Chapter 843: To the Death
Patrick Peterson sat on a bench on the sidelines, quietly watching the field.
The players from the San Francisco 49ers and the Arizona Cardinals had already left the field, and most of the home fans had also left. There were still a few fans scattered in the stands, sitting there listlessly.
There was no anger or sadness, just a dead silence. He couldn't feel any life at all, and the raging wind raised large goosebumps on his skin, making him shiver.
How did all this happen?
Patrick tried to figure out the whole story of the game. Even if the two teams' current state was different, the score shouldn't have been so lopsided. This was a complete massacre, an overwhelming massacre. The situation on the field today couldn't be described as just a bloodbath.
But he failed. His mind was a blur. The memories of the game were only fragmented pieces that couldn't be pieced together. He couldn't even recall the flow of the entire game. It was as if... it was as if in a boxing match, the opponent came out and threw a series of heavyweight punches, and then all his memories disappeared.
He looked down at his jersey, number twenty-one, but for the first time, he felt that he didn't deserve this jersey.
As the fifth overall pick in last year's draft, Peterson, a cornerback, had a beautiful rookie season. Although his playing time was relatively limited, he was still one of the most outstanding rookie defensive players. After Von Miller, J.J. Watt, and Aldon Smith, there was him.
Patrick Peterson.
He wasn't as flamboyant or arrogant as Richard Sherman, but he had always believed that he had the qualifications and ability to become the best cornerback in the league. He wouldn't be intimidated even when facing passes from the four elite quarterbacks, let alone a rookie quarterback.
He had proven this in his first matchup with Lu Ke last season, where his two interceptions became the turning points of the game, and the Cardinals ultimately defeated the 49ers on the road, breaking their season's home undefeated record.
That undrafted rookie quarterback was not as good as the rumors said. He had never been worried about it. He had always been convinced that he could beat him and that he was the better player. As expected, the game process and the result also proved his guess. Anything that went through the media was amplified countless times, and they had to be filtered over and over again to get to the truth.
Everything was so beautiful.
The fragmented memories came back to his mind, and the corners of his mouth couldn't help but turn up. But as his focus returned, he saw the desolation and loneliness of the scene. The cold reality washed over him. The sweeter the memory, the more bitter the reality was, so much so that his smile became painful.
Above the stadium stands, the huge scoreboard was still flashing, like a charming neon light in the night. It kept flashing on and off, left and right, in the navy blue sky that was slowly covering the stadium. The numbers were so conspicuous and bright that they hurt his eyes.
"0-55."
A seemingly meaningless set of numbers, flashing coldly and mechanically, but like a pile driver, it hit Patrick's heart again and again, making it almost impossible for him to breathe.
Lu Ke Lu Ke Lu Ke Lu Ke Lu Ke Lu Ke...
That name kept crashing between his lips and teeth, and a bloody smell burst out without warning. Only then did Patrick realize that he had bitten the inside of his mouth. Blood was gushing out, but he still couldn't vent the shame and embarrassment in his heart.
How, in the world, did this happen?
Patrick still had no answer. So, he stood up dejectedly and dragged his heavy feet off the field.
"Peterson! Disgrace! Today is a disgrace!"
"55, Peterson, did you see that? 55. Are you going to get a tattoo of it on your back to remind you of the final score of this game?"
"What a disgrace! This is a complete disgrace!"
"You should be ashamed of yourself!"
"What were you doing today? Sleepwalking? Damn it, even that damn Richard Sherman is better than you!"
When he got to the sides of the player tunnel, the fans' anger came at him like a sharp sword, mercilessly rubbing salt into Patrick's wound.
Originally, Patrick wasn't going to fight back and was just silently enduring it, as he deserved it. But the moment he heard Sherman's name, he immediately got angry. "Get lost! Get lost! Don't compare me to that clown!"
"Then do your job well!"
"Disgrace! A complete and utter disgrace!"
"Shut up, if you're angry, show it on the field!"
The fans were relentless, and their aggressive insults poured down like a storm. Patrick couldn't help but clench his fists, and he had an urge to punch them. But in the end, he suppressed it, quickly left the player tunnel, and walked angrily toward the parking lot.
Along the way, he could see a few fans slowly leaving the stadium. But this time, Patrick's arrival didn't cause any conflict or commotion. The fans were like zombies, walking dejectedly and silently, as if they were performing a silent ritual. The atmosphere was so suffocating.
Suddenly, Patrick turned around and looked at the stadium, recalling the furious fans just now.
At least, those people were still angry. They were still alive. But the fans in front of him had lost their spirit and even the strength to get angry.
Patrick tried to say something or vent something, but the helplessness deep in his heart was dragging his ankles down. The feeling of drowning was so suffocating and painful that in the end, he couldn't say anything and could only quickly get back to his car, start the engine, and press the gas pedal. He had only one thought in his mind:
Leave.
Quickly escape this graveyard of the living dead.
The car was eerily silent. There was no sound at all, which was another kind of torment.
Patrick himself couldn't understand himself anymore. He was annoyed when the fans were angry, and he was annoyed when the fans were silent. He was annoyed when there was sound, and he was annoyed when there was no sound. In the end, he got angry at himself, hitting the steering wheel hard. But he still didn't feel any anger, just annoyance after annoyance.
He finally turned on the radio.
"...hiss, hiss, hiss... For the Arizona Cardinals, this is undoubtedly one of the most painful losses in the team's history..."
The radio show was also summarizing today's game. Patrick's first reaction was to change the channel or turn it off, but his raised right hand stopped. After a moment of hesitation, he didn't adjust it and let the host's voice continue to flow out.
"Not only because of the score, but also because of the mental state. In this game, the Arizona Cardinals showed no fighting spirit at all. It's not that the team didn't try, but that all of the team's strategies, methods, and plays were at a disadvantage, which made both our offense and defense look like a mess."
"I know it sounds like I'm being a know-it-all now, but looking back at the game after it's over, from the very first drive, the San Francisco 49ers, who showed an absolute desire to win, dominated the game. Victory never escaped their control, and they continued to do so afterward."
"They have a better state of mind, a better mentality, better willpower, and better execution. So, the result of this game is not surprising."
"This is indeed a painful loss. But the question that remains for us now is: After four wins and four losses, are we still in the playoff race? When we go to Candlestick Park at the end of the season to play against the San Francisco 49ers, do we still have the belief and will to defeat them? After falling into a series of difficulties, do we still have the confidence to win?"
"Is Kevin Kolb's absence really that impactful? This Arizona Cardinals team is definitely not the same team that defeated the New England Patriots in Week 2 of the regular season."
"We must realize that the San Francisco 49ers are our divisional rivals, and they will never go easy on us. Of course, we don't need them to go easy on us, because we have to fight for victory ourselves."
"Last year, we broke the San Francisco 49ers' home undefeated record. So, they bounced back and defeated us twice in a row at our home field over two seasons. So now, how should we respond? How will we respond? The shame of '0-55' will be deeply imprinted in our minds even ten or twenty years from now. Are we just going to let it be?"
"Every year, we will play at least two games against the San Francisco 49ers, and the decision of how the future will unfold is in our own hands."
Anger once again flared up in Patrick's chest. He pressed the horn hard and roared madly amidst the noise, "Ah! Ahhh! Ahhh!" He vented all his frustration, all his suppression, and all his anger. He needed to be angry. He needed to feel angry, because at this moment, anger was the motivation to move forward.
Patrick's actions caught the attention of a police car. The police car honked, signaling for Patrick to pull over.
Patrick slowly pulled over to the side of the road and waited for the police officer to appear. "Oh... hey, Patrick, it's you? I thought it was some hoodlum. What happened just now?"
"Nothing. I was just saying that we need to bounce back and we need to vent. I was just saying that the San Francisco 49ers are sons of bitches! Next time we meet, it's to the death! So, I lost control of my emotions. I'm sorry..." Patrick sincerely spoke all the thoughts in his heart.
The police officer was stunned for a moment, then he also clenched his fist and cheered, "Yeah, that's right! To the death! To the death!"
The divisional rivalry was set in stone!
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