Tony Rice ran like the damn field owed him something. And maybe it did. Maybe it owed him every last yard of that 302 he ripped out of the turf, every last snap where he tucked the ball under his arm and turned Florida State’s defense into bewildered spectators.
Florida State came in with speed, with talent, with a plan—but the plan didn’t include Rice making a mockery of whatever they called a defense. He threw just enough to keep them honest—two touchdowns before his arm remembered it wasn’t built for passing—but he didn’t need it. His legs did the talking, and the Seminoles didn’t have an answer.
Notre Dame’s defense wasn’t much better. Vanover torched them like a man on a mission, and Charlie Ward was sharp as a switchblade, carving up soft coverage, keeping the ‘Noles alive. Michael Stonebreaker? The poor bastard was everywhere, twelve tackles because someone had to pick up the slack. But this wasn’t a game for defenses. This was two overpowered engines redlining, seeing who would run out of gas first.
Ricky Watters? Just a receiver in this one. Maybe a glitch, maybe a forgotten wrinkle in time. But it didn’t matter. The Irish had Rice, and Rice had the wheels to burn through anything that stood in his way.
It was loud, messy, brilliant football. The kind that makes you forget about logic and just sit back and watch the chaos unfold. And when the dust settled, Notre Dame was still standing. Florida State? Just another team that couldn’t keep up.
