"Zach! Zach!"
"Stay calm!"
Just as Ertz was about to lose it, Foles grabbed him, dragging him backward to stop a confrontation from spiraling out of control.
Revis shot Ertz a vicious glare and spat to the side—he'd nearly lit the powder keg.
So close.
But not quite.
Revis was gasping for air. His lungs burned, his knees trembled, his muscles screamed—his body on the verge of collapse like a puppet coming apart at the strings.
He had always refused to admit he was past his prime.
Refused to acknowledge the toll of age and injuries dragging him down.
And in the first three playoff games this season, Revis had found new life, earned Reid's trust, and even started in the Super Bowl.
But now, on football's biggest stage, the consequences of all that overexertion finally caught up with him.
"He can't cover like he used to."
"His range and explosiveness have dropped sharply. He can't keep up."
"The Island is no longer an island—it's open land."
These voices swirled around his ears, ones he had always tuned out.
But the body doesn't lie. And it was screaming.
This entire game, Revis had backed off, given ground, again and again. The Chiefs' already-thin secondary—especially at corner—had been completely exposed, fueling the explosion of Foles, Clement, and Ertz.
It was humiliation.
Revis was frustrated, angry, unwilling, in pain—but what else could he do?
He simply couldn't stop them.
Couldn't keep up.
That's the brutal truth of competitive sports.
Even trying to provoke Ertz into a meltdown hadn't worked.
That attempt had only made his own struggle more pathetic.
Still panting, Revis looked up toward the VIP suite, searching for Berry's face—
Was this really the end for them?
For Berry? For Revis?
Was this how they would fade into the shadows of football history?
Truth is, Revis had given it everything. Even though his range and tackle rate were diminished, he'd helped hold the Eagles to fourth-and-one twice, had forced several third downs. The defense, all things considered, had held up respectably against an absolutely red-hot Foles.
Just now, he'd gone all-in battling Ertz.
It was tight end versus cornerback—an obvious mismatch in size and youth. Ertz was five years younger, in his prime.
But Revis still fought tooth and nail, forced Ertz off balance, nearly broke up the touchdown.
He had caused the fumble.
He'd emptied the tank.
He had nothing left.
But—
"Touchdown!"
"After three full minutes of replay review and deliberation, the officials rule: it's a touchdown."
"Even though Ertz didn't fully control the ball before his knee hit the ground, and Revis forced the drop, Ertz had not yet entered the end zone when he caught it—he made a football move, crossed the plane. By rule, it's a touchdown."
"But there's controversy."
"What rule exactly applies here?"
"There was clearly a drop in the end zone. The refs confirmed it. But they used a different ruling framework—since Ertz had forward momentum and crossed the goal line after the catch, it counts. That's the interpretation, but many disagree."
"We'll have to revisit this after the game."
On TV, the replay played again and again. On social media, the outrage erupted.
Inside the stadium, same story.
Revis was on the verge of collapse, but the other defenders swarmed the refs, demanding answers.
The atmosphere was heating up.
The stadium, a volcano on the brink.
The game paused briefly.
But—
Reid didn't challenge. He knew the rules.
Once the refs had reviewed and deliberated, their word was final. No more red flags. No more challenges. All he could do now was press forward and maybe file a formal complaint postgame.
Up in the booth, Veach had already started drafting it.
But on the field, the focus had to shift.
The call was made. It stood.
It was a touchdown.
"No matter what, the Eagles just escaped death."
"They went for it on fourth-and-one, gambled big. Then they got the benefit of a controversial call. Pederson's boldness finally paid off."
"The Eagles have—again—taken the lead. The second half continues its back-and-forth frenzy."
"Even more unbelievable: every single drive this half has ended in a touchdown. Both offenses are in full berserker mode."
But—
Then came the twist. Again.
"Oh my God!"
"The extra point is wide!"
"Unbelievable. That's the third special teams failure of the game—between the Eagles and Chiefs combined."
"This time, Elliott misses his second extra point."
"Granted, it's only a one-point difference—six-point lead if made, five if missed. Both are one-possession games. But psychologically, it's a whole different beast."
"The Eagles are clearly feeling the pressure. The previous call had them rattled. Their special teams unit looked flustered and rushed. That miss was glaring."
"So now the question is—can Reid and the Chiefs capitalize?"
Elliott stood motionless on the field, haunted.
He knew it wasn't a catastrophic miss—just one point.
But still—two missed extra points? That was crushing.
If he'd made both…
"Tension!"
"No one wants to see mistakes. But mistakes—these repeated mistakes—prove just how tense, how high-stakes this game really is."
"This is an epic, unforgettable game. But both teams are under incomprehensible pressure. It keeps rising, and mistakes happen when the body tenses up and loses rhythm. Even when focused, players break."
"And now, the blood and violence in the air… it's spreading."
"Not just on the field. The fans—watching from their couches or their stadium seats—their hearts are pounding. They feel this. Every hit, every call."
"We are all, physically, experiencing this pressure."
"And it's in moments like this, championships are decided—not by brilliance, but by precision in the details."
"Who could've known a missed extra point—or a disputed touchdown call—could shift the fate of the Super Bowl?"
"But right now, the Eagles have edged ahead."
And that's still not the end.
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Powerstones?
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