[Q4 — 3:18 | 1st & 10, NYT 28 | Packers 21, Tigers 21]
Testaverde took the field, and the game plan was clear—move the ball into field goal range and let John Hall win it. No heroics were needed, just execute plays. On first down, Martin took the handoff and gained six yards up the middle.
On second and four, Testaverde hit Ward on a quick out for seven yards and a first down. The clock ticked down—2:48... 2:35... 2:22. Another handoff to Martin for five yards. Another completion to Becht for eight more. The Tigers methodically pushed into Packers territory, burning clock with every snap.
By the time they reached the Green Bay thirty-seven with 1:14 remaining, it was third and three. A first down would seal it—they could kneel and kick. Testaverde took the snap, dropped back, and saw Martin breaking open on a wheel route down the right sideline. He threw the ball, sailing slightly long, just over Martin's outstretched fingertips.
Forcing Martin to leap forward, both hands outstretched, grasping the ball on the fall. "Curtis Martin comes down with the completion on the 28th", Buck exclaimed as the Tigers contingent jumped up in celebration, and Belichick called for a timeout.
[Q4 — 1:08 | 1st & 10, GB 28]
Out of the timeout, Testaverde came back under centre and barked the cadence. The Packers crowded the box, selling out to stop Martin and force something reckless. Instead, the Tigers ran straight into it anyway. Martin took the handoff, dipped his shoulder, and churned through first contact.
A linebacker wrapped his waist, another crashed down from the side, but Martin twisted, legs pumping, dragging the pile forward before the whistle blew. "Five yards," the official marked it—second and five at the twenty-three. The clock rolled under a minute.
Green Bay burned its first timeout, the crowd roaring, trying to rattle something loose. Testaverde never looked at the stands—his eyes stayed on Mawae, on the safeties creeping, on the clock. The next snap was a quick play-action, just enough to freeze the linebackers.
Testaverde turned and dumped the ball to Anthony Becht in the flat. The tight end secured it cleanly and fell forward as he was hit, rolling onto his back at the seventeen. "First down, Tigers."
The Tigers hustled to the line with no celebration, no chatter. Martin carried again, straight ahead, lowering his pads and hammering into green jerseys for four hard yards. Belichick raised a hand, using his final time out as he set the punt team in with 10 seconds to go.
[Q4 — 0:10 | 4th & 6, GB 13 | Packers 21, Tigers 21]
Lambeau Field—usually deafening—fell into a strange, trembling hush, as over sixty thousand people held their breath, afraid to breathe at the same time. The Tigers' field-goal unit jogged onto the grass in a tight cluster, helmets down, movements sharp and rehearsed. John Hall trotted last, eyes forward, planning his strike as he took deep breaths.
The Packers' sideline was a wall of green and gold, arms raised, towels whipping, players jumping and shouting in unison. They crowded the line, desperate to force a flinch, a mistake, anything. The ball was spotted at the twenty—a thirty-seven-yard attempt. Routine by distance—but nothing about these kinds of moments was routine.
Hall planted his feet behind the holder and exhaled slowly, blocking out the noise, the stakes, the weight of an entire offseason distilled into one swing of his leg. Kevin Mawae crouched over the ball, fingers spread wide, steady as stone. The holder dropped to one knee, hands ready.
Belichick stood frozen on the sideline, arms crossed, expression carved into stone. The referee glanced at the clock, then raised his arm. "Ready for play."
The Packers surged forward, bodies coiled like springs, and Mawae snapped. The ball came back clean—tight spiral, chest-high. The holder caught it, spun the laces away in one smooth motion, and pinned it to the turf. Hall took one step, then another; his standing foot slammed into the grass. His kicking leg whipped through, striking leather with a sharp, hollow thump that cut through the silence like a gunshot.
The ball rose instantly, end-over-end, climbing above the line as Packers defenders leapt with outstretched arms, fingertips grazing nothing but air. For half a second, it wobbled—just enough to make every Tigers fan's stomach drop. Then it straightened the kick sailed clean and accurate, splitting the uprights dead centre.
For a heartbeat, Lambeau didn't react—like the stadium itself needed confirmation. Then the officials' arms went up. "GOOD." The Tigers' sideline erupted immediately. Players leapt into one another, helmets colliding, fists pumping as Hall was mobbed before he could even turn back toward the bench.
Joe Buck's voice cut through the chaos. "John Hall drills it! The Tigers take the lead with six seconds remaining!"
[Packers 21 – Tigers 24]
The kickoff came next—high, deep, and unreturnable. The Packers tried one desperate lateral play after the kneel-down, Favre flipping the ball backwards as green jerseys scattered across the field, but the Tigers' defence swarmed, smothering it before it could breathe. The whistle blew. Game over.
The Tigers poured onto the field—no wild celebrations, just hard smiles, and exhausted relief. Helmets came off, and hands were shaken. Favre exchanged a quick word with Testaverde, a nod of respect passing between them. "Whoo, we get to breathe for another day," Xavier said, breathing a sigh of relief as he re-entered the booth. "That was too close for comfort, though, guess that's growing pains for you, though."
"Hmmm, sure, but we relied too much on Martin to make things happen on offence. Coles had a few good grabs, but he was gassed in the 4th." Maria said as she added something in her notepad. "We will definitely have to address some players' fitness, but the chemistry between players is the coach's job."
"I know I'm not blaming anyone, I honestly expected to lose a few matches, especially with the rookies needing to gain some confidence," Xav sighed, picking up his glass of Water. "How's the data from the ProQuant vest from this match?"
"It came out well, but since we aren't able to lay out the sensors here, it's not as good. But the heat map, physical stats, and effort levels are accurate for usage, especially if used in tandem with game footage." She responded with a smile, reaching for the laptop at her side, which contained some of the data her team had sent.
Maria turned the laptop slightly so Xavier could see, the glow of the green-yellow screen washing over both of them as the stadium noise bled in faintly through the glass. The heat map loaded first—an overhead schematic of the field with streaks of colour layered over it like brushstrokes. Reds and oranges clustered around the middle third of the pitch where the Tigers had lived all afternoon, grinding yard by yard.
"Curtis Martin," Maria said, tapping the trackpad. His name highlighted automatically. "87% utilisation across four quarters. That's elite output, but it's also unsustainable if we make this our identity every week."
Xavier nodded slowly, eyes scanning the screen. "He carried us."
"He carried us," she agreed, "but he also absorbed the equivalent of a full playoff game in contact force. If we don't lighten his load, we'll shorten his season."
She flicked to another panel—velocity curves, acceleration spikes, recovery dips. "The offensive line held up better than expected. Wade settled after the first quarter. Mawae was exactly what his tape said he'd be—calm, consistent, corrective. When pressure came, it was situational."
"And the defence?" Xavier asked.
Maria didn't answer immediately. She pulled up the defensive heat map, this one far messier—overlaps, late rotations, sudden dead zones where pursuit should have been faster. "Effort wasn't the problem," she said carefully. "Timing was. Too many half-steps. Too many guys are trying to make the play instead of trusting the structure."
Xavier exhaled through his nose. "Translation, they wanted it too much."
Below them, the Tigers were still on the field, drifting toward the tunnel in loose clusters. Helmets dangled from fingers as they took interviews from reporters. On the sidelines, Belichick gathered a crowd of reporters, trying to get some answers from him.
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To Be Continued...