Chaos. Crowding. Tension. Pressure.
But Lance stayed 100% locked in, tracking Chung's position, tracking McCourty's position.
Every movement, every inch of space—his mind processed it all in a full 360-degree view.
Patience. Precision. Execution.
Lance found the perfect opening—a tiny window where McCourty was descending, and Chung was still rising.
Hands fully extended.
In the midst of the chaos—he got there first.
Got it!
The moment his hands gripped the ball, his heart contracted.
But before he could even register the catch, his fingers slipped.
The ball was gone.
Chung.
Even though Lance had successfully boxed him out, even though he was half a beat late, Chung never gave up.
The moment Lance caught the ball, Chung stabbed his right fist upward.
Midnight in Foxborough. The air was frozen solid.
The football's leather felt slick and stiff—his fingertips couldn't find a secure grip.
On top of that, Smith's pass had been tough to control—its rotation had intensified on descent, making the ball's movement unpredictable.
Chung seized the chance.
Fist clenched.
One punch. Clean contact.
The ball popped loose like a mischievous sprite, slipping from Lance's grasp, bouncing back into the air.
Gasp.
Time stopped.
Breaths held. Hearts frozen.
Lance was out of strength, unable to go higher.
Gravity dragged him down.
Nowhere to land. No leverage.
No—wait.
He had a landing pad.
In that fraction of a second, Lance didn't fight it—
He let gravity pull him back.
And he crashed—straight into Chung.
Impact.
The force bounced him back up, his body suspending for a split second longer.
A fraction of a millisecond.
Barely noticeable to the human eye.
But—it was enough.
Lance's body arched backward, stretching to its absolute limit.
A full-body extension.
At this point, using two hands was impossible—
So he used one.
Maximum reach. Absolute flexibility.
His back curved like a drawn bow, his body outlining a perfect arc.
Falling. But reaching.
Lance had gained control of his descent—
And in that moment, his right hand found the trajectory of the ball.
Pluck the star from the sky.
His fingers wrapped around the ball.
Secure. Grip tightened. Locked in.
This time—he wasn't letting go.
"Lance—Lance caught it!"
"Huh?!"
"Chung knocked it loose! Chung! That was a masterclass defensive play! The ball is loose—"
"WAIT!"
"LANCE! LANCE! OH MY GOD!"
"LANCE CAUGHT IT! HE STAYED IN THE AIR, EXTENDED BACKWARD, AND MADE THE ONE-HANDED GRAB!"
"ONE. HANDED. CATCH!"
"GOD!"
"LANCE—WITH A ONCE-IN-A-DECADE LEVEL PLAY, DOUBLE-COVERED, AFTER AN INITIAL DEFLECTION—HE STILL MADE THE CATCH!"
"This is even more insane than Odell Beckham Jr.'s one-handed catch—harder, riskier, more breathtaking!"
"Lance just lit up Gillette Stadium! Hail Mary—my God, was this really a Hail Mary? What am I even witnessing?! WHAT AM I WITNESSING?!"
"'THE CATCH'—THIS CHANGES HISTORY!"
"Unbelievable!"
"Unbelievable!"
Nantz's voice trembled with emotion, his words tumbling out without thought, his brain short-circuiting.
—
Outside the Old Oak Tavern.
Provos shot up from his seat.
Did he hear that right?
He turned toward the bar entrance, eyes wide in disbelief.
He wanted to rush inside—but his feet wouldn't move.
BANG!
The tavern doors swung open.
A ROAR of celebration poured out, washing over him like a tidal wave.
"HAIL MARY!"
"HAIL MARY!"
Provos stood there—stunned.
Then—he scrambled inside, crawling, clawing his way forward, desperate to see.
Inside.
The entire bar was a sea of red.
Euphoria. Madness. Pure chaos.
And on the screen—
Lance.
Breaking free from Chung.
Breaking free from McCourty.
Standing tall.
Holding the football high above his head.
Then—
He roared to the heavens.
"AHHHHH!"
Provos couldn't hold back anymore.
He collapsed to the floor, curled up into a ball, and sobbed uncontrollably.
—
Hail Mary.
They did it.
They really did it.
Gillette Stadium fell silent.
Only Lance's roar remained.
When had Foxborough ever looked so helpless?
A rookie had just stolen their kingdom, right in the heart of their own castle.
The Chiefs' offense—
Completely lost their minds.
Everyone rushed toward Lance, arms raised, voices exploding in celebration.
Smith—
Smith was jumping.
Jumping again and again, fists clenched, tears streaming down his face.
They had actually done it.
"WOW."
"WOW!"
"I mean—WOW!"
Nantz had nothing left to say.
He turned to Romo for backup—
And found Romo silently staring, eyes slightly red.
Who could blame him?
Last season, he was still on the field.
But in his entire career, he never got a moment like this.
Now, sitting in the broadcast booth, watching from afar—
The bittersweetness was unbearable.
Because winning and losing are at the core of sports—
But what truly makes sports beautiful are the battles, the mind games, the unbreakable wills that define every moment.
The Patriots had played brilliantly.
But the Chiefs—
They had fought like hell.
And this—this was the spirit of the game.
Nantz wiped his eyes.
"Lance—without a doubt, the brightest star of the 2017 season. His talent, his poise, his ability—he is the key to the Chiefs' transformation."
"The Chiefs had a 0.1% chance. But they took it. Smith took it. Kelce and Hill took it. And most importantly—Lance took it."
"We're witnessing history. And it is a privilege to see Lance take the stage."
"Believe me—his greatness is just beginning."
—
Bart—
Devastated.
Mouth hanging open, staring at the TV like a ghost.
How? HOW?!
On the sideline, kicker Harrison Butker stood, arms raised, celebrating wildly.
Then—he saw Lance running toward him.
Butker: Huh? Me? ME?!
He looked left. Looked right.
No doubt. Lance was coming straight for him.
He panicked, instinctively stepping back.
But—his teammates blocked him from retreating.
Trapped.
Lance stopped right in front of him.
"Hey, man—offense and defense did their jobs. Now it's special teams' turn. You ready?"
Butker stared at the football in Lance's hands.
Then—he felt it.
A fire rising inside him.
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Powerstones?
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