American Football: Domination

The playoffs pressed forward with no pause for breath.

The first Wild Card game had barely ended before the second took the stage—same Saturday, same Texas, but now under the bright prime-time lights.

This was historic: the first time in NFL history that two playoff games were held in Texas on the same day. The first had taken place in Houston; the second would be just outside Dallas, in Arlington, at AT&T Stadium, where the NFC's fourth seed Dallas Cowboys hosted the visiting fifth seed Seattle Seahawks.

"50% vs 50%."

Dead even. On paper, and in reality, this was the tightest, most evenly matched clash of the Wild Card round. Both teams had finished the regular season at 10–6. Strengths and weaknesses balanced out on each side, making the outcome hinge entirely on execution. That was why the league slotted this one into the night game—built for maximum drama.

The first Wild Card had disappointed, leaving fans craving something better. Expectations piled high on Dallas and Seattle: deliver a classic.

They did not disappoint.

A Brutal Fight

This was no ordinary contest—it was a war. Fierce, bloody, unrelenting. The kind of playoff struggle where every yard feels stolen, every down a test of will.

The scoreboard stayed tight from kickoff to the final minutes. Defense and offense traded blows, never letting the other pull away. For neutrals, it was spectacle; for diehards, it was agony.

With just 2:14 left, Dallas led by 10. Most thought it over. But Seattle's Russell Wilson wasn't finished.

A deep strike, two precise mid-range completions, and within 50 seconds the Seahawks had a touchdown. They gambled on a two-point conversion, and Wilson himself carried the ball in.

The lead shrank to two. The clock still read 1:17.

Carroll rolled the dice—onside kick.

The stadium froze, breathless.

And then, from the chaos, emerged Cole Beasley.

An undrafted free agent from 2012, a six-year Cowboy who had remained a background figure, now seized his moment. He launched himself onto the football, curled around it like a shrimp, absorbing hits to protect possession—securing the Cowboys' hopes and crushing Seattle's.

From there, Ezekiel Elliott took the reins. Two grinding runs burned the clock dry, and the whistle sealed it.

Final: 24–22, Cowboys.

A Breakthrough

AT&T Stadium exploded. For the Cowboys, this was more than a victory—it was catharsis. Their first playoff win since 2014, and the first in the Prescott–Elliott era.

For three years, the narrative had been clear: Dak Prescott and Ezekiel Elliott, heirs to the star, chosen to restore the Cowboys' greatness. And for three years, the promise had stalled at the postseason's gate.

Now, at last, they'd broken through.

Could this be the turning point?

The league was wide open, parity everywhere, chaos reigning. Was this the year Dallas rose again?

Comparisons to Kansas City

Across the NFL, one thought spread like wildfire:

"Maybe the Cowboys are this year's Chiefs."

The parallels were tempting.

Dallas had Dak and Zeke, third-year partners; Kansas City had Mahomes and Lance, both in year two.

Both duos had grown up in sync, the running back exploding first, dragging his quarterback higher.

Both quarterbacks were physical, mobile, and strong; both running backs dominant forces with defining styles.

Both teams had offenses on the rise but defenses not to be overlooked.

The symmetry was uncanny.

When asked, Elliott kept it mysterious: "We'll see."

Prescott smiled, shrugged, and said, "I'd be happy to meet them in the Super Bowl."

And Lance? He laughed outright.

"Dallas is Dallas. That's America's Team! Would you want to compare yourself to Captain America? God, I hope not—that would be a nightmare."

Was it modesty? Was it sly shade? Hard to say.

But he steered the focus back where it belonged: "All we're worried about is the Divisional Round. That's it. Don't spoil what's next."

What's Next

The message was clear: one game at a time. That's the only way to survive in January.

The very next day, Sunday, the playoffs marched on.

Afternoon: the Eagles traveled to Chicago, a clash dubbed the Reid Bowl, pitting Doug Pederson against Matt Nagy—two of Andy Reid's former lieutenants, now master strategists themselves.

Evening: the Chargers against the Ravens, billed as a duel of generations—Rivers versus Lamar Jackson, the veteran against the rookie spark.

Seeds and stats suggested Baltimore had the edge. But this was the postseason. Anything could happen.

And with every snap, the NFL's chaotic, bloody, beautiful theater only grew hotter.

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Powerstones?

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