You remember where you were. If you’re a college football fan, specifically one who bleeds SEC colors, the words auburn field goal return don't just describe a play. They describe a seismic shift in the universe. It was November 30, 2013. Jordan-Hare Stadium was a pressure cooker.
The air was different that night.
Most people call it the "Kick Six." It’s become a shorthand, a catchy brand for the most improbable ending in sports history. But if you actually sit down and look at the mechanics of what happened—the sheer, mathematical impossibility of it—you realize it wasn't just luck. It was a perfect storm of ego, physics, and a very specific type of coaching gamble that went horribly sideways for Nick Saban.
The One Second That Changed Everything
Basically, the game shouldn't have even ended like that.
With the score tied 28-28, Alabama’s T.J. Yeldon rumbled out of bounds as the clock hit 0:00. Everyone thought overtime was a given. But Saban, ever the perfectionist, sprinted toward the officials. He wanted that one second back. He got it. After a video review, the referees put 0:01 back on the clock. It seemed like a win for Alabama. They were in range for a 57-yard field goal.
They sent out Adam Griffith, a freshman kicker who was being asked to hit the longest kick of his life.
Auburn’s Gus Malzahn did something smart. Kinda subtle, but smart. He noticed Alabama’s field goal unit was packed with "big uglies"—the heavy offensive linemen who are great at blocking but move like glaciers in open space. He pulled his return man, Chris Davis, and told him to stand at the very back of the end zone.
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Just in case.
Why the "Fat Guys" Mattered
Honestly, this is the part people forget when they talk about the auburn field goal return. A 57-yard kick requires a low trajectory to get the distance. A low trajectory is easier to block. To prevent a block, Alabama kept their biggest, heaviest linemen on the field to create a wall.
They weren't thinking about a return. Why would they? Nobody returns a 57-yard missed field goal for a touchdown. It basically never happens.
109 Yards of Pure Chaos
The snap was good. The hold was clean. Griffith swung his leg and the ball soared. For a moment, 87,451 people held their breath. But the ball didn't have the leg. It began to die in the air, falling short and drifting toward the right upright.
Chris Davis was waiting.
He caught the ball 9 yards deep in the end zone. Statistically, the NCAA record books call it a 100-yard return, but he actually covered about 109 yards. He started running. He veered left.
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The radio call from Rod Bramblett is etched into the soul of every Auburn fan:
"There goes Davis! [Oh my gosh] Davis is gonna run it all the way back! Auburn's gonna win the football game!"
Davis hit the sideline. Because Alabama had all those "fat guys" on the field, there was nobody fast enough to catch him once he broke the initial wave. One Alabama player—the kicker, Griffith—was the last line of defense. He didn't stand a chance. Davis stayed just inches away from the white paint of the sideline, his teammates leading the way like a presidential motorcade.
He crossed the goal line. The stadium didn't just cheer; it shook. People were literally crying in the stands.
The Ripple Effect Nobody Talks About
We talk about the play, but we don't talk enough about what it broke.
Alabama was the two-time defending national champion. They were #1 in the country. They were a machine that didn't make mistakes. That auburn field goal return didn't just lose them a game; it destroyed a dynasty's path to a three-peat.
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It also propelled Auburn into the SEC Championship and eventually the last-ever BCS National Championship game. It was the second week in a row Auburn had won on a "miracle" (remember the "Prayer at Jordan-Hare" against Georgia just two weeks prior?).
Misconceptions about the Kick Six
- It wasn't a fluke: Auburn had practiced field goal returns. It wasn't a "let's see what happens" moment. They saw the personnel Alabama had on the field and knew if the kick was short, they had a speed advantage.
- The "One Second" was legit: While Bama fans still grumble, Yeldon's heel clearly hit out of bounds with time on the clock. Saban was right to ask for it, but he paid the ultimate price for his own accuracy.
- The Distance: Many think it was a 50-yarder. It was 57. In college, that is a massive ask for a freshman under that kind of pressure.
Why It Still Matters Today
College football is moving toward a 12-team playoff, and some people say the "regular season doesn't matter as much." Those people are wrong. The reason the auburn field goal return stays at the top of every "Greatest Plays" list is because of the stakes.
It was winner-take-all. It was the Iron Bowl. It was a rivalry that divides families in the state of Alabama, and it ended in a way that defied the laws of probability.
If you want to truly understand the impact, look at the grass. After the play, thousands of fans stormed the field. The SEC fined Auburn $250,000 for that. I've never met an Auburn fan who wouldn't pay that fine out of their own pocket to see it happen again.
Actionable Insights for the Modern Fan
If you're looking to relive the magic or study why this play worked, here is how to break it down:
- Watch the All-22 Footage: If you can find the high-angle coaches' film, watch the Alabama "gunners." Or rather, the lack of them. You’ll see exactly how the heavy linemen were outmaneuvered.
- Listen to Both Radio Calls: To get the full experience, listen to Rod Bramblett (Auburn) and Eli Gold (Alabama) side-by-side. The contrast between pure euphoria and stunned, graveyard silence is the essence of sports.
- Check the Box Score: People forget Auburn only had 97 passing yards that whole game. They won by running the ball and, well, one very long return. It proves you don't need a high-flying offense to beat a giant if you have an elite ground game and a little bit of magic.
The Iron Bowl is rarely just a game. But in 2013, it became a legend. Whether you're a Tiger or a Tide fan, you have to respect the sheer audacity of that final minute. It's a reminder that in football, the clock is never really at zero until the ball is dead.