fourth down conversion or a mistake during the play, the cost was something the Eagles couldn't afford.
Incredibly, Pederson still hesitated. He'd been rolling the dice all night—but at the last moment, he pulled back. Deep breath. Big decision.
Special teams took the field.
Punt!
Finally, the first punt of the game—and likely the last, with so little time left.
1:21 on the clock.
Timeouts: Chiefs with 1, Eagles with 3.
Score: 43–38.
Suspense had reached its peak.
It was insane—they were witnessing a game for the ages, and the outcome still hung in the balance.
But—
Revis didn't celebrate. Not because he didn't want to, but because he couldn't.
He lay there like a crumpled heap, not even a finger able to twitch. His chest heaved, gasping for air that wouldn't come. His vision blurred, staring blankly at the stadium roof, his mind empty—no thoughts, no feelings, just stillness.
Until—
A face appeared.
Lance.
Lance reached down and offered a hand, smiling.
Revis, totally spent, managed to grasp Lance's hand and shakily pulled himself up, his knees like noodles, barely able to stand.
Then he looked up—and saw it.
A thousand eyes, steady and strong, looked back at him, full of belief.
The red sea in the stands stood tall, fists pounding hearts—thump, thump—again and again, silent but thunderous.
Involuntarily, Revis felt his own heart stir again.
There were no words for what he felt. He simply embraced Lance and gave him a pat on the back with the strength he had left.
"Until the final whistle blows, the game isn't over… right?"
He smiled—grim, defiant.
Finally, in his career, Revis fought not for himself, but for the team—for those teammates beside him, and the fans who burned their souls for this moment.
And…it didn't feel so bad after all.
Thump. Thump.
Hearts pounded all around.
On this only punt of the game, the Eagles stayed true to Pederson's style, trying to get tricky—burn time, disrupt rhythm, and pile pressure on.
But Reid stayed cool.
He knew wasting time now was meaningless. Better to let the offense take the field and get to work.
So despite the Eagles kicking short, trying to tempt a return, the Chiefs' special team held steady and simply fielded the ball cleanly at their own 33-yard line.
The Chiefs' offense returned to the field.
And how would this final drive unfold? They'd been here before—against the Steelers, the Titans, the Patriots… but this time, it was harder.
Because Reid only had one timeout.
And the clock kept ticking.
Naturally, the tactical options narrowed.
They couldn't afford to run the ball. It had to be passes. And not just any passes—sideline throws to stop the clock and control tempo.
Tough. Brutally tough.
Also—don't forget—their previous tactics had already been exposed. The Eagles weren't going to fall for the same tricks.
It was nearly impossible.
The air was taut, stretched to its breaking point.
Lance immediately noticed Smith's nerves. His palms sweated. He knew the shadow of that earlier fumble still clung to him. The pressure of a big moment like this could paralyze Smith.
But—
Every weakness has a flip side.
Even shadows… can be fuel.
Lance hadn't forgotten the vulnerability in Smith's eyes after that fumble—the frustration, the suppression. It was all still vivid.
So Lance bumped shoulders with him.
Smith jolted and looked up sharply.
Then he saw Lance—bandaged at the brow, smiling.
"Captain. I want to win, just once."
The same words—but filled with a different kind of power.
Smith's heart clenched. He turned toward the player tunnel. Revis had refused the doctor's orders and sat stubbornly on the bench. Berry stood at the entrance, statue-like with his crutches, eyes locked on the field.
A fire ignited in Sith's chest.
He meant it. He truly wanted to win—just once. So badly.
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Powerstones?
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