American Football: Domination

Six-man rush—

Four defensive linemen plus two linebackers. The Colts' head coach showed not only boldness and courage, but cunning as well.

The four on the line looked ordinary enough, locking up with blockers like always. But the linebackers, one left, one right, looped wide around the edges, slicing into the pocket's ribs, avoiding the grinder of the trenches and aiming their thunder straight inside.

Silent. Swift. Everything riding on one word: fast.

A lightning strike.

Because the Colts knew: if Mahomes fired a quick throw, it had to be fast—so their pressure had to be faster.

But they forgot another option.

The run.

The Chiefs didn't pass. They ran.

On one side, linebacker Leonard ghosted into the pocket like a submarine.

On the other, Lance had the ball tucked, eyes reading the defense.

And then—he and Leonard met.

Leonard: ???

Lance: Hey, it's me.

For a heartbeat their eyes locked—long enough to stun thought itself. Reflex took over.

Leonard lunged, abandoning Mahomes, throwing everything at Lance.

But he was half a beat late.

Lance: Stop, see, go.

One backstep—just enough. Leonard dove through empty air. Lance skipped past and surged forward.

Leonard's teeth ground as he sprawled face-first, mouth filled with turf. Damn! Damn, damn!

He pounded the grass, scrambled up, and tore after him. But #23's red jersey was already streaking five yards downfield, a blur of motion. Leonard could only chase.

Upfield, defenders peeled off their coverage to converge.

But Lance didn't slide. He weaved, twisted, pressed through the gaps. Wolves ahead, tigers behind—still he drove forward.

Plant. Explode.

Plant. Explode.

The stadium thundered.

At last, four white jerseys swarmed. Leonard launched again, dragging him down.

It took four men. Only then did Lance fall—after ten yards and another first down.

But he rose light as air, no trace of struggle. Eyes sharp, smile tugging at his mouth. He strolled back to the huddle.

Leonard glared back, chest heaving. Things were getting interesting.

The duel had shifted up a gear.

On the sideline, Reich cursed under his breath. He hadn't expected Reid to slip in a ground attack. Lance had punched a first down right through their scheme. Doubt rippled the Colts' defense.

Reich strode forward, palms chopping down, demanding composure. Don't be shaken. Don't let him rattle you.

They couldn't play like puppets on Reid's strings. Too many had tried that already—and lost.

"Stick to the plan. Stick to it!"

He calmed his unit, nudged them forward. More attention to the pass. Coverage heavy on the short zones to smother runs.

Because the Chiefs had too many weapons. He had to trust his read: better to guard the pass, even if it meant giving up chunks on the ground.

But he miscalculated.

1st-and-10: run. Lance for seven.

2nd-and-5: run. Damien Williams for three.

1st-and-10: run. Williams again for four.

2nd-and-6: short pass. Kelce for seven and a first.

One run after another. No trickery. Just sledgehammer power, grinding forward. Three straight first downs. Across midfield. Near the forty.

With talent like this, they could afford to be blunt.

Damien—Hunt's replacement—was thriving, pounding like a bulldozer, adding muscle to the Chiefs' attack. What looked like a loss had become a weapon.

The Colts' defense faltered. Leonard and the secondary flailed, left chasing ghosts, soft spots exposed again and again.

Arrowhead roared.

Now Reich faced the question:

Do I sell out against the run?

He glanced across. Reid looked serene, unreadable.

Reich clenched his jaw. Stick to the plan.

He didn't dare give up pass coverage. Reid's runs were bait. Mahomes's rainbow to the end zone was the kill shot. The run could hurt, but the pass could kill.

So he doubled down.

Stubborn.

And then—1st-and-10.

Mahomes faked the handoff, dropped back, chin lifted, scanning deep.

Reich's heart leapt. Got him.

Hill and Watkins were already sprinting full speed. The Colts' DBs scrambled to stay with them.

Reich's pulse spiked. Yes. This is it.