![]() ![]() ![]() You can pretty much always start an argument by declaring someone the greatest of all time, but the case for Tucker is becoming hard to dispute. “I saw Avon go like this,” Tucker says, raising his arms to signal a good kick, “and it all kind of came together - first, like, ‘Holy, we won!’ and then, ‘We broke the record!’” Then he spotted a firefighter who worked for the Ravens standing at the end of the field. Tucker heard the boink, but it was impossible to tell from midfield whether the ball had bounced back toward him or forward through the goal posts. Then he saw it smack into the crossbar and shoot vertically into the air. He watched along with the rest of the crowd as the ball soared downfield, dropping quickly as it approached the end zone. Usually, Tucker knew at the moment of impact whether a kick was good. Tucker planted his left foot by the ball and bent his knee, leaning hard to the left as his right leg swooped down and his foot walloped the ball with everything he had. Then he nodded for the snap and bolted forward, reaching the ball just as Koch pinned it to the ground. He picked a new starting point and took a deep breath. Tucker had no idea whether it would work, but he knew it was the best chance to win the game. He would set up in a new position, jog to the ball at a different cadence and rotate his hip so far through the swing that he would have to land on the wrong foot. To gain more power, he would have to make changes. ![]() He and Koch had spent years practicing it to millimetric precision, but if it wasn’t going the distance in warm-up, he couldn’t risk it with the game on the line. Tucker knew he couldn’t rely on his usual field-goal technique. He tapped a toe to indicate exactly where he wanted the ball, then he started pacing away to prepare for the kick. They crouched briefly on the field, and Koch put a loose piece of turf back in place, then Tucker hopped on it with both feet to make sure the spot was flat. Each knew that Tucker was having a weak day, and neither felt confident. They spoke a common language, but there was little to say now. Tucker and Koch had been working together for a decade. His holder, Sam Koch, was seven yards back, where he would pin the ball for the kick. “So when we’re looking at a 66-yard field goal, I knew I was going to have to just find something a little bit extra.”Īs Tucker jogged onto the field, he saw his snapper, Nick Moore, setting up at the line of scrimmage. “I just didn’t feel quite right from the moment I got out on the field,” he says. One by one, every kick fell short of 65 yards. All through warm-ups, Tucker had been struggling for distance. “Typically, from 65, I’m able to get it there,” he says.Įxcept this wasn’t a typical day. But 66 was not, for Tucker, a lot of yards. Some days, he would blast it through from 75 yards. ![]() On game days, he began his warm-up by testing the strength of his leg in a series of increasingly long kicks. Tucker had kicked hundreds of balls farther than 66 yards. The distance wasn’t a problem for Tucker. Unless, with three seconds left on the clock, Tucker could boot the ball through the yellow uprights 66 yards downfield - a longer field goal than anyone had ever kicked in the N.F.L. The game was almost over, and the Ravens had all but lost. 26, 2021, and he was standing on the turf at Ford Field in Detroit for the third game of his 10th season as a place-kicker for the Baltimore Ravens. To hear more audio stories from publications like The New York Times, download Audm for iPhone or Android. ![]()
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