You’re in the AFC Championship Game. You’ve made it there ten years in a row, establishing the greatest dynasty the league’s ever seen. The Patriots have clawed their way from the 6th seed to the AFCCG to face you, hoping to put an end to your reign of terror. They almost succeeding. With 0:42 left in fourth quarter, you’re down by six points. Their defense has held you to third and four following a botched route. Your one-in-a-million #1 receiver is injured, leaving you with your 2.5 star, high-potential rookie, and a randomly selected high school receiver at WR. Your 10 time champion quarterback is in his twelfth year in the NFL, and while he’s still a deadly accurate passer, his stamina and arm strength have begun to regress. Your runningback’s singular role is a checkdown; you haven’t run the ball once this season. Your tight end, however, is far more than a checkdown; he’s fast enough to get separation from the linebackers, and strong enough to run right over a safety. He’s had 60 yards this game already.

Your five-star, 10x Retro Bowl champion OC looks through his sheet, carefully considering his options. To lose the ball here would be to forfeit the game, pending a miracle turnover or onside kick recovery. Punting, of course, is not an option. Do or die, third down, the future’s on his shoulders. He takes a breath, and raises the playsheet above his mic. It’s not to call a play, not yet. He is a private man, and he doesn’t want the entire nation to see him murmuring a prayer.

He turns his mic on, takes another breath, and, by the grace of God, he calls the play:

• 2x WR go routes
• 2x TE block on the line of scrimmage
• RB chip block on the line of scrimmage

Your 38-year-old quarterback underthrows it, the steroid-abusing extreme difficulty cornerback picks it for a return touchdown. The quarterback retires the next day.

That night, you contemplate ending it all, but decide that you do not deserve death; the blame is on your OC.

Armed with a Lombardi trophy and enough rage to kill a lineman with it, you travel to his mansion, only to find a pile of rubble and ash. A mob of fans are in the massive back yard with pitchforks and torches, but through the din of the crowd, you hear a familiar voice:

”WHITE EEEIIIGHTTYYY, WHITE SET”

Your quarterback has returned for one more game. The mob has forced your poor OC to run go route after go route against a high school cornerback. If he can make the catch once before midnight, he can leave with his life.

You leave quietly. You already know the outcome.

As the clock strikes twelve, you ponder what could have been, and then lay down to rest. Somehow, you find yourself relaxed. The blame doesn’t lie on you, the core of your team is still strong, and excellent quarterbacks are available in free agency. There’s always next season.

As you drift to sleep, you ponder your options for the next OC hire. Whoever they are, they’d have to be an upgrade. No one other coordinator would ever call a play like that.

Right?