Hah!
The crowd roared in unison—
Elliott clenched his fist, teeth gritted, silently screaming to fire himself up.
This time, he didn't mess up the extra point.
He nailed it.
23:17.
Halftime. The first half of Super Bowl LII had come to an end.
The Philadelphia Eagles marched into the locker room with a six-point lead, closing out the half in a stunning, explosive fashion—unstoppable energy surging through their ranks.
And they lit the place on fire.
"Incredible!"
"This…"
Collinsworth was nearly speechless. Even though he had hoped for a great game, even though he believed this underdog battle could bring surprises, actually living through the first half left his head buzzing, his thoughts in chaos. He couldn't stop the mental hurricane.
Upside down. Electrifying.
For the first time in Super Bowl history, there were zero punts in the first half. Every offensive possession from both teams reached at least field goal range.
Then, both sides broke personal and league records together. The Eagles and the Chiefs combined for 673 yards in the first half, smashing Super Bowl records. And for the first time ever, both quarterbacks threw for over 200 yards before halftime:
Smith with 276 yards; Foles with 215 yards.
On top of that—
For the first time in Super Bowl history, both special teams made critical errors. The Eagles missed an extra point. The Chiefs missed a field goal. It was proof of the tension and pressure—every detail showed the intensity of this clash.
No one was spared.
This high-quality showdown closed its first act in the most dazzling, breathtaking way.
4th and 1, and they went for the touchdown.
The Eagles pulled off the "Philly Special," with four underdog players—sixth-round center Jason Kelce, undrafted running back Clement, undrafted tight end Burton, and third-round backup QB Foles—combining to run the most legendary trick play in Super Bowl history.
Burton to Foles. One-yard touchdown pass.
Shocking. Dazzling.
A magnificent half ended in the most spectacular fashion, detonating the stadium with uncontainable fervor.
Even battle-hardened commentators like Collinsworth and Michaels were left slack-jawed and speechless.
"Wow."
"Philly Special—Pederson is bold, methodical, fearless, and mad. He called that play in that situation at that time—he took Super Bowl LII to another level."
"No one saw it coming."
"Absolutely no one."
"Two dark horses. Two new QBs. Two young, inexperienced teams full of raw fire—yet they threw off all shackles, gave it everything, and turned the Super Bowl into a spectacle no one will ever forget."
"Even though we can't see them, fireworks are going off inside U.S. Bank Stadium. Every mind is exploding."
Whoa. Oh. Ahhh.
Alan felt like the world was spinning—blurring red, blue, and white into a whirlwind of color, rushing by like a river, building to a thundering Roll that pounded in his ears. A surge of indescribable excitement broke free in his heart.
So this—
This is football.
This is the Super Bowl.
This is the true mountaintop showdown.
This was Lance's stage—running, blazing, shining.
Suddenly, Alan's eyes burned with emotion.
Words couldn't even begin to express what he was feeling. Finally, he understood why Lance's eyes always sparkled whenever he talked about football.
"We're behind now, aren't we?" Alan asked, a little dazed, short of breath, struggling to think clearly.
Sue pressed her hands together over her heart and gently nodded, eyes fixed on the field. Though Lance looked no bigger than a matchstick, she could spot him easily—watching silently, praying quietly.
She wasn't alone.
Josh was the same—panting hard, his heartbeat like a drum, loud and wild, ready to burst.
The VIP suite was drenched in tension. After the high of excitement, a heavy, suffocating pressure settled in.
Honestly, the entire stadium, the entire city of Kansas City, was feeling it.
The pressure was mounting like a tidal wave—and it kept climbing.
Provost was nearly suffocating. His instincts screamed in his mind: Run.
Same tension. Same standoff. Same nerves. It always seemed to spiral into chaos when he watched the Chiefs play.
He thought he was a jinx. He'd ruined his life, his future—and now he was ruining Kansas City's biggest dream.
He should've stayed away. Coming to Minneapolis was a mistake. The Chiefs had played brilliantly in the first half. Smith had delivered his best performance of the season. And yet, the Eagles had exploded with an impossible counterattack.
And the Chiefs were now behind—
Like this.
The Philly Special.
"Philly Special!"
Social media was on fire, the stadium gates were no different. Eagles fans were in a frenzy.
The chant echoed again and again, spinning over the stadium, igniting Philly's morale like gasoline to flame. Even the neutral fans were caught up in it.
For a moment, it felt like the Chiefs were all alone in the world.
Provost thought maybe he should just leave. If he left, maybe everything would go back to normal. Maybe the Chiefs would find their rhythm again.
But—
Should he?
Provost held himself steady. For the past two or three years, he'd been running—dodging, denying, pushed to the margins of life, cowering in the shadows, barely surviving. Not even living—just barely breathing.
Now, he didn't want to run anymore.
He wanted to face reality, face the challenge, face everything head-on. Like Lance had said—no regrets. Even in defeat, face it proudly and say:
They gave it everything. They left it all on the field. They held back nothing. And they had no regrets.
That's football.
That's life.
So—
Provost took a deep breath, summoned every ounce of courage, stood tall, and took one step forward.
This time, he wasn't going to run. No matter the outcome, he would fight with the Kansas City Chiefs—until the very end.
"Fly."
Provost shouted with all his heart.
It wasn't easy. The whole stadium was chanting "Philly Special," but he didn't give up. Quietly, focused, stubbornly, he repeated it again and again.
From the depths of his soul, a burning cry rose.
"Fly!"
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Powerstones?
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