Fast. Everything was accelerating—utterly accelerating, a true moment of constant change.
Suggs didn't have time to think—just instinct and experience.
He moved laterally.
Lance moved vertically.
The exact opposite of Lance vs. Urban just moments ago—Lance now ran at a 90-degree angle, planning to use his speed to burst past Suggs.
This move—he'd used it countless times from last season through this one, showcasing his explosive acceleration to the world.
But that was because the Kansas City Chiefs had never faced the Baltimore Ravens.
They were ready.
Suggs stayed alert, fully engaged, lunging forward immediately.
Accelerate, accelerate!
"You punk—you're about to hit a wall right here!"
His speed and strength stretched to the limit, Suggs' eyes flashed with a hint of satisfaction.
He could already picture Lance's frustration at being stifled.
But then—
Lance hit the brakes.
The full-speed charge simply… stopped.
Suggs continued his lateral sprint.
Lance no longer ran vertically.
Just like cars at a traffic light intersection.
Suggs froze—eyes wide as Lance braked hard.
His joy turned to shock.
Reflexively, Suggs tried to stop and turn to follow—but all that pent-up momentum carried him forward.
His foot slipped.
Almost fell flat on his back.
He barely caught himself, hands and feet flailing, while that flash of red—Lance—smoothly and easily cut back and zipped around Suggs' right side.
Just one brake.
Lance had baited Suggs left and then cut right—manufacturing a perfect time differential, slipping past.
Suggs flushed red.
His face almost burst from holding his breath.
His knees buckled again.
He crashed awkwardly to the turf.
Damn! Damn damn damn!
Suggs couldn't remember the last time he was humiliated like this.
Lance: No time to care.
Not even a second to laugh.
Quick pivot—
Around Suggs.
No time to breathe easy.
Left front corner—Mosley was bearing down like a wolf.
Not surprising.
Baltimore's front was full of elite players, and their relentless pressure left Kansas City's offense no breathing room.
Mahomes, Lance—they both felt it.
But Lance knew: If he could break through here, there would be open field ahead—just a matter of whether Baltimore's DBs closed fast enough.
So—
Expected.
Lance was waiting for this moment.
He knew more was coming.
And sure enough:
Here came Mosley.
Lance locked in on Mosley—breathe, tighten core, hold breath.
Brake. Swerve right.
Mosley shadowed perfectly.
Not like Suggs.
He had cushion and awareness—light on his feet, sticking close, staying balanced.
After two defenders, Lance's speed and power were diminishing.
Another brake.
Another swerve right.
Mosley stayed step-for-step—
Quick-cut agility as good as Lance's.
But then—
Lance pushed off with his right foot.
Exploded.
A half-beat quicker.
Just half a beat—but that was enough.
Left foot sliced diagonally forward.
Cut. Launch. Accelerate.
Seamless.
He seized that tiny gap—
Mosley's reactive movements copied Lance's too perfectly—
And that made him passive, a step late.
Mosley's eyes widened.
Too late.
But he was experienced.
He immediately realized those first two cuts were feints.
He'd lost initiative.
Couldn't catch up now.
What to do?
Didn't wait to plant—just dove forward.
Couldn't wrap up—so he threw his body at Lance to disrupt balance.
But—
He might have brushed Lance—
But before he could feel any satisfaction,
The warmth at his shoulder vanished.
Gravity wrapped icy fingers around Mosley's shoulders.
Yanked down.
He was on the ground.
Damn it, damn it, damn it!
Just brushed past.
Ahead, Lance could feel the swirling wind clawing at his heels—
But he slipped through, escaped.
His first clean breakthrough of the game.
No time to celebrate.
His knee dipped.
Feet staggered.
Almost lost balance.
That breath he'd held burst out.
Tumbling forward, Lance nearly fell—but kept his legs pumping wildly, arms windmilling for balance.
One step, two, three, four, five.
Within five yards, Lance surged forward—
Almost broke through for a first down,
Finally avoiding a 3rd down for the first time today.
But Baltimore's secondary closed fast—
Two safeties blocking his path.
Strong safety Jefferson.
Free safety Weddle.
Jefferson was closer, Weddle deeper.
Seeing Lance break through, Jefferson charged forward, knees bent, ready to ram him down like a rhinoceros.
Not a wrap-up.
A direct smash.
Lance drew a deep breath—
Didn't slow down.
In fact, he surged forward—
Stumbling deliberately into Jefferson.
Of course—
He wasn't about to collide head-on.
Lance's awkward staggering became a weapon—
Swaying left and right, disrupting Jefferson's aim, creating slight angles.
The hit never landed cleanly—
Jefferson was forced to wrap up instead.
Then:
Lance planted his left hand.
Leveraged it.
Straightened up.
Used Jefferson's body to regain his own balance.
Then, with perfect timing—
Arm extended.
A stiff-arm—
But not brute force.
More like borrowing Jefferson's momentum.
A tai chi-style push—
"Borrow force to redirect force."
Lance gently guided Jefferson's shoulder aside, spinning the defender off-balance.
Next second—
Jefferson tumbled sideways, staggering like a drunken man.
And Lance—
Light on his feet, reborn—
Skipped past, charging ahead.
In the CBS booth:
Romo: "Damn! Chinese Kung Fu!"
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Powerstones?
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