Graceful. Effortless.
Kelce barely exerted himself—no collisions, no resistance. Gipson and Ramsey could only watch in stunned silence as the football was snatched away a split second too soon.
In their minds, one bold, capitalized thought appeared—
They had been played.
A full beat too late, linebacker Jack finally lunged forward, slamming into Kelce.
Berry clenched his fist and pounded it downward, his voice bursting with excitement, "Hell yeah! Hell yeah! Hell yeah!"
Spinning around, he slammed into White with a triumphant grin. "See? I told you! I told you already!"
Step by step, the Kansas City Chiefs were marching closer to the Super Bowl. Their miracle season was becoming a reality.
The joy and adrenaline roared like a Roll Tide in their minds.
White: Cough, coughing up blood here—please, leave me alone.
To be honest, Nantz… wasn't even that excited.
He stared at the field in confusion, then turned to Romo, his face full of questions.
The battle leading up to this had been so intense, so brutal, so hard-fought—
And then, the touchdown was just… this?
Even Kelce himself looked a bit puzzled. He had been ready to celebrate, to explode with emotion, but now… it just didn't feel that way.
And so, an unusual scene unfolded on the field.
The man who had just scored a touchdown stood there, smiling casually, while the rest of the Chiefs' offense strolled over, giving Kelce relaxed high-fives—as if they were college students on a weekend trip.
Meanwhile, in the midst of the crowd, Ramsey stood drenched in sweat, breathing heavily, staring blankly at Lance.
His mind was completely empty.
So… how did all of this just happen?
The same confusion spread across the Old Oak Tavern, where fans had been watching.
As Kelce made the catch, a roar erupted. But as the celebration faded, everyone realized… it didn't feel that thrilling. Suddenly, they felt a bit awkward and just grabbed their beers, chugging in silence—only for the entire bar to burst into laughter at the awkwardness.
Romo noticed Nantz's reaction and let out a helpless chuckle. He didn't know how to explain this ridiculous turn of events either.
But this was sports. Unpredictable. Even for those inside the game, you can't always control the chaos—or yourself.
"The game… might be over right here."
Romo's voice was quiet but firm.
As a commentator—even though this was only his first year—he knew his responsibility. Stay neutral. Keep the suspense alive. Never declare a winner too soon.
Suspense is everything.
The Chiefs, despite being in chaos, were clear-headed, disciplined, and united.
The Jaguars were getting more aggressive, more desperate—but also more reckless and more uncertain. The game was slipping away from them.
From a tactical standpoint, Kansas City was playing the long game, stretching out every drive to wear Jacksonville down. Scoring wasn't even the main goal.
Meanwhile, Jacksonville was playing for the knockout punch, trying to end the fight fast.
The Chiefs were the ones scoring touchdowns.
The score widened further. It was brutal. It was suffocating. Every point slowly killed the suspense.
But the real disaster wasn't the score.
It was Jacksonville's morale.
The defense was furious, frustrated, and confused, wanting to unleash their anger but with nowhere to direct it.
Hesitant. Shaky. Terrified.
They knew the truth—if they couldn't score, even the best defensive performance wouldn't save them.
Romo saw it. He knew. The entire game had flipped. Jacksonville was on the verge of a total collapse.
No one had expected this.
Not the analysts. Not even the most pessimistic doubters of the Jaguars.
Even Lawson and Bart, who had questioned Jacksonville before the game, never imagined it would look .
As a commentator, Romo could only do one thing—send a warning.
He hoped the Jaguars would fight back. Anything to stop the collapse.
Weren't they supposed to unleash their energy when cornered?
If they didn't wake up now, there wouldn't be another chance.
"Jacksonville… still lacks experience."
It was true, but no one had expected it to be this obvious—
And for experience to become the defining factor of the game.
From pre-game preparation to in-game adjustments to halftime strategy, experience mattered.
The Chiefs had a slight edge in every category—but those small advantages stacked up and completely flipped the game.
"Reid has been setting this up the entire time. Looking back now, that drive wasn't even about the touchdown—it wasn't even about scoring. It was about draining the Jaguars."
"Dragging their defense out. Stretching the game. Making sure all that halftime energy was completely burned up."
"Controlling the clock with the ground game. Using Lance as a decoy. Completely destroying Jacksonville's defensive reads."
"And in the end? The Jaguars were left scattered, broken, powerless."
"Jacksonville's biggest strength—their elite teamwork—is falling apart. That's the real danger."
Romo let out a long exhale.
The final turning point… might have already happened.
Romo turned to Nantz.
They exchanged a glance, and in that silent moment—off-camera, unseen by the audience—
Not because of the score.
But because the game was collapsing.
What Romo and Nantz didn't know was that Roger Goodell, watching the game in silence, was more than satisfied.
According to Nielsen ratings, the earlier NFC Championship Game had drawn 39 million viewers, setting a new high for the 2017 season.
The AFC Championship Game was already past 45 million viewers—
With Kansas City's dominant second half, the number was still rising—pushing toward 50 million.
That kind of viewership?
Enough to shut up every critic.
Night games worked. Again.
Even if the game turned into a blowout, it didn't matter—
Because Lance had become a phenomenon.
His two first-half touchdowns had already gone viral, exploding across social media.
No need for the NFL to push the narrative.
The fans were doing it themselves.
The second-half ratings kept climbing.
Goodell smiled to himself.
That kid was born for the big stage.
The bigger the moment, the brighter he shined.
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