YOU HUSTLE TO the line of scrimmage, not bothering to huddle. The goal line is at your back, and the home crowd is whipped into a frenzy. You bark out the playcall, but it’s so loud, your teammates can barely hear. You’re staring at third and six from the 13, looking at a Chargers defense that’s thrown blitzes at you all night, that’s come stampeding after you like a herd of bloodied, angry bulls. Sure, you’ve played like crap for three and a half quarters, but you’re down only 16-9. Convert here and worry about the other 80 yards later. With the play clock winding down, you take the shotgun snap, look left at your two best wideouts. Both covered. The Chargers brought five, and the pocket is already collapsing, forcing you to dance to your left and retreat to the 3. A linebacker closes in, and you realize that if you don’t get rid of the ball (right now!) and brace for impact, he’s going to put his shoulder into your sternum and try to drive your ribs up into your throat. Just as you’re about to get decked, you find the only open man, tight end Coby Fleener on a three-yard out. He catches and stretches — two yards short.
Jamming your mouthpiece into your face mask, you walk off the field to words of encouragement from your coordinator. It’s your Monday Night Football debut, and now you’re chained to the sideline watching the Chargers drive down the field at the speed of continental drift. You’re trying to stay patient, stay in the moment, but you want the ball back, damn it.
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