Here's how one play not made derailed and negated all the momentum the Denver Broncos and Teddy Bridgewater had built

DENVER — In one split-second moment at the end of the third quarter Sunday afternoon, Teddy Bridgewater frittered away all of the goodwill and positive energy he had accumulated in helping put the Denver Broncos back in the hunt again.

EPA, CPOE, passer rating, turnover rate … all of the numbers that reflect Bridgewater’s performance in providing competent steadiness to a position that had lacked it for most of the previous five seasons, all thrown on the ash heap.

In the court of public opinion, hard data can be trumped by the singular visual evidence of one play not made.

And the play unmade was not a matter of execution. It was a matter of effort.

When someone — anyone — needed to try to stop Philadelphia cornerback Darius Slay from completing an 82-yard, back-breaking jaunt with a Melvin Gordon III fumble to the end zone, only one Bronco was in position to be an obstruction. And Bridgewater took a step, and then went no farther.

When asked whether it was a “business decision” by Mark Kiszla of The Denver Post at the press conference that followed the 30-13 flogging, Bridgewater said it was not.

The film begs to disagree.

But there was plenty of blame to go around for a single, fourth-and-1 that steered the Broncos toward disaster — and perhaps not just for Sunday.

Melvin Gordon III fumbled for the second time in three games, bringing back memories of the cluster of fumbles he had early last season.

“As I see it, I see a guy trying for the block, and I’m just thinking, ‘Hey, man, maybe I can force the ball back inside and one of our guys will make the tackle,’” Bridgewater said.

In other words, hope that someone else was there. The concept itself is sound; it happens all the time on defense. Sometimes, it’s the job of the first man in to guide the ballcarrier toward the sideline or to a spot where someone else can finish the play. Or, you hold up the runner or receiver just long enough to allow help to arrive and finish the play.

The problem is, no one was there.

Gordon trailed Slay by a step. Albert Okwuegbunam was blocked by Derek Barnett. Eric Saubert had been left flailing in the dust.

The closest player to the inside was right tackle Cameron Fleming. But for all the hustle that the 317-pound rookie displayed, he ran the 40-yard dash in 5.28 seconds at his Combine workout, while Slay has 4.36 speed.

These aren’t considerations that come into play for a split-second decision. But Fleming was trailing to the point where he didn’t have a realistic chance of catching a smaller cornerback.

So, that puts it on Bridgewater.

Not to make a form tackle, but to try and do SOMETHING to obstruct. Something that would reflect the competitiveness and win-at-any-legal-cost mentality that a team should demand from its captain.

Sure Bridgewater didn’t start the fire; that was on Gordon. But he didn’t douse it when he had the chance to do so.

To know what a firefighter looks like, look at Peyton Manning eight years ago this month on Sunday Night Football against the Kansas City Chiefs.

One a first-quarter play that night, Manning and Montee Ball couldn’t complete the handoff out of the shotgun formation. Kansas City’s Derrick Johnson recovered.

Just one player stood between him and the south end zone: Peyton Manning himself.

Peyton Manning, team captain. Peyton Manning, having endured a handful of neck surgeries. Peyton Manning, a man who at that point didn’t have feeling in the fingertips of his throwing hand.

Peyton Manning put his body on the line and made the stop. And what happened on the next play? The defense got the ball back.

In the parlance of Leonard “Bones” McCoy M.D. of Star Trek fame, Manning did “what you had to do, what you always do. Turn death into a fighting chance to live.”

By not trying to stop Slay, Denver’s defense didn’t have that chance.

Yes, there are potential consequences. Baker Mayfield found out last month when he injured his shoulder. Courtland Sutton learned last year when he tore his ACL making a tackle on an interception return. The same thing happened to Terrell Davis four games into the 1999 campaign.

But this is part of the job when putting on shoulder pads and a helmet at the highest level of the sport. This is the business that each player has chosen.

The only “business decision” in a tight game — when one attempt could make the difference between keeping hopes alive and sliding toward a humiliating home loss — is the business of playing football and trying to make the stop.

You might not succeed.

But you try.

And in one split-second moment, the Broncos’ starting quarterback didn’t. The team capitulated in the fourth quarter, 15 minutes that was yet another dreary experience in a venue that has seen far too many of them in recent years.

By the two-minute warning, nearly all Broncos fans had cleared out, “E-A-G-L-E-S” chants rattled around the grandstands, and the Broncos were meekly waiting for the end, a bye week, and a chance for self-examination.

Every player should look himself in the mirror, Justin Simmons said.

But perhaps none will need to look longer than their quarterback and leader.