Before long, they stopped looking like plays. The barricade had broken down and the poor souls left in the backfield were grabbing collars, hurling their shoulders into chestplates and trying to pick themselves off the ground.
The Kansas City Chiefs’ backfield looked like one of those pencil illustrations of the Revolutionary War. Individual portraits of agony and confusion. Some kind of echelon, phalanx or wedge that, once orderly, had been bludgeoned and discarded.
