Everything went as expected—
The Philadelphia Eagles stayed focused and locked in. Pederson had drilled it into them over and over—no arrogance, no distractions. The second they lost focus, the game could slip away. If they wanted to maintain their lead and win it all, they had to stay mentally sharp. Relaxation was the enemy.
And yes, that was absolutely the correct mindset.
But Pederson overlooked something: too much can be just as bad.
Too relaxed, and you lose focus; but too tense, and you overexert. The closer you are to the finish line, the more likely nerves will choke you—clutching your throat, making it impossible to breathe.
Finding the balance between focus and ease, staying level-headed—that's an art.
Both the Eagles and the Chiefs were Super Bowl rookies, lacking in experience. But now, the Chiefs were trailing. They had to fight back. They had to go all-in. That need to catch up gave them more freedom to adjust their mindset.
So—
Smith noticed it. Right at the start of the second half, the Eagles' defense was too tight.
Maybe Pederson had warned them not to relax.
Maybe the defense wanted to prove they could be the game-changers too.
Whatever the reason, they were clearly itching for action.
Reid saw it coming. Maybe he was also a Super Bowl newbie, but the old coach had his instincts.
He took a deep breath.
"Attack!"
Smith called the play, gripping the ball tight in his palm, feeling the rough leather. He dropped back fast, scanning the field.
Instantly—he felt the pressure.
Blitz.
The Eagles' defense started the second half with full aggression, crashing in like a pack of tigers.
Five-man rush.
No—six-man rush.
Yes, they were tight. Yes, they were eager. But the Eagles came out guns blazing, playing like they had to win this Super Bowl. Like it was personal against Reid. From top to bottom, they came to prove that their "patricide" campaign wasn't just a slogan.
And six-man blitzes almost always overwhelm a pocket.
Especially with the sixth man—
Nigel Bradham.
This linebacker, acquired from Buffalo in the offseason, had played the best season of his career—tackles, sacks, pass disruptions, RB stops, all personal bests. Pro Football Focus ranked him as the 17th-best linebacker in the league.
Seventeenth? Doesn't sound elite.
But that was Philly. No megastars—just elite team play, much like the Jacksonville Jaguars in the AFC Championship.
And among 150+ starting linebackers in the NFL, top 17 is elite enough.
Bradham didn't rush in to claim glory. He paused half a beat, waited for his teammates to engage, studied the pocket—and then curved in from the outside, using a delayed blitz to slice in through the gap.
Tiger descending the mountain.
He locked onto Smith with laser focus—
Lance?
Bradham spotted Lance moving up to block, and that confirmed it. The Chiefs were setting up for a middle or deep throw. If defenses kept sleeping on Smith's arm, Reid would punish them.
Bradham sidestepped Lance's block. Didn't even glance at him.
He was the storm—slashing into the backfield toward Smith.
Layer upon layer of pressure. The Eagles swarmed. Bradham, solo spearhead, broke through.
Got him.
Bradham grinned. He could see the panic in Smith's eyes. The taste of blood rose in his mouth. He licked his lips.
But just as he lunged—he felt something wrong.
Smith—was calm.
Still calm!
Smith kept retreating, cool as ice, drawing Bradham in like a trap. Bad feeling. Too late. Bradham had no time to react. He lunged again—
Smith, smooth as silk, dropped a diagonal dump pass from his hip like it was a basketball, flipping it around Bradham's outstretched arms.
Bradham: Shit.
Shit shit shit shit shit!
Instinct kicked in. Bradham whirled around—
And saw the ball land in Lance's arms.
Lance didn't even look back. Didn't break stride. Just kept moving.
Only the number 23 on his jersey drifted away.
A decoy switch.
If Bradham didn't understand what just happened now—he was a fool.
Still, he didn't quit. Somehow—he stopped, spun, and lunged backward in a full 180-degree dive.
Clenched teeth. Outstretched arms.
He launched himself—airborne—only to crash back down like a hippo bellyflopping into the turf.
Face in the dirt, mouth full of grass, he watched helplessly as Lance crossed the line of scrimmage.
Philly got played.
Lance had barely touched the ball in the first half—just four carries total. The Eagles had thrown everything they had at Kansas City while Lance chilled in the background.
Terrifying.
They tried to punch first in the second half—but their aggression made them vulnerable. And Reid was waiting.
The old fox was still the sharpest.
Lance had a clean lane. No contact. With room to build speed, he turned it on.
He slipped through linebackers like they weren't even there. And when the secondary closed in, he danced between them—only going down after a double team.
Eighteen yards.
Effortlessly.
He popped right up. Dusted off. Stretched out. Smiling, joking as he rejoined the huddle. Like he'd just strolled through a garden.
Behind him—the Eagles' defense lay scattered. U.S. Bank Stadium erupted.
"Edgewalker!"
"Edgewalker!"
Eagles fans shivered. That sense of dread again.
And the worst part?
It was never wrong.
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Powerstones?
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