Nick Chubb Stepped Out at the One-Yard-Line, and You Should Too
It was almost sundown on a blustery Sunday afternoon. A damp cold had rolled in from the choppy waters of Lake Erie, and darkness was descending like a dimming lamp — the bright gray of Cleveland in autumn was becoming the orange overcast of night.
And in this bleak environment, Nick Chubb was running for his life.
At least it would appear so to some alien life form, or a Roman aristocrat transported through time, paying a visit to what looks and feels like a mostly-empty colosseum. Two opposing teams playing an armored war-game. Massive bodies throwing themselves at each other with no regard for physical safety, intent on stealing a treasure and bringing it to their home territory.
Nick carries the precious cargo: a small package of air, wrapped tightly in animal hides. He surveys the chaos unfolding before him while side stepping toward the battlefield’s predetermined boundary. Reflexively, he jumps backwards to avoid an enemy’s lunge, and as space becomes limited and failure looks imminent, he sees a small opening in the melee.
Suddenly, there’s a firm plant, and Nick exerts thousands of pounds of force into the ground, abruptly shifting his momentum. Like an alley cat walking atop a wooden fence, he begins advancing with quick steps, and in an instant, his 5’11’’, 240-pound frame is propelled forward at massive speed. He becomes an object only a cinderblock wall (or perhaps a conveniently-timed school bus) can stop. He’s the fastest man on the field, galloping away from pursuers in an adrenaline-fueled sprint.
Context
After a dull and frustrating game in which the swirling wind was unanimously voted defensive MVP, the Cleveland Browns were beating the Houston Texans 10–7. And with a little over a minute left in the game (and no timeouts remaining), the Browns just needed to stay in possession of the ball and disallow the Texans any opportunity to score.
(For the uninitiated, a touchdown + extra point in American football usually results in 7 points, and a field goal is 3. This was a close game.)
To Cleveland sports fans everywhere, this was a miracle. We’re not used to seeing our teams (literally) run away with victory. I confidently speak for all Browns supporters when I say: I was sure we’d find a way to lose this one. A fumble, pick-six, or better yet — we’d crumble as the other team pulled off the heist of the century.
Nick Chubb would score on this fantastic drive, and the Browns would go up 17–7 with one minute of game-time left to play. This would leave just enough time for the Texans to score a touchdown on a long pass (our free-safety probably would have fallen down or something dumb), recover the onside kick (one of the riskiest plays available), and drive just far enough to hit a field goal that ties the game. The Browns would lose in overtime — of course.
But this didn’t happen. Something even more unbelievable occurred. A Browns player — and the managing staff — had the awareness, collectedness, and intelligence to do the right thing at the right moment.
Rather than stream into the end zone and dance like he just got Bar Mitzvah’d, Chubb careened out-of-bounds just short of the end zone at the one-yard-line — completely unprovoked. He didn’t score, but in the process took away the 0.001% chance the other team still had to win the game. And this — this is amazing for a few reasons.
Selflessness
’Tis the era of self-promotion, influencers, celebrity, glory, and — for all professionals, regardless of industry — metrics. Nick Chubb spent the past few weeks injured with a torn MCL, and as a result has lost out on important statistics that could help his career.
For a running back, A two-TD game is far more impressive than a one-TD game, and the more points he’s accrued at the end of the season, the more he stands to make when renegotiating contracts or signing with another franchise. (In the NFL, an average career lasts about 2 minutes, so it’s important to get as much as you can, when you can)
But this is a prime example of where numbers don’t tell the whole story. Yes, points win games and every team/startup/Fortune-500 company wants points, but what’s better is a smart player who keeps the larger goal in mind every step of the way.
Pro football possesses a workplace culture that promotes childish, almost grotesque-levels of gloating and celebration, but Chubb guaranteed a team victory by sacrificing personal accolades. His current and future employers should acknowledge this and value it far more than one or two extra touchdowns on his resume.
Side note: He also eliminated any chance of injury to his teammates during the last few moments of desperation-play. This definitely would’ve happened. Again, I’m a Browns fan, so I should know.
He made a generous choice, but the choice wouldn’t have been there at all without another impressive quality.
Composure
It’s likely the Browns’ coaching staff had already given the order for “No Mas.” In other words, if the Browns gained more than the 10 yards necessary to reset the number of downs (the amount of plays you can run before giving possession of the ball to the other team), they were to immediately end the play.
Don’t do anything special. Don’t fight for every inch. Don’t risk making an unfortunate error.
Guarantee the victory.
But Nick was in the middle of a breakaway play. He was living out every kid’s dream. I, for one, tossed restlessly at night in my childhood bedroom imagining myself in this exact scenario. The hero. The athlete. The conqueror.
Absolutely no one (except maybe the bean counters in the coaches’ booth) would’ve begrudged him that touchdown. In fact, everyone would’ve jumped up-and-down as bass-heavy music blasted through the stadium speakers, jubilant because they’ve been conditioned to celebrate the strength of large success rather than the shrewdness of a more moderate one. I mean, I would’ve partied too. But despite the heart-pumping, split-second nature of professional football, Nick Chubb had the wherewithal to remember his company’s priorities.
He did it. He landed the lunar module with a dwindling fuel supply. He sucked the poison out of the snakebite and successfully flagged a passing helicopter that brought everyone to safety. Or maybe he just found a small accounting error deep in a spreadsheet after the rest of the office had already started their EOW happy hour.
Regardless, I’m impressed.
Public Perception
I know, I know. Professional football players — and anyone officially affiliated with the organization — don’t care about “The Spread,” or whatever statisticians, commentators, and the state of New Jersey have to say about the game. However it’s worth noting that the Browns were giving 4.5 points last week to the Texans. A touchdown would’ve made a lot of bettors very happy. Although, I guess the lack of a TD also did the trick.
Either way, he wasn’t thinking about any of that buzz. He was focused on the game. The game and nothing else.
This is the weakest reason Chubb stepping out is impressive, but it matters when you consider my (admittedly) thin concluding points.
Concluding Points
It’s not too much of a stretch to say: Something in the world feels broken right now.
More than ever, it feels like people are desperate to claw their way to the top. The image of power is more important than the stoic plodding that actually establishes it. The desperation for a quick and flashy way out of a dangerous predicament has eclipsed the modesty, forethought, and teamwork required to produce long-term safety. It doesn’t matter what team you’re cheering for, you probably won’t feel fully vindicated until they win and win big.
What’s happening in our society today is the culmination of negative traits that have gradually become commonplace in our day-to-day lives. Maybe there was a time when Nick Chubb intentionally ending that play would’ve struck me and the rest of the world as an obvious tactic. Had he gone ahead and scored, we would’ve instantly been pissed he hadn’t done the smartest thing possible. I can’t seem to remember that time.
But instead, it’s 2020, and Nick Chubb seems like a veritable saint. I was shocked, the announcer was shocked, and you may have been shocked too. But after that shock subsides, and after the thrill of victory fades, what replaces it is the subtle sense of ease and calm that comes with a 6–3 record in the National Football League, as opposed to 5–4.
I could use a little ease and calm right now. And until the next fumble, dropped pass, or crushing Browns defeat: Thank you Nick Chubb. Hopefully we can learn from your game.
(And in case my recollection of events wasn’t vivid enough for you.)