章 86: Low Spirits
"Lance, I'm sorry..."
Jonah Williams, the starting right tackle for the Crimson Tide, extended his hand to Lance, helping him up from the ground.
Williams' face was filled with guilt and frustration, embarrassment mixed with helplessness. He had so much to say, but the words seemed stuck, unsure of how to express them.
In the end, all he could manage was:
"Sorry."
Clearly, Williams blamed himself for not doing his job. He should have blocked the linebacker, or at least slowed him down, instead of allowing Lance to repeatedly end up in the defense's crosshairs. His frustration and regret were palpable, his face etched with disappointment and defeat.
Lance tried to comfort Williams—
It wasn't his fault. LSU came prepared today, executing their game plan flawlessly since the opening whistle.
Everything was going according to their script.
However, as Lance was about to offer reassurance, he noticed that it wasn't just Williams—many of the other offensive players were breathing heavily, their eyes unfocused.
The atmosphere was oppressive.
The Crimson Tide wasn't a team that crumbled under pressure. Under Saban's iron-fisted leadership, their mental toughness was undeniable. After all, in the Mississippi game, it wasn't just Lance who turned the tide—the victory had been a team effort.
The issue was that after a season of smooth sailing, they hadn't expected to hit a wall so suddenly. Initially, the team wasn't discouraged; instead, they had charged ahead, expecting their offensive power to eventually overwhelm the opponent. But no one anticipated running into that wall again and again.
They had given it their all at first, but with each subsequent failure, their energy dwindled.
Now, after countless failed attempts and adjustments, they were still stuck.
Even the most resilient mindset was starting to waver, and doubt was creeping in. The situation was changing, both on the field and in their minds.
How were they supposed to break through?
No one had the answer. They were stuck, even seeking Saban's guidance didn't provide a solution—
Saban was not an offensive mastermind.
Though he had been pushing for changes and trying different things, at the end of the day, it was up to the players to execute on the field.
A glance toward the sideline showed Saban standing there, his face stoic and grim. Although he didn't show panic or negative emotion, those who knew him well could tell that the situation was dire, very dire.
Even a coach as experienced as Saban was facing a difficult and daunting challenge.
At times like these, the team needed a leader. Someone who could step up—spiritually, strategically, and on the field—and turn the tide.
Yes, football was a team sport, and no one player could single-handedly determine the outcome of a game, whether a quarterback or a running back. They needed the support of their teammates. Otherwise, the entire team would crumble, like sand slipping through fingers.
But!
Even in a team sport, there had to be a leader, a guiding star—someone to rally everyone together, ensuring that each player performed their role and the team marched forward as one.
Subconsciously, the players were all searching for that figure—
Hurts?
Typically, the quarterback was the heart and soul of a football team, the on-field general. But... young Hurts was just as lost.
Cam Robinson?
The left tackle, responsible for protecting the quarterback's blind side, was the leader of the offensive line and one of the most experienced players. He was steady, seasoned, and calm, but Robinson wasn't a fiery, outspoken type. He was more of a stabilizing force, ensuring the offense didn't completely fall apart.
At this moment, Robinson was unsure of what to say.
He knew he needed to speak up, to rally the team, to ignite their passion, but he didn't know what words to use.
He was never great with speeches.
Then Robinson's eyes drifted toward Lance—
He didn't know why, but it was instinctual. He looked at Lance without even thinking.
Lance was a mess.
His cheeks were flushed, his face dripping with sweat, his wet hair plastered to his forehead, as if he had just crawled out of a pool. He was panting heavily, his white away jersey streaked with green and black from the turf, looking more like a rag than a uniform, bearing the marks of a brutal battle.
Like badges of honor.
Yet, Lance didn't seem dejected.
Not even close. His eyes glowed with excitement and eagerness, like a predator on the hunt, with a faint hint of blood in the air, the scent of battle all over him.
—Seven times.
Seven times—that's how many times Lance had run straight into a wall. And this was only the first half, surpassing the number of times he had hit a wall in any previous game this season. In fact, it was more than the combined total from the past three games.
Hitting a wall wasn't just getting tackled.
Tackles were part of a running back's life—double-digit tackles in a game were common. But hitting a wall was different. It meant crashing into an impenetrable defense, failing to push forward, with no acceleration, no breakthroughs, no evasions. It was being completely stopped by the defense.
Without a doubt, it was an ugly and demoralizing statistic.
For an average player, crashing into a wall this many times would lead to a loss of confidence, maybe even breakdowns, eventually shying away from the defense.
But not Lance.
Throughout the season, everything had gone smoothly for Lance. He was starting to think football wasn't that hard. But now, a real challenge had finally appeared—
Things were finally getting interesting.
A formidable opponent?
Yes, and it was exhilarating. The thrill of facing a strong opponent, of testing limits, of pushing oneself—this was the essence of competitive sports. Different games, different disciplines, but they all led to the same truth: pushing boundaries was the meaning of life.
The opponent was strong, no doubt. But that was what made them great. That's exactly the kind of challenge the Crimson Tide needed if they were to compete for a championship and become an even better team.
Noticing Robinson's gaze, Lance looked back and smiled. He tasted the metallic tang of blood on his tongue—he must have bitten his lip during that last double tackle—but instead of concern, his grin widened, his eyes lighting up.
Robinson froze for a second.
Strangely, Lance didn't say a word. But just looking at him, seeing his expression and attitude, gave the team a sense of clarity and purpose.
Then, Lance walked over to Hurts, nudging him with his shoulder, offering silent encouragement as he signaled him to get into formation.
Robinson took a deep breath, calling the rest of the team to line up, only to find that he didn't need to say anything. The Crimson Tide offense was already falling into formation, silently preparing for the next play, the air thick with a somber yet resolute energy.
The wind howled, like the final march before a great battle.
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Powerstones?
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