Jackson was… a little rattled.
He thought he was ready. He'd watched countless hours of film and prepared for every scenario. But now that it was actually happening, he realized he had no clue how to handle it.
The moment the ball was snapped, the Chiefs' defense came alive.
First, they locked down all five of Baltimore's receiving options in tight man coverage. With their running back corps wrecked by injuries, they lacked a dual-threat back to offset the pressure, and Harbaugh's decision to use double tight ends provided no real deception.
Then, Kansas City loaded the short zone with defenders, throwing a web across the middle. They messed with Jackson's read progressions and stayed back just enough to watch for a surprise deep shot.
Jackson kept backpedaling, scanning for any target—but all he saw was a sea of red.
Jackson panicked. The clock was ticking. He had to throw soon. But he saw no windows. No targets. He couldn't risk a blind throw.
This wasn't how it was supposed to go!
But Jackson didn't get recruited in the NCAA for nothing—he had instincts.
Tap tap. Tap tap tap.
Jackson scrambled out of the pocket, trying to hit a soft spot in the short zone. But the Chiefs had prepared for this. After all, this was the very move that had led to the Ravens' three-game rebound streak.
They baited the short zone just enough to tempt a run—then clamped it shut.
Except… someone reacted even faster than their secondary.
Jones had been a half-step slow. Jackson was already breaking away. But Jones didn't give up. He dove, body outstretched, teeth gritted, burning energy.
And only managed to swipe Jackson's ankle and shin, his forearm spinning like a helicopter blade.
Jackson didn't see it coming.
His footing gave out. His balance vanished.
Face-first into the turf.
Jackson saw stars. Dizzy, he flipped over and caught a glimpse of the red jersey behind him.
He couldn't help but curse.
Harbaugh's chest tightened. Head pounded.
The Ravens' offense was trying, but Kansas City's defense had turned it up a notch. They weren't just holding—they were pushing.
And it wasn't just Jones. Pressure was coming from everywhere.
Harbaugh called a second timeout and pulled Jackson over.
"Calm down. We still have the chance."
"Remember—we don't need a touchdown. A field goal is enough."
"We still have the Hail Mary."
From seventy yards out, it seemed crazy to mention a Hail Mary. But Harbaugh was right—they didn't need the end zone, just the field goal range. If Jackson could launch a 40-yard strike, they'd be right there.
The chance was still alive.
"Don't overthink it. We're winning this—worst case, we go to OT. Then it's a fresh game. We're not scared. It's that simple."
Harbaugh clapped Jackson's shoulder and locked eyes with him.
That fired Jackson up. His pride surged—ready to die for the man who believed in him. He nodded firmly.
The Ravens offense returned to the field.
Both sides were fully committed now—no more tricks. It was a head-on duel.
Jackson called the snap quickly, trying to catch the Chiefs off-guard—
But the Chiefs were locked in.
The moment the ball moved—they moved.
Not all-in, but Reed added two linebackers. More than numbers, it was the element of surprise. The Ravens hadn't expected it at all.
The pocket collapsed.
Chris Jones drew attention, and that gave Houston the opening to slip free.
One step. One burst. Jackson was in his sights.
Just a second ago, Jackson was calmly backpedaling.
Now, Houston was barreling toward him. Edwards tried to step in—but Houston juked past like Edwards was a traffic cone.
Danger. Danger. Danger!
Jackson's athleticism saved him. He hit a hard stop, spun, dodged again—barely slipping free of Houston's sack attempt.
But now Jones was coming too.
Bow drawn. Arrow loosed.
Jackson put every ounce of power into the throw. His gut roared as he fired.
The ball soared—cutting a deadly arc across the field.
Arrowhead froze. Thousands of eyes tracked the flight path. Hearts stopped.
No way… not a third game-winning bomb this season…
The pass was clean. Arcing left—clearly avoiding cornerback Fowler, targeting the softer left side.
Even the defenders—Fowler, Houston—lifted their eyes to the spiral.
The ball dropped—short.
The parabola didn't carry. After its peak, it fell like a rock.
A dead drop. Like a watermelon off a truck.
No defenders nearby. No receivers either. Nearest guy was five yards off.
It was a no man's land.
Even if someone had dove, they wouldn't have reached it.
The entire stadium froze.
They had all been holding their breath. All that tension—and that's how it ended?
So what was with Jackson screaming like a beast before the throw?
The silence was awkward.
Everyone just looked at each other.
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