Piling on the Kansas City Chiefs

A Glimpse Into an Alternate Reality

I was hating on the Chiefs before it was cool. Well, not really hating—just calling it like I see it. Here is a chapter and change from Confronting Fate.

When I came to my senses, it was broad daylight, most of the partiers were gone, my house was a wreck, and I was wrapped in a sheet, with no idea where my clothes were.

A lot more serious than I last remembered her, Holly pulled on my wrist. "The phone has been ringing for the last hour, Pete. Your coaches want to know where you are."

I stumbled out of bed, searching for clothes. I had much more clarity than the night before, but I was still dazed.

How I got to Mankato without getting pulled over, I'm not sure. When I got to the familiar old projector room, with my familiar teammates, I was overcome with joy again.

"NFL Champs, my Viking brothers!" I enthused. "We are the kings of football!"

Coach Grant had a disappointing reminder for me: We still had another game to play before the season was over.

We had to play the AFL's best, in the Superbowl.

It was a bummer, for sure. I didn't feel like playing another game for a while. I sure didn't feel like practicing. And, remembering our loss to the Jets in the preseason, I sure didn't want to play against the AFL.

Assuming that Oakland would win the AFL title, Minnesota's scouts had ordered game film of the Raiders. But Kansas City had beaten Oakland in the AFL Championship. We would be playing the Chiefs. We had no film of them.

Coach Grant dished out one of the most sobering reality checks I had undergone since my first sparring sessions in Philadelphia: The Chiefs were a "physical" team like us, except that they were loaded with razzle-dazzle (their head coach, Hank Stram, bragged that they had "the offense of the 1970s"); and they were physically much, much bigger than us—on both sides of the ball. Our offensive line, for instance, was small even by NFL standards. Theirs was huge, even by AFL standards. Their defensive linemen were bigger than our offensive linemen—an inversion of the usual state of affairs.

They weren't just big, either—they were fast.

The AFL was a filthy-rich league. The Houston Oilers and Kansas City Chiefs, each owned by oil barons, were the wealthiest teams in that affluent league. The Chiefs had seven first-round draft picks on their roster. That was unheard of, and hinted at just how loaded their roster was with the best talent money could buy. Stram told everybody who would listen that his 1969 squad was twice as good as the 1966 team that played Buffalo for the AFL title. Kansas City's defense now was what Buffalo's had been—dominating their league the way we had dominated ours.

I knew from watching the other league on TV that their teams featured pass-happy, high-powered offenses. But when it came to Xs and Os, Kansas City was a mystery.

Coach Grant had us practice as we always had—just like we would if facing the Redskins or Eagles. I didn't see much wisdom in that. There was only one week between the NFL Championship and the Superbowl, and we would be playing a bigger team with all-star talent, who we knew almost nothing about—other than they played much differently than our usual opponents.

With just three days to go, we boarded a plane for New Orleans, where game film of the Chiefs should be waiting for us.

Much like the last Atlanta game, conventional logic suggested a nice warm break from the frozen North. Also like the Atlanta game, what we found in the "sunny South" was nasty rain and record low temperatures. It dropped to 22 degrees during practice the second day.

Reporters were everywhere, constantly hounding and interrupting us. Same with family members of players, begging for free tickets. We wanted to concentrate on practice and learning about our opponents, but the distractions were overwhelming.

When we finally did watch film footage of the Chiefs in action, I felt more lost than before we arrived in New Orleans. Their defensive schemes didn't make sense to me. They sometimes played with a three-man front, which I had never faced in the NFL, and their coverage was alien. My mind may still have been a bit numb from our belated New Years/victory party, but I remember Kassulke remarking on how all the Chiefs' different offensive formations confused the hell out of him, too. To make matters worse, Bobby Bryant was out with an injury, depriving our defensive backfield of one of our key players when we needed him most.

Everywhere I looked, there were bad omens. I felt a Sullivan-Corbett vibe hanging over Tulane Stadium that week. We had slugged our way to the top, utterly destroying the NFL's best on the way. But we were about to go up against somebody who had studied "the sweet science," and had a sophisticated answer for our every simple, straightforward tactic.

Both teams were oxymoronic anachronisms, in some ways. The Vikings were undersized, smash-mouth brawlers who would have been at home playing in the Golden Age NFL of Red Grange and Bronko Nagurski. The Chiefs were gigantic, sophisticated players with a futuristic, scientific approach to football that mystified us the way muskets and cannons must have stymied the last of the armored knights.

I knew from watching previous Superbowls that the AFL did a lot better job scouting opponents than the NFL did. On top of that, our style was an open book that probably didn't even need scouting, while their Xs and Os might as well have been the hieroglyphics of an extraterrestrial language.

Grant did have Burns throw in some new blocking schemes on Friday, and some new plays. It was last-minute, rushed, and haphazard. Maybe if we were going up against the Raiders, we might have had our game plan in by Wednesday, or even earlier. But the new wrinkles seemed to just add to the confusion. Every game I had played for Minnesota, including against the Falcons, I had felt better prepared than I did on Super Sunday.

Two last harbingers occurred before kickoff. There were two hot air balloons in the stadium. One had a man dressed as a Native American chief; the other was dressed like a Viking. The Kansas City mascot wisely never untied his balloon. The Minnesota balloon was released, and the wind sent it crashing into the stands. Then, right after the National Anthem, a flock of pigeons was released. They buzzed our sidelines and shit all over us. Coach Grant had somebody fetch him a feces-free replacement hat. Not all of us were as fortunate.

Chapter 2: First Half

The field was still soggy from all the rain, and the sky was overcast. The wind was blowing harder than you'd want for a game.

When the players were introduced, I studied the contrast in uniforms. Our white away-game jerseys just had our numbers. Their home game fire-engine red jerseys had the players' names emblazoned above the numbers on the back. It was a reminder that this was a matchup of an upper-crust team in a wealthy league against a working-class team in a no-frills league.

We won the coin toss and elected to receive.

Of course we elected to receive. Grant intended to run the ol' Ball Control Offense, just like always.

Their kicker put the ball in our end zone for a touchback, putting us at the 20 yard line. I sent Ozzie off-tackle for the first play from scrimmage. He saw a solid red wall in front of him and tried to slide along behind the line of scrimmage to the left. The KC defenders were on him fast, stopping him after just two yards of forward progress.

On second-and-eight, I connected with Ozzie on a swing pass for 10 yards and a first down. Even as I saw the chain gang moving the sticks, I felt flat. My teammates seemed flat, too. I sent Boom-Boom to the left and he was wrapped up after a three-yard gain in a picture-perfect open-field tackle by one of the gigantic Chief defenders.

I called a pass play on second-and-seven, hoping either Washington or Henderson could get open. Kansas City had Gene Washington double-covered right from the first play. They seemed to have a ready answer for our every weapon.

The Chiefs defensive ends, huge and fast, broke loose and came barreling around the line on both sides. My pocket collapsed. I scrambled to the right with one of those monsters only a step or two behind me. I had to get rid of the ball quick—no time to see if Washington had beaten his double-coverage, or if Henderson had managed to get open. That red-clad hulk was on me when I tossed to the tight end over the middle. Beasley was surrounded quickly but bounced around through the traffic to be gang-tackled after a gain of 26 yards and another first down.

It looked good on paper, but the Chiefs hurried me every pass play, and caught my running backs before they could build up a head of steam.

Ozzie ran for short yardage. He came close to busting a big one, but a Kansas City defender just barely got hold of his ankles and tripped him up at the line.

Ozzie fell forward and hit the wet turf a little over three yards past where he was tripped. The referees robbed him by spotting it as if it was merely a one-yard gain. The way the day was going, it was no surprise that the refs were against us, too.

Kansas City blitzed on second-and-nine. I did something I don't like to do, and connected with Boom-Boom on a screen pass. He broke two tackles, but was slowed down enough to be gang-tackled for a loss of a yard.

We had third-and-10 on the Kansas City 39. I rolled out to my left. I actually had time to set and throw. Nobody was open but Beasley. I put it in his hands, but he was in heavy traffic and probably nervous. He couldn't hang on and the ball fell incomplete.

I thought we should let Fred Cox go for a field goal. He had hit them from this range before, and my instincts told me we needed to come away with at least three points. But the wind was against us, and Coach Grant sent in the punting team. He was playing his usual conservative game for field position.

A 22 yard punt put the Chiefs at their own 17 yard line.

I came over behind Yary and Tingelhoff on the bench, resting one hand on each of their backs. "How's it going?"

"I don't know who to block," Yary said.

Tingelhoff twisted at the waist to face me while still seated. He looked a bit bewildered. "They're using a couple different sets. They put a defensive tackle on me, as a noseguard. Then they switch their linebackers around."

Nearby, Grady Alderman added, "It's a weird defense—like a 52 defense or something. Three linemen, four linebackers. They put their middle linebacker over a guard, or stack an outside linebacker over the end. None of our blocking schemes are designed for this—even the new ones. Then, sometimes they use a four-three. It's like we're playing against three different defenses."

One of their sets was similar to a 3-4 defense that would become familiar in a couple decades. I chewed my lip and pondered the strange dilemma we were up against while the Purple Gang faced off against the Kansas City offense.

The old football axiom went something like: offense draws the crowds, but defense wins the games. There was truth to that—especially for Minnesota. But from playing and watching the game for most of my life, I knew a team with a great offense usually beats a team with a great defense.

The Chiefs formed in an open huddle. That was weird—I hadn't seen that since high school. When the huddle broke, they lined up in the I formation, then before the snap did some kind of Knute Rockne backfield shift, of "Four Horsemen" fame. The line shifted with them, and a man went in motion while this was happening. Kassulke was confused by the shifting formation and didn't know where to line up. He flinched left and right, then at the last minute, ran across the back of the line to match the man in motion. After all that, Kansas City ran it straight up the middle. Their massive offensive line pushed our undersized defenders back, and they made it look easy picking up three yards on the ground against the best run defense in football.

It felt like we were in trouble when, off the play fake, their quarterback connected with a 16 yard pass right away to a running back. Hilgenberg should have had him covered, but was also confused by their formation shift from the "I" and missed his assignment, leaving his man wide open. Sharockman (filling in for the injured Bobby Bryant) had to come up from the corner and herd the receiver out of bounds, but by then they had a first down, and then some.

They ran for another three yards up the middle. Alan Page made the tackle. They ran to the right on second-and-seven. Their running backs were the smallest players on their team, and were almost impossible to see behind the towering Kansas City offensive line, so the Purple Gang could rarely guess where the speedy backs were going to explode from. They picked up four yards on that run, tackled by Gary Larsen.

On third-and-three, their QB fired a quick strike to another running back. Sharockman was on him, but lost his footing in the mud and missed the tackle. Hilgenberg came up to make the tackle, but KC had picked up another first down with that 20 yard play.

Just like that, the Chiefs were across midfield.

The Purple Gang was back on its heels, but began to stiffen. On a rare blitz by one of the smallest linebackers in the game, Roy Winston leapt over the Kansas City fullback and sacked their quarterback on the 44.

On second-and-18, they ran a draw play. Marshall was wrestled away from the runner's path, but Page moved in and made the stop at the 41. It was a gutsy call—they were gambling that the Purple Gang would never suspect it on second-and-long, but the gamble didn't pay off that time. On third-and-15, the QB dropped straight back, pivoted to his left and fired a short bullet at an angle toward the sideline. Marshall batted it down, bringing up fourth-and-15.

I breathed a sigh of relief. The Purple Gang had stopped them.

My relief was short-lived. Stram sent his kicking team onto the field. Farther away than we were when Grant had us punt, they were going to try what we had not.

Not only was Fate apparently on their side that day, but the wind was, too.

Jan Stenerud was a soccer-style kicker…still pretty rare in football at these coordinates; and ironically a Scandinavian playing against a team called "the Vikings."

He knocked it through the uprights, and the crowd went wild.

It sounded like a Kansas City crowd.

Stenerud set a Superbowl record with that field goal. They led 3-0.

We were behind already. My bad feeling about the game got even worse.

Because the game was such a big deal on television, there were commercial time outs after every score, and at other points. During the first commercial time-out, McClusky got my attention and pointed to the opposing bench, where Hank Stram was strutting up and down the sideline like a short, stocky peacock. I couldn't hear what he was saying, but his mouth moved perpetually. He wore a suit and big, gaudy jewelry on both hands.

"Why are they filming him, and not Grant?" McClusky asked.

I shrugged. But it was a good question. There were movie and television cameras all over the stadium, but none of the cameramen were filming Grant, or our sideline. One cameraman followed Stram wherever he went, though, like he was dedicated to filming just the Kansas City coach.

Even the movie and TV people seemed to believe Kansas City was the more important team. Did they know, somehow, that the Chiefs were destined to win? Everything seemed to be going against us from the beginning, from the pigeons, and the wind, and the crowd, to our own coach's play calling.

Fate had decided to shit on us that day, just like the pigeons had. It pissed me off. When the commercial time-out ended, I trotted out on the field mad at the world, ready to punch back at the football gods.

Boom-Boom got stopped for a couple yards by a man-mountain in a red jersey. I dropped straight back on the next play, but my pocket collapsed immediately and I was sacked. I climbed up afterwards, mud all over my white away uniform, and noticed the scoreboard. It said "That's a GOTCHA!" Whoever was running the scoreboard was piling onto us, too, it seemed—rubbing our nose in it. This pissed me off even more.

I took a page from Kansas City's book on third-and-long, and called a running play, hoping to catch them off-guard. Also, their pass rush was so ferocious that I had no time to plant—much less survey the field for open receivers. We ran a sweep to the left, and Boom-Boom picked up 10 yards…which was not enough on third-and-13.

Three-and-out. Unlike our first possession, there was no option but to punt, now.

I gritted my teeth as four Chiefs poured into our backfield unchecked and swarmed our punter. He managed to get his foot on the ball before they got him. The punt was not blocked, we had good coverage downfield.

The defenders crashed into the punter.

The refs saw it, dropped a flag, and called "roughing the kicker." That moved us up to our 41 yard line and gave us an automatic first down. Was Fate losing her grip on our throat? It was the first break that had gone our way.

I fired a slant pass to Boom-Boom on the right, but he only picked up a yard. The defense was so fast, and our blockers so bewildered, that we didn't seem to have any options to move the ball after the snap. Receivers and rushers were almost instantly smothered. I hit Ozzie on a slant to the left, and he was brought down after a minimal gain.

I should have known better, from boxing and MMA, than to let my anger drive me. The anger caused me to throw harder than necessary, and the timing of my release was off. Henderson had to jump high to pull in my next pass, between his own double coverage, and had no chance to run after the catch. Two Chiefs rammed him out of bounds, two yards shy of a first down.

We were right at midfield, and needed only two yards. I wanted to go for it. Getting a first down here would be a huge play that might turn our fortunes around and get us pumped up. But Grant wouldn't go for it even at the KC 39, for a field goal. This would be even riskier, so there was no chance.

We got off a good punt, that hit the turf inside the five. Our special teams players had sprinted up the field where they could down it and pin KC deep. The KC punt returners saw the coverage and didn't try to field the ball. It took a crazy bounce into the end zone. One of our guys dove across the goal line, knocking the ball backwards as he flew past. It could have been perfect, if it had landed inside the one yard line. But the wind caught the football and pushed it into the turf barely an inch inside the end zone. So instead of pinning them, the touchback would allow KC to start from the 20.

The football gods had blinked momentarily, but were fully focused again and determined to ruin our day.

The Chiefs moved against our defense again, using a quick count, last-second formation shifts, their "rolling pocket," and a package of several different formations our defense wasn't sure how to counter. The quarterback burned the Purple Gang with a play action pass, firing another short bullet straight over the middle for a first down. Then he fired a quick slant pass on the right for nine yards. They easily picked up a yard for the first down, plowing straight up the middle behind their massive line.

While the KC defense ran man-to-man pass coverage, the Purple Gang used a zone defense. For some reason (perhaps excessive caution due to the speed of the KC receivers), our cornerbacks were lining up way behind the line. They hadn't allowed a deep strike, but were giving Kansas City multiple opportunities inside. Their QB exploited that gap in the coverage with short, quick passes that kept moving the chains. Krause, our safety, was making tackles just behind the linebackers. Any time you see that happening, there's a problem with your pass coverage.

They ran a trap play, using the speed of our defenders against us, and picked up five yards on the ground. They ran it again, but didn't fool the Purple Gang this time. Page made the tackle in the backfield for a four yard loss.

The first quarter ended and we switched ends on the field.

The wind was now at our back; but the momentum and tone for the game was already established.

The refs intervened when Sharockman knocked a pass down on the next play. They threw a flag and claimed "pass interference," giving Kansas City an automatic first down at our 30 yard line. It was a bullshit call. Sharockman never touched the intended receiver before the ball got there. The Chiefs didn't need any more help than they were already getting.

They connected on another one of those short passes on the next down. Mackbee and Sharockman needed to tighten up, and jam those receivers at the line. I could make first downs all day long with the gap they were giving Kansas City. Any quarterback could. We were practically giving first downs away. It must be because our corners were so worried about getting beat deep that they just surrendered the short routes.

On second-and-three at our 24 yard line, the Purple Gang asserted itself and stopped a run in the backfield.

"Stiffen!" I yelled from the sideline. "Stiffen up, Purple Gang!"

On third-and-four, the quarterback launched a pass into the end zone, but Mackbee sailed by in front of the intended receiver and got his hands on the ball. If Fate wasn't working so hard against us, he would have caught the ball and turned it upfield for big yards or maybe even a pick six. But it bounced off his hands and fell incomplete.

The wind was against them this time, but they were so close it didn't matter with a kicker like Stenerud. Kansas City scored another field goal, and led 6-0. So much for our Ball Control game. We had to play from behind.

We had done it that year, but not very often, and not against a team with such befuddling tactics.

I hated myself for indulging in that belated New Years party. We were sluggish, and uninspired. Football required a team effort, but I saw myself as responsible for what the team did, or failed to do. The Vikings were playing our worst game of the year. Meanwhile, the Chiefs were playing the best game of their lives. They were pumped up, and you could tell, by little stuff like how they snapped into position during their formation shifts, and how their linemen, in-sync, slammed their hands down into a three-point stance with gusto.

I remembered what Dad had said about the Vikings when I got drafted by Minnesota: the team is cursed. He called them "the Minnesota Choke Kings"—because their every single post-season foray ended with a colossal choke. It was happening to me, and around me, in real time. According to Dad, the only way for us to win this game would be to trade uniforms and team names with the Chiefs.

But Dad spoke according to a historical record that hadn't been solidified yet, from where I was in the space-time continuum. Last year we had choked in the playoffs, but it wasn't a pattern, yet. It was just how one season ended.

Fate had caught me, and was going for the jugular. But in Terminator II, Sarah Connor had taught her son, John, that there's no fate but what you yourself make. Or something like that.

How many times in high school and college did I have to carry my team because the defense just couldn't stop the other guys? Well, the Vikings had the best defense in football, with a front four that all went to the Pro Bowl together—no other team had ever done that, before or after. They were having a bad day, but they still hadn't allowed a touchdown. Also, I didn't get many chances to prove it that season because of the Ball Control Offense and Grant's conservative game plans, but I had an arm. A better arm than KC's passer. Maybe I was made to play a game like this—facing man coverage against the biggest, fastest, most expensive team in football, with virtually no pass protection and no running game to help me. I'd been in a firefight with prehistoric monsters, and a dogfight with a ChiCom drone, but this game was easily the biggest challenge of my life. If I could overcome Fate, and the refs, and the weather, and crowd, and the Chiefs with their seven first-round draft picks and all-star roster, then I would really have accomplished something. Me and my team.

Charlie West fielded the kickoff and almost fumbled. That might have broken what was left of my comrades' spirit. Fate missed an opportunity there. Maybe Fate wasn't invincible.

I went out with the offense and tried to run again. It just wasn't bearing fruit when it counted. They were too big; we were too small. Tingelhoff was trying to block a man who outweighed him by 60 pounds…when he wasn't trying to block a man who outweighed him by 80 pounds. My other linemen were at the wrong end of similar matchups.

In the huddle, I told them, "Guys, hold the pocket for a couple seconds. Give me time to set and throw. I'll get us into this game, okay?"

On the next play I dropped back to pass. Lo and behold, they held the pocket long enough for me to plant my feet and throw. I zipped the ball to Henderson over the middle. He caught it but was hit instantly, and the ball popped out. The Chiefs dove on the ball. It looked to me like Henderson didn't establish possession before the ball was knocked out—which meant it should have been ruled an incomplete pass. But of course the refs ruled it a fumble.

Referees from both leagues were officiating the game, but they might as well have been all working for the AFL. Before the game was over, it would be obvious to me. They made holding and pass interference calls that they wouldn't call the other way when the Chiefs did it. The only time penalties went against Kansas City was when the foul was blatantly obvious—like the roughing-the-kicker call.

With Bobby Bryant missing, our defensive backfield wasn't as strong as normal. But Paul Krause did his part to punch back against the football gods when he intercepted a Kansas City pass deep in our own territory.

I jumped off the bench and grunted. I roared, and growled, and snarled like a berserker, shaking my fist, stomping my cleats and throwing punches at the air.

"Let's go, offense! Let's go, Vikings! It's time to quit playing around, and start kicking their asses! I'm tired of this shit!"

I pounded Boom-Boom on the shoulder pads. "Ain't you tired of this shit?"

"I sure am," he replied.

"Let's go shove that ball down their throats," I said. "It's about time they found out the Minnesota Vikings are in this stadium!"

Some of my teammates nodded. Some grunted. We trotted out on the field.

In the huddle, I said, "It's time to bust out the option on these big, fancy, overpaid shitbags! Oh-41 strong side roll out on two!"

On the second "hut," Tingelhoff hiked the ball. Him, Yary, Alderman, White and Sunde plowed to the strong side. Me, Ozzie and Boom-Boom rolled out behind them. White crashed into a KC defender who was bigger and heavier; but White hit him with such force he fell over backwards. That opened a gap. I lobbed the ball underhand so that it kind of hung in the air. Boom-Boom plucked it and charged into the gap. He rumbled for seven yards.

Next, we rolled out to the weak side. A speedy giant in a red jersey got into our backfield and drew a bead on me. Ozzie picked up the block. I saw an opening, but Brown wasn't in position to shoot the gap before it closed. I tucked the ball, planted my cleats in the wet turf and cut upfield, shoulders square to the line. I stole five yards and a first down before a KC defender dove to wrap up my legs.

We rolled out to the strong side again. Fast, Enormous Chief defenders knocked Sunde over, creating a hole in our protection. Just before they reached me, I pitched a lateral to Ozzie. He plowed for six yards.

We hadn't run the Attrition Offense much, so the Chiefs likely hadn't seen it from us on game film. Touche, bitches.

Next, I called something else they likely hadn't seen on our game films: a play-action. I faked a hand-off to Ozzie and hit Henderson on a sideline route, picking up 20 yards. I ran the option twice to the weak side, then on third-and-two, I kept the ball myself and ran for a first down.

Now we were in field goal range. I went back to the play action, but Beasley slipped in the mud and dropped the ball.

I ran the option to the weak side and Boom-Boom picked up four yards. I ran the option to the strong side, and ran for the first down myself. I heard some yelling among the Chiefs. I caught stares from a couple of them. They glared at me as if I were cheating or something.

I ran the play action again and connected with Henderson, who picked up a first down and was tackled inside the one yard line.

Right before us was our chance to change the tone of the game. We had capitalized on Krause's interception by marching down to the goal line. We could tie the game in one play. We could change the established pattern of Kansas City scoring on every possession, and us sputtering.

I called a draw play. Tingelhoff hiked the ball to me under center. I dropped back and cocked my arm. Two huge Chiefs bore down on me, while others smothered my receivers in the end zone. I pitched the ball to Boom-Boom, ducked low while side-stepping. I hit one of my would-be assassins low—my shoulder to his shins. Ozzie threw a block on the other one. I thrust hard with my legs, in an attempt to drive the defender sideways—away from Boom-Boom. It was like slamming into a boulder in an avalanche, but I did lift him off the ground for an instant, so his feet lost purchase on the turf. Boom-Boom plowed his way across the line for the score.

I looked for a referee to see him signal the touchdown. Instead, the nearest official threw a flag.

They claimed I had thrown an illegal block, and moved the ball back.

In the huddle, Alderman said, "That was a great play, Jaeger. What a bullshit call."

I nodded, but tried to project confidence as I said, "But ya know what? We're gonna score anyway."

I called the option. This time Clint Jones snuck across the flat, wide open. I lobbed a short toss to him and he took it across the goal line. This time, the referee raised his arms, indicating a touchdown.

We were on the board, and had tied the game. Then Fred Cox came out to kick the point after, and we led 7-6.

Jim Marshall slapped me on the back as the kicking team took the field.

"Good drive, Ike," he said.

"Hold 'em, Jim," I said.

He nodded.

On their first play after the kick, the Chiefs ran a reverse.

NFL teams used to run the reverse as a standard play. But NFL defenses got so good at stopping the play, the offenses quit running it. The reverse was then forgotten, and defenses quit practicing how to stop an extinct tactic that none of the players had seen since college. But the AFL still used the reverse—and it caused a fast front four like ours to over-pursue in the wrong direction.

Moose broke through the Kansas City line and was about to tackle the ball carrier in the backfield when he got cut down at the ankles by a diving Chief. It was the same exact block I had been penalized for a few plays ago, but no flag was thrown, and Moose was taken out of the play. Fate didn't like me scoring a touchdown, so she was redoubling her efforts, now.

Mackbee finally pulled the running back down out-of-bounds after a huge gain.

Coach Stram, that pompous ass, strutted up and down the Kansas City sideline, gloating, chortling, and gesticulating with his rolled-up playbook. I glanced over at coach Grant. He just calmly surveyed the field, with no indication of how he felt or what he thought. The Great Stone Face.

The Purple Gang stiffened again after that, sacking the Kansas City quarterback and stuffing the run to bring up fourth down as the two-minute warning sounded.

Nearly everybody on the Minnesota bench groaned as Stenerud trotted out on the field again. Even kicking into the wind this time, he booted the ball about a mile, through the uprights, to take the lead back, 9-7.

Tremendously undersized and facing an offense they had never seen before, the Purple Gang was still keeping Stram's "offense of the '70s" out of the end zone. But that wasn't enough, when the other team had a kicker who could boot field goals from a different zip code.

Well, as long as the Purple Gang held them to field goals, we could still beat them by scoring touchdowns. I paced along the bench, slapping the pads of my teammates and cracking jokes.

My blood ran cold after the kickoff. Charlie West fumbled, and of course the Chiefs recovered—inside our 20 yard line.

It was deathly quiet now on our bench. The Purple Gang put their helmets on and took the field. They had stopped the Chiefs every drive, forcing them to settle for three points. But now they were backed up in the Red Zone. So far, 20 yards hadn't been enough room to stop the Chiefs. Barring a turnover, or running out of time, the Chiefs would come away with a minimum of three more points, now.

The Purple Gang sacked the QB, and stuffed the run; but then got burned on a draw play that picked up a first down. Again they stuffed Kansas City a couple times. Wally Hilgenberg almost intercepted a pass. Almost.

The Purple Gang had only allowed six running touchdowns all year. They allowed the seventh on a trap play that caused them to over-pursue again and spread their coverage.

Fate rubbed our nose in it by having the clock run out as Stenerud banged in the point after.

The score was now 16-7—just like Baltimore's loss last year. To make matters worse, Kansas City would receive the kickoff to start the second half, with a nine-point lead and momentum firmly in their grip.

Thanks for reading! Be advised: football is just one aspect of this time-traveling conspiracy thriller. There’s all sorts of other action, a little romance, and red pills a’plenty in my magnum opus.

The first three novels in the series are available through the Based Book Sale.

Get yours at Amazon or other online bookstores.