Post-season at FB's fingertips Gary Shelton, The St.Petersburg Times, published 14 December 1998 There was turf on his back. A team, too. Mike Alstott picked himself off the ground, again, and much of it came with him. A large divot of grass was stuck to his jersey, there above the numbers with the mud and the rain and the sweat and the whole darn ballgame. This was Mike Alstott's time, and this was his place. He kept slogging through the line of scrimmage, wading through the water and the bodies, churning up ground like a plow in a muddy field. The whistle was blowing, and the clock was running, and the chains were moving. Alstott had laid claim to whatever was left of a football game. This was him at his best, rising from the wet ground, the water dripping from his helmet. There was no more room for deception. This was basic and brutal. Everyone in the place, Bucs and Steelers alike, knew what was coming next. Tampa Bay was going to hand the ball to Alstott, again, and everyone else was going to slam dance. If the first three quarters had been about the Bus, Jerome Bettis, the final one belonged to the A-Train. Time and again, 14 times in the final quarter alone, he would smash into the line. Here he comes, Pittsburgh. Do something about it. The Steelers could not. Thanks largely to Alstott, the Bucs kept the ball all but 2:15 of the final quarter. Thanks largely to Alstott, a team won a game and a player ran all the way to redemption. If you want to understand how good Alstott felt at the end of the game, you have to know how badly he felt halfway through. He had messed up. He had left a football on the ground, again. Midway through the second quarter, with the Bucs at the Steeler 29 and moving, a large hole had opened in front of Alstott. He slid outside to avoid Levon Kirkland, but when Jason Gildon hit him on the arm, the ball bounded out. A drive had stopped, and a disturbing trend had continued. "I thought I had it tucked away pretty good," Alstott said. "I had it high and tight. The guy just hit me on the arm. I was disappointed in myself." Alstott sat at his locker, still in wet uniform pants and a T- shirt that stuck to his skin, still gray from the muck. He looked up, the long bleached strands of his hair matted to his face, and he tried to tell how badly those seconds immediately after the fumble felt to him. He couldn't. "It's horrible," he said. "You feel helpless. You can barely look your teammates in the eye. You feel like you've let them down, like you've killed a drive. It's hard to describe. No one outside the game really knows how badly that feels." In Alstott's right hand, he held an empty Gatorade bottle so he could spit tobacco into it. On his left, he wore a large ice pack to freeze the pain from a break at the base of his thumb. Yes, he said, it hurts. No, he said, it is not an excuse. There is no excuse. For a running back, the scarlet letter is worn by those who have been labeled as fumblers. It is a designation no back wants. But Alstott has lost five fumbles this season, more than any other running back in the NFL and tied for second overall. In three years, he has lost the ball 14 times. What's the play on his name? You're in good hands with Alstott? But for all the good he brings this team, for all the popularity his relentlessness has brought him, he has to do a better job hanging on to the ball. Despite the broken hand, despite the extra hits he takes because of extra effort, he cannot keep fumbling. There were hints the Bucs were trying to underline that for Alstott midway through the Steelers game. After the fumble, he was not on the field as the Bucs ran back for their next possession. He did not carry from scrimmage for 12 straight plays over the team's next three possessions. It was as if Bucs coach Tony Dungy was sending a memo to his fullback. Hold on to the ball or get used to blocking. But when Warren Sapp recovered a Mike Tomczak fumble at the Steeler 7 midway through the fourth quarter, it was time again to turn to Alstott. He wrestled his way for 4 yards on first down, then bounced off tacklers and strained for the other 3 on third down. He turned a 6-3 lead into 13-3, and he reminded everyone of his effort around the goal a year ago. He had 10 touchdowns last season, only five this year. "I've missed the end zone," he said, grinning. Then came the fourth quarter, and Alstott took over. There are days that belong to Warrick Dunn and his skittering feet, and there are days that belong to Alstott. This was Alstott's, and he chewed up yards and time and any chance the Steelers had left. "He just wanted the ball," receiver Bert Emanuel said. "Great players are like that. After they make a mistake, they want the ball. You could see it in his eyes. What could you do but give him the ball?" This is the shape of the Bucs. They are in a two-game sprint for the final playoff spot. Both of their next games will be on the road in cold weather. They need Alstott to pull the wagon. They need to be able to put a season in his hands and know he will hold on tight.