American Football: Domination

Buzzing. A deep, resonating hum.

Derrick Henry stared at the field in disbelief. In a playoff elimination game, with everything on the line, Lance had the audacity to pull off a trick play—completely fooling the Titans' defense.

Trick plays were a defining feature of football.

The key lay in the word "trick."

It could mean a prank, a ruse, a deception, or a clever move. Every year on Halloween, children chant, "Trick or treat!"—where "trick" means mischief.

In football, within the bounds of the rulebook, it meant catching opponents off guard with unexpected and unconventional play calls:

For example, a tackle becoming an eligible receiver—but only after informing the referee.

Or a running back throwing the ball instead of carrying it.

Or a punter suddenly acting as a quarterback and passing the ball instead of kicking it away.

And so on.

The NFL's rules allowed for anyone to throw a pass. Each play permitted unlimited lateral or backward passes but only one forward pass, under three conditions:

Only one forward pass per play—Side referees would determine if a pass was illegal.

Once a ball carrier crosses the line of scrimmage, a forward pass is illegal, though backward and lateral passes remain valid.

Offensive linemen cannot intentionally catch or throw a forward pass, except under two conditions:

If the ball is tipped or deflected. If a specific lineman is declared eligible before the play.

Of course, the full rulebook was even more detailed—so complex that even officials sometimes had to double-check the fine print.

With seven seconds left, the Chiefs had plenty of options:

Lance could run backward, burning time. They could lateral the ball repeatedly to keep possession alive.

But these strategies carried risk. A fumble, an interception, or—worst of all—a defensive touchdown could have led to a last-second Titans victory.

Reid had no intention of letting that happen.

Instead, he chose the safest yet most deceptive option.

The ball wasn't in the quarterback's hands—it was in Lance's. No matter the situation, he would protect it.

Then Lance faked a pass to Kelce.

A classic misdirection.

If Orakpo ignored the fake, Lance could decide to slide down safely or actually throw the pass.

If Orakpo bit on the fake and dropped into coverage, Lance would take off running.

In other words, Reid disguised a read-option play within a running formation, treating Lance like a dual-threat quarterback. He trusted Lance's ability to handle pressure and his impact on the Titans' defense.

Of course, this was a huge gamble.

Football was highly specialized. Running backs didn't play quarterback. Safeties didn't play linemen. Every position required dedicated training. A minor miscalculation could turn a creative trick play into a disaster.

Just look at what happened—Lance had never thrown a pass in the NFL. While he had LaDainian Tomlinson's training regimen, he had spent the last month focusing on receiving, not passing. Who knew what kind of throw he would have made if forced?

Trick plays were more common in college football, where athletes were more versatile. In the NFL, where every player was an elite specialist, pulling off tricks was much harder.

Moreover, trick plays worked best when they were unexpected. If used too often, defenses would quickly adapt and shut them down.

At first glance, Reid's call seemed reckless. But upon closer inspection, it was calculated. The Chiefs were in control, and Reid had built layers of security into the plan—then placed the game in Lance's hands.

As expected, Lance did not let him down.

"Fly!"

"Fly!"

Arrowhead Stadium had lost its mind.

The playoff home losing streak was finally over. The Chiefs were moving on. And it wasn't just a win—it was a battle, a war, a moment that proved the Chiefs were no longer pushovers.

Finally.

Cheers. Shouts. Roars. Tears. Passion.

Arrowhead Stadium shook with celebration, as if this victory meant more than just advancing in the playoffs.

Derrick Henry felt a pang of envy.

He couldn't believe Reid had entrusted Lance with the final play. He couldn't believe Lance had tricked them so thoroughly. He couldn't believe they had been so close to sealing the win, only to watch it slip away.

If not for that fumble, would their running game have been enough to secure a first down? If Henry had moved the chains, the Chiefs would never have gotten the ball back.

If…

But football had no ifs.

The game was over.

Victory belonged to the Kansas City Chiefs.

Henry had always dreamed of moments like this—being the hero, carrying his team to victory, hearing the deafening cheers of an adoring crowd.

But tonight, he wasn't the one standing in the spotlight. He was simply a spectator, watching someone else create history.

Bitterness. Regret. Frustration.

All of it swirled within him—then, unexpectedly, turned into a smile.

Last season, Nick Saban had trusted Lance to take the final play in the national championship game.

This season, Andy Reid had done the same thing.

Once? That might be luck.

Twice? That wasn't coincidence.

Henry didn't believe in coincidence.

The truth was simple—Lance had earned their trust.

Up until today, Henry had thought of himself as the face of the Crimson Tide legacy.

But now?

Someone else had pulled ahead.

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Powerstones?

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