346 - Hollywood: Winner Takes America (Patreon)

346 - Trading Blows

"Oh!" The crowd's shout rose all at once.

A white jersey flashed across Bruce's path. He tried to cut away, but the Angels' safety dropped low, spread his stance, and wrapped both arms around Bruce's waist. The receiver had no room to keep his feet.

Bruce went down inside the five-yard line, just short of the end zone.

On the sideline, Nolan, the coaches, and even the cheerleaders exhaled. Another step or two and the Rams would have scored before anyone had touched him.

The tackler was number twenty-one, Marquis Smith. He had graduated from Cal that year and joined the Angels as a rookie. Holmgren had made him the starting strong safety.

His name sounded like a title, and the locker room had taken to calling him "Your Lordship." By now he answered to it.

"I told you he could play," Holmgren said to Andy, his eyes narrowing with satisfaction.

Andy had favored keeping another safety in camp. Holmgren had insisted on Smith. One tackle didn't settle every argument, but he was going to enjoy this one.

Andy admitted he'd underestimated the rookie. Rhodes wasn't in the mood to celebrate. St. Louis had missed the end zone, but it had the ball almost at the goal line.

"Warner took a shot at an eighty-yard opener," the announcer said. "You have to wonder whether Callahan's deep strikes these last two weeks gave him the idea."

"We're only seconds in, and neither sideline can breathe."

"Now let's see whether the Angels can keep them out."

Los Angeles switched to the man coverage it had practiced all week. Champ Bailey stayed tight on Bruce this time, giving him no clean release.

Warner made another unexpected choice. He stepped out of a pocket that had held up perfectly well, drawing the linebackers and the edge defenders toward him.

Then he flicked the ball to the other side. Marshall Faulk, who had appeared to be staying in to protect him, turned into another receiving option. He caught the short pass and accelerated.

Faulk had shared Indianapolis's backfield with Peyton Manning the year before. He rushed for 1,319 yards and added 908 on 86 catches: 2,227 yards from scrimmage, two more than Denver's Terrell Davis.

On a Colts team that had struggled, he had been the player opponents feared most.

Indianapolis had traded him for draft capital and used its deals, including one with the Angels, to address other needs. Without those moves, Nolan might never have landed Edgerrin James.

One of the Colts' choices had been offensive lineman Brandon Burlsworth. He had died in a traffic collision before he could play an NFL game. The thought still stung whenever Nolan considered that draft.

Back on the field, Faulk slammed through the space his blockers had made. He bounced off an Angels defender without losing a step.

Within seconds, he was in the end zone.

That was worse than the touchdown alone. Nolan had hoped the defense could keep St. Louis on the field for a couple of minutes. The drive had taken a fraction of that time.

He pulled on his helmet and led the offense out against a team whose attack might be the most dangerous the NFL would see for years.

"Go get them, Nolan," Smith said as they passed. He had made the saving tackle and still couldn't prevent the score.

The coaches added a few words of encouragement.

Across the field, the Rams' defense was waiting.

It didn't have an Orlando Pace on that side of the ball, but DeMarco Farr and Kevin Carter were formidable enough.

Farr had been in fine form and had piled up three and a half sacks against Dallas the week before. The Cowboys' replacement quarterback had spent far too much time trying to escape him.

Carter, a first-round pick in 1995, was having the best season of his career. Seventeen sacks by year's end would put him among the league leaders.

The two lined up across the Angels' protection. Brian Waters, assigned to Nolan's side, studied their feet before the snap.

"Maybe we should lean on the run," he said quietly in the huddle. "Just for a while."

"Nervous?" Nolan asked.

"Me? No. I just think it might work better."

It wasn't a ridiculous suggestion. St. Louis had talent on the line and at corner; its pass defense looked stronger than its run defense.

But Nolan wasn't going to build the first quarter around his legs.

If he showed the Rams everything too soon, their defensive staff would adjust while the game was still young.

The Angels snapped the ball. Nolan dropped back and searched downfield.

Donald Driver was covered by Todd Lyght. Desmond Clark had two defenders around him. The slot receiver had no better window.

Years of football had trained Nolan to sort those routes almost as fast as they developed.

Given another beat, he might have found an opening. Farr and Carter were already breaking through.

Waters had barely slowed either man. Three hundred and twenty pounds hadn't helped him when his feet were late.

Nolan feinted and cut away from the collapsing pocket. With nowhere to throw, he kept the ball.

"They bring him down near the line," the announcer said. "One yard for the Angels."

"Their protection is the problem. If Callahan can't set his feet and throw, St. Louis can devote more attention to his runs."

The booth had found the same weakness the coaches feared.

Nolan's running had punished defenses in Dallas and Los Angeles. It worked best when they also had to respect his arm.

With the passing lanes closed, the Rams could watch him instead of guessing.

"See why I didn't call a run?" Nolan asked Waters in the next huddle.

Waters nodded. "No passing threat, no room to run."

"Good. Now tell me why both rushers got to me."

Nolan usually left the shouting to the coaches. His teammates heard the change in his voice and looked up.

Waters had disappointed him, and Nolan didn't try to hide it.

"A three-hundred-pound bag of meat would have slowed one of them," he said.

Waters looked away. His dark skin made it hard to see whether he had flushed, but everyone had heard.

"Stay with your assignment. I don't care how ugly it gets. Give me time."

"I will," Waters said, stumbling over the words.

On second down, Nolan dropped back again. He didn't rush the throw; he wanted to see which route the defense would surrender.

Waters roared and drove himself into Carter.

Farr got through, but Waters had stopped one of the two. This time Nolan had a chance to fight for the other second himself.

He raised his left arm and held Farr off at full extension. The defender was powerful, but shorter, and he couldn't get past Nolan's reach to the ball in his right hand.

Farr was six-one and 276 pounds. In close quarters he was dangerous. Nolan had nearly ten inches of height on him, though, and at arm's length that reach worked against Farr.

For an instant they looked almost absurd: Farr straining forward while Nolan kept him just outside the throwing lane.

Then Nolan dipped his right hand and slung the ball from a low, sweeping angle.

It left him far below his usual release point.

The pass skimmed through a crowded space just above the turf. Defenders reached for it, but the angle took it under their hands.

It came through fast enough that nobody could reset and step into its path.

Desmond Clark bent for the catch beyond the rush. Open field lay in front of him.

He turned and ran.

"Who expected Clark there?" the announcer cried. "Callahan found a lane nobody else could see. Every week he gives a defense a new problem."

"And he held off a defensive tackle with one arm while he did it. I don't remember the last time I saw a quarterback make that throw under that kind of contact."

Interior rushers were supposed to close that space, not become part of a quarterback's throwing motion.

Against Nolan, the usual advantage had vanished for a play.

His arm, strength, and speed forced opponents to prepare for three different threats at once.

"He can do all of it," Andy murmured, his face flushed with excitement.

The head-coaching salary wasn't why he had come to Los Angeles. Nolan trusted him, and coaching a player like this made the work worth it.

Clark tucked the ball under one arm and crossed the line to gain.

The Angels kept driving toward the Rams' end zone.

"Another quick strike. St. Louis hasn't settled since that throw, and Los Angeles is inside the forty."

"Callahan draws the rush, then gets the ball to Edgerrin James. Twenty more yards."

"And now he takes it himself. He cuts between tacklers like a skater changing edges. Nobody gets a clean angle."

Turf flew from Nolan's cleats and scattered near Warner, who stood with his arms folded on the opposite sideline.

The noise swelled. Beyond Nolan, Warner could see the Angels' cheerleaders leap to their feet.

"Touchdown, Los Angeles!" the announcer shouted. "The Angels aren't backing down. Callahan looks as dangerous as he did in his championship season, and he's younger than Warner."

Warner glanced toward Martz and Vermeil. They were already talking through the next series.

"Warm-up's over," he told them.

For him, the opening possession had been exactly that.

On the next drive, St. Louis moved its five receiving options more often and sent them farther. Warner threaded passes between defenders until the Angels' man coverage began to unravel.

"Another beautiful throw. Watch the arc on that one."

"Warner doesn't have Callahan's raw velocity, but he keeps finding the right window. His completion rate is remarkable."

A receiver crossed the goal line. St. Louis had the lead again. Warner barely reacted.

"He looks as if he's saving his energy for the fourth quarter," the analyst said. "Callahan has his attention now."

Warner turned back to the bench, already thinking about the next possession. He intended to use everything he had today.