Surrounded. Trapped. The defense quickly closed in.
This is why third and long is so difficult. Passing often leads to tight coverage; running puts you in a minefield of defenders.
Compared to first or second down runs, running on third down may create a bit of space at first, but once you break through five yards, you're surrounded.
And that's exactly what was happening now. Everywhere Lance looked, there were Tiger defenders, breaking through the Red Tide's blocks and flooding the field like a dam that had burst.
Lance had just spotted a gap, angling toward the right when—
A hit from the right slammed into him, making his insides churn.
But Lance didn't resist the impact—he played to his strengths, adjusting quickly and using the momentum to change direction, cutting left.
A half-beat later, he realized the hit had come from a cornerback locked in a battle with Alabama's number one wide receiver, Foster. The corner had no chance to tackle, managing only to collide, sending both players tumbling.
Stumbling forward, Lance zig-zagged to the left. But after just two or three steps, he saw two safeties closing in fast, along with a linebacker shaking free from Hunter-Kis' block. The defense was closing in, forming a pocket around him.
Lance leaped over a side tackle, continuing his run.
A safety closed in from the front, and Lance extended his left arm for a stiff-arm, but the safety, built like a wall, wasn't shaken off easily. It was one of Clemson's strong safeties—stocky, powerful.
But Lance didn't panic. Seeing the other safety, Muse, approaching, Lance pushed the defender in front of him forward, using him as a human shield.
Lance shoved the safety into Muse.
Their helmets collided with a bone-rattling thud, leaving both defenders spinning.
Lance seized the moment, pushing off the ground and shifting his weight, breaking free and veering toward the right sideline—where the field was wide open.
The cornerback who had been covering Foster was now getting to his feet, but it was too late to catch up.
Ahead of Lance, the path was clear.
But it wasn't going to be that easy. Lance's peripheral vision caught sight of a swarm of defenders closing in from the left. His balance wavered in the chaos, but he had to regain his footing quickly.
In the heat of the moment, Lance held his breath, operating purely on adrenaline. His speed ramped up, bit by bit, while his senses stayed sharp. He could feel the pressure from all angles as he dodged one would-be tackler after another.
A gasp rippled through the stadium.
From five yards to ten yards, the field was packed with defenders. Lance was like a ping-pong ball, bouncing around but somehow managing to stay upright. And then, against all odds, he broke through a gap.
Unbelievable. The Red Tide had somehow converted a third and long with a run play.
Lance? He was still staggering forward, stumbling like a drunk man trying to walk a tightrope, every step seemingly on the brink of collapse.
Amid gasps and wide-eyed disbelief, the crowd watched Lance keep advancing.
A linebacker dove at Lance, launching himself sideways, hoping to make the tackle.
But Lance high-stepped, sidestepping the tackle as he hugged the sideline. He managed to avoid the tackle, but he was dangerously close to stepping out of bounds.
Lance didn't slow down—he accelerated, tiptoeing along the thin sliver of space inside the sideline, balancing precariously but running faster and faster.
Lance's nimble footwork resembled a graceful ballerina, dancing delicately on a thin line, turning the football field into a stage for high art.
He crossed midfield, the white lines flashing beneath his feet like trees flying past a speeding train, while the crimson sea of fans retreated like waves.
Despite his earlier collision with his teammate, Muse hadn't given up. Regaining his balance, he chased after Lance again, this time catching up quickly. He didn't have time to think. He just sprinted, inching closer with every step.
Muse didn't need to tackle Lance—he just needed to push him out of bounds.
He pushed off the ground, launching himself at Lance.
Bryant-Denny Stadium fell into dead silence. Everyone held their breath as time seemed to slow, eyes wide with anticipation.
Lance hit the brakes.
Mid-sprint, Lance pulled off an emergency stop, swaying dangerously, like a dragonfly perched atop a fragile lotus leaf, wings trembling.
Muse sailed past him.
Muse had calculated where Lance would be after his next step, anticipating the collision. But he hadn't anticipated Lance's sudden halt.
Their eyes met as Muse flew by.
Muse crashed helplessly into Alabama's sideline players.
But nobody on the Tide's sideline had time to care about Muse; all eyes were locked on Lance as he darted down the field, triggering a tidal wave of cheers.
Lance crossed Clemson's 45-yard line.
After regaining his balance, Lance accelerated again, his speed gradually increasing as he crossed the 40-yard line.
One by one, Clemson defenders rushed toward the sideline, trying to cut him off. The entire stadium seemed to explode, with a roaring wave chasing Lance as he sprinted toward the end zone.
Thirty-five-yard line.
The atmosphere was electric. Passion soared through the stands, turning the stadium into a sea of fire. Even seasoned commentators like Todd Blackledge and Pasch couldn't help but marvel at Lance's graceful sideline sprint.
Behind Lance, the stampede of defenders stretched out like a peacock's tail.
In front, Lance charged forward like a solitary arrow, gaining more and more speed.
The wind whistled past, the roaring crowd turning into a blur of red and white, like paint splashed across the sky. Then, with one final burst, Lance crossed into the end zone.
The stadium erupted. Tens of thousands of fans jumped to their feet, screaming and cheering at the top of their lungs.
The Crimson Tide swept the field like a wave.
Clemson stood in stunned silence.
Incredulous. Unreal. But it was happening right before their eyes.
24–21. The Crimson Tide had scored again, narrowing the gap.
Could Watson still afford to sit calmly on the sideline?