Chapter 456 295: Want the Ring? Get Through Me First
The whistle blew, signaling the end of the first quarter.
6-3, the Giants were in the lead.
The 49ers' offense and defense filed back to their respective sideline areas, where staff quickly handed them water bottles and towels.
The atmosphere on the sidelines wasn't tense; you could even call it relaxed.
"We're only down by three, and that was just a field goal," said the 49ers' starting tight end, George Kittle, as he plopped down on the bench and took a big gulp from a water bottle. "Anderson, I don't think their offense is much tougher than what we saw on tape. And you had at least two open passing windows you didn't even use."
"That's right," the right-side wide receiver chimed in. "Their middle linebacker leaves about a half-second gap when he switches coverage. If I run two fake routes, I can stretch that seam to over a yard. More than enough for you to thread the ball in."
"Their offense is nothing special," a young cornerback from the defensive unit said, still smug about breaking up one of Li Wei's passes on the last drive. "Li Wei's passes are accurate, sure, but our new strategy has him on the ropes. All he got in the first quarter was two field goals."
"Of course," another defensive player added. "The 49ers have the best defense in the league, not like the Kansas City Chiefs with their huge holes. As long as we don't let Li Wei run, everything's under control."
The mood on the bench was cheerful and harmonious. Everyone felt it was a good start, the situation was manageable, and there was still a lot of game left to play.
Anderson sat on the edge of the bench with a towel draped over his shoulders. Hearing his teammates, the corner of his mouth twitched into a small smile.
"True," he nodded. "We'll have our chance in the second quarter. Let's take back the lead first."
On paper, this was indeed the best start the 49ers could have hoped for before the game.
His teammates were right, too. The first-quarter stats looked good. They were only down by three points, a single field goal.
Their brand-new strategy, combined with the 49ers' defense—already among the league's elite—hadn't given Li Wei a single opportunity for a touchdown.
It looked like they had a huge advantage.
But Anderson was uneasy.
He was uneasy because something felt off about Li Wei. He hadn't truly "seen" him yet.
He'd been playing for 14 years and knew almost every type of Quarterback like the back of his hand.
Some Quarterbacks were like volcanoes, erupting the moment they stepped on the field. Their emotions were written all over their faces. When they had the momentum, they were unstoppable; when things went south, they completely fell apart, leading the team's collapse.
Other Quarterbacks were like icebergs—always calm, always precise. They weren't as explosive as the first type, but they aimed to chip away with small gains, avoiding risks and mistakes.
But Li Wei didn't belong to either category.
He felt like a fog.
His performance in the first quarter was certainly excellent. His passes were accurate, his release incredibly fast. He'd made two throws from outrageous angles that were even more impressive than what Patrick Mahomes of the Kansas City Chiefs could do.
But that was the problem. He had no idea how many more cards Li Wei had left to play.
In the three weeks leading up to the game, he had watched and rewatched every single one of Li Wei's games no less than a hundred times.
'What did I see? I saw a man who won every single game in a different way.'
Against the Buccaneers, it was a crushing display of precise long passes, completing 12 of 15 attempts.
Against the Chiefs, he filled in as a safety for the defense and intercepted a pass from Mahomes—is that something a Quarterback is supposed to do? It was unheard of in the history of the NFL.
In the championship game, he leaped over a defensive player to score a touchdown, running faster than a running back.
Li Wei had so many plays he could make. He could have easily dragged a defender for several yards.
But in the first quarter, he had only stood in the pocket and thrown a few passes.
The 49ers' defense was effective, yes, but it was only effective because Li Wei was *allowing* it to be.
'Why?'
Anderson couldn't figure it out.
'Is he probing the 49ers' defensive system?'
'Or does he think he can win this game without even going all out?'
The moment that last thought surfaced, a layer of goosebumps rose on Anderson's skin.
He unconsciously squeezed his right shoulder. It hadn't given him any trouble in the first quarter, but he knew his 35-year-old body. By the third or fourth quarter, the release speed of that arm would slow by at least 0.1 to 0.2 seconds.
And Li Wei?
While studying the data, Anderson had discovered that Li Wei's running and throwing speeds in the fourth quarter were almost identical to his first quarter stats. Sometimes, he even ran faster.
It was as if Li Wei had limitless stamina.
He could still clearly recall the scene: him and the data analyst sitting in their chairs, utterly speechless.
And as soon as that thought emerged, another one followed close behind.
'It's not going to happen this time, either.'
He suppressed the thought.
But he couldn't keep it down.
The thought was like a marble stuffed into a drawer. You think you've put it away, but the moment you turn around, it rolls out on its own, clattering loudly on the floor.
'It's hopeless. Not because I lack the skill, or because I'm unprepared.'
'It's fate.'
At that thought, Anderson, sitting on the bench, felt a dull ache in his knee joint.
He glanced around at his teammates, some of whom were a full 12 years younger than him. Then he looked at himself. He was the only one who needed a blanket draped over him during breaks.
The first time he stood on a Super Bowl field, he was 25 years old.
That year, he was young, healthy, and fearless. He felt the championship was rightfully his—only to have the game turned around in the fourth quarter. He sat in the locker room for two hours afterward.
The second time, he was 29, the league MVP. But at a critical moment, his pass was intercepted. He knew it was over the instant the ball left his fingertips. It was like watching a glass of water slide off the edge of a table; you reach out, your fingers brush against the glass, but you're just a fraction of a second too late.
In the end, they lost by three points.
That summer, he locked himself at home for two weeks. He drew all the curtains, didn't watch TV, didn't check his phone, desperate to avoid hearing anyone start a call with "It's okay," or "There's always next time."
In competitive sports, there is no "next time."
The third time, he was 32. He played through the playoffs with a steel pin in his knee, only for it to give out again in the semifinals. He watched from the sidelines as the backup Quarterback lost the game.
The very next day, he started his rehabilitation training again.
'I won't accept this,' he told himself.
Three Super Bowls, three losses.
If life were a movie, the screenwriter must be deliberately tormenting him. Every time, he was allowed to get a hair's breadth from the finish line, only to be shoved back to the start in a different way.
He spent two years rehabilitating his knee. Just when everyone thought he should hang it up and retire, the 35-year-old fought his way back, leading the 49ers to the Super Bowl once again.
The fourth time. The last time.
He knew this was the last time. Because every time he changed direction, his knee made a grinding sound only he could hear. Because by the third quarter, an unavoidable numbness would creep into his right shoulder.
This was his body's way of giving him notice.
'You're old, Marcus Anderson. It's been 14 years.'
Lying in bed the night before the game, tossing and turning, he finally understood. The root of his anxiety wasn't how strong Li Wei was, but the fact that there would be no fifth time for him.
If he lost today, there would be no "next time," no "there's always next year."
No one would believe he could make it to the Super Bowl stage a fifth time.
At this thought, he took off his gloves and looked at his hands.
These hands had thrown countless passes. Every joint, every line, every callus was an engraving from 14 years of his life.
Anderson clenched his fists, stuffing all his anxiety, his sense of doom, and every emotion that had no place in a game into them.
Then he unclenched his hands, stood up, and put his helmet back on.
'To hell with whether this is the last time or not.'
'God, if you're really going to test me, then bring it on!'
'You want a Super Bowl ring? You'll have to get through me first.'
...
The whistle blew for the second quarter. 49ers' ball.
Anderson left all his distracting thoughts on the bench and stepped back behind the line of scrimmage.
He bent down, his eyes scanning the Giants' defensive formation.
'The middle linebacker is half a step to the left.'
'That's it. That habit hasn't changed, even in the Super Bowl.'
Hike!
The moment the ball was in his hands, Anderson's peripheral vision caught Kittel on the right running a fake route. Just as he expected, the cornerback was pulled off balance.
His arm came up. He released the ball.
The motion felt smooth even to himself. The ball traveled in a textbook arc and landed perfectly in Kittel's hands.
"Caught! George Kittel! He makes the reception at the Giants' 40-yard line for a 22-yard gain!" Joe Buck's voice came through the broadcast.
On the following drive, Anderson entered a rare flow state, as if he had returned to his peak season at age 29.
Short passes to stretch the defense, precise mid-range throws. He moved effortlessly in the pocket, every release fast, accurate, and decisive.
He poured everything into the game, forgetting his knee, his right shoulder, forgetting he was even on the field at the Super Bowl.
He only thought about the next down, the next down, and the next down.
A seven-play drive, 68 yards, touchdown.
10-6. The 49ers took the lead.
"What a beautiful pass! Anderson is completely in the zone in the second quarter!" Troy Aikman, who had faced Anderson as an opponent before, exclaimed in genuine admiration. "Joe, look at the rhythm of this drive. He's hit every pass. Not a single rushed throw, not a single wrong read. That's a 14-year veteran for you."
Possession changed. The Giants were on offense.
The 49ers' defense had figured out the rhythm of the Giants' offensive line, and the effect was immediate. Li Wei's pocket was often collapsing before it could even fully form.
Li Wei still didn't seem to want to make a big throw, and in the end, the Giants kicked another field goal, bringing the score to 10-9.
The stands, a sea of gold and red, erupted in a frenzy. Flags waved and horns blared.
"The 49ers are really shutting Li Wei down! I told you! I fucking told you! No one is invincible!"
"Go, Anderson! One last dance! Bring that Super Bowl ring home!"
The Giants' fans, however, weren't worried. They had immense confidence in Li Wei. They had witnessed scenes like this many times in the latter half of the regular season, and every time, Li Wei managed to pull them back with some extreme act of individual heroism.
But on social media and online forums, there was never a shortage of hot takes declaring either a swift victory or a swift defeat.
Even before halftime, the odds in Las Vegas were fluctuating wildly. The payout for a 49ers win dropped from 3.5-to-1 before the game to 2.2-to-1.
On social media, 49ers fans were celebrating wildly, as if the game had already ended, not just the second quarter.
The second quarter came to an end. Media cameras zoomed in on Li Wei, trying to read something from his expression.
But Li Wei's face remained calm. He was even laughing and joking with his teammates as he pulled a dark-colored sports drink from his personal bag and chugged it down.