I can’t really describe my relationship with the Kansas City Chiefs outside of any terms besides a pair of lovers. I mean, I could try some different analogies. I’m just not sure they’d fit very well.
You really want something different?
…ok, I’ll try to change it up a bit. Here’s a few, tell me what you think:
- My relationship with the Chiefs is like a farmer and a cow. All they do is violate my udders every time I’m unprepared.
- My relationship with the Chiefs is like a bee and a flower. I am a beautiful creature that dies every time the Chiefs bumble over to suck out my nectar.
- My relationship with the Chiefs is like being robbed at the Dollar Store. It’s terrible and frightening until you realize there’s not really anything they can take from you anymore.
- My relationship with the Chiefs is like watching Batman vs Superman. It’s quite a long process that is mostly painful; partly hilarious in its ineptitude when Lex Luthor-Matt Cassel shows up asking for Jolly Ranchers; but pretty good for those brief moments when Wonder Woman-Jamaal Charles appears to kick ass and chew Amazonian bubble gun.
Hmmm. Pretty good. Let’s see what you guys think:
Ah. I see. Romance analogy it is.
There are times I cannot stand the Chiefs. They can just be the absolute worst. They’re needy, incompetent, sloppy, and generally unable to support themselves. I have to do all the work. I have to wake up and be there on Sundays. I have to invest all my emotions and quite a bit of my money. Don’t give me this nonsense about “you don’t play on the team.” Sir, I am a fan. I am basically the team.
Then there’s the times I just can’t get enough Chiefs. Nobody is nicer, funnier, more entertaining, sexier and genuinely more awesome. The moments this team has given me over the years become moments because despite all the tough times we go through, me and my baby still click. We just get each other, you know?
We have a connection, me and the Chiefs. An unbreakable bond strengthened and forged in the fires of love. Despite my grumbling and complaining, the years have been good to us. So many good memories. You know, like-
Ok, not that, but what about-
Alright, that’s not great, but how ’bout-
…why do I like this team again.
Seriously. I think it’s a fair question. What reason do I have for enjoying nothing but soulless, unending pain?
Year after year, I put myself through this. I accept that life is simply unfair and that I am meant to forever wear a jersey of some guy no one will know 30 years from now and get real excited when it’s 14-0 against the Houston Texans (who have a mascot that looks like an overweight, 40-year old demon wearing face paint) and think, “Yup, this is the year! This year they won’t suck as bad! I can feel it!” only to see the Texans erase this deficit on their way to another triumphant season of winning the worst division in sports with a 5-8-3 record and a $72 million dollar failed surfboard model that calls himself a “quarterback.”
I know who Eddie Kennison is. Do you know who Eddie Kennison is? I do. Because I have no life.
“But what about Tony Gonzalez, the greatest tight end ever? What about Priest and LJ? Trent Green? Dante the Human Joystick?” Congratulations, you remember the little bit of fun we had in 2003. You tasted the good life, but only a sip. You were there when we flew too close to the sun. We got burned, ironically by a man who has to put an inordinate amount of SPF 40 on his forehead.
2003 is not the highlight. It is the tragedy that defines this tragic team. It is my burden.
Eddie Kennison. Sammie Parker. Scott Fujita. Kawika Mitchell. Jamell Fleming. The Rotting Corpse Formerly Known as Dunta Robinson.
Junior Hemingway. Jonathan Baldwin. Mike McGlynn. Jackie Battle.
Damon Huard. The aforementioned Whitest Cassel. Elvis Grbac. Steve Bono. Brodie Croyle. Tyler Thigpen. Tyler F. Palko. TYLER F. PALKO.
I know who these people are. I know them because I was supposed to love them.
But how on earth are you supposed to love something that’s not going to love you back?
I need a drink. I’m getting something from the fridge.
(Gets up, trips over the Internet)
…I…I like that.
Heh. Hehehehe. Hahahahaha. Yes. Yes. More.
YES. YES. MORE. MORE.
AHAHAHAHAHAHAHA MORE MORE!!!!!
COME HERE, BABY. I’M SO SORRY I EVER SAID THOSE THINGS ABOUT YOU.
Alex Smith, sweet naive Alex, never willing to make a mistake to a point where I forget how good you are.
Travis Kelce, lord of the dance, Zeus, the man-beast that puts Gronk to shame on and off the field.
Ware and West. Mitch (both of them) and Big Fish. J-Mac. Conley. The Sausage.
Tyreek. I know the past isn’t great. I also know you’ve been a first-class guy from the moment you came to town, on top of being a first-class playmaker.
And when the lights come on, Tyreek. Ohhhhhhh, Tyreek.
MMMMMMM YEAH BABY THAT’S IT.
Chris Jones, the Big Dawg. Nacho. Zombo. Ramik. Ghost Parker. Dirty Dan. Eric Murray. Steve Nelson.
Terrence Mitchell, the surprise hero. Tamba, the old vet. Dee Ford, the emerging star.
Marcus Peters, the next great shutdown corner. Eric Berry, the purest definition of man and warrior. Justin, the pass rusher that makes you wonder if DT came back for one last run. Hungry Pig.
SNORT IT UP.
I even have room in my heart for you, Demetrius Harris, Albert Wilson and Phil Gaines. It’s not a lot of room, but it’s there.
Ever since Andy Reid and John Dorsey came to town four years ago, Big Red is not just a nickname or a guy with a costume and a Chinese menu. It’s who we are. It’s what we’ve become. Being a Chiefs fan used to be worse than the scarred histories of Cleveland or Detroit, always so close but falling just short. The Chiefs don’t come close. They’re just boring.
Being a Chiefs fan is not boring anymore. It’s not predictable, it’s not orthodox, and it’s not good for my heart. But it’s also not soul-crushing, not joyless, and it’s actually the best heart medication ever.
The epic comebacks against San Diego and Carolina. Ron Parker’s Peanut Punch to beat the Saints. EB’s epic homecoming in Atlanta. The doink in Denver. The Hungry Pig Christmas. Slobberknocking the Raiders when they’re supposed to be good again.
2016 has been the height of a new era of the Kansas City Chiefs, but the last four years all together have been magical. We take for granted what we’re witnessing. And now, with the best offense on a storied franchise coming to the biggest game Arrowhead has hosted in almost 20 years and God himself trying to intervene, waving his Terrible Towel and shaking down ice upon the earth, I’m not worried. I’m not scared. Sunday is not the most terrifying experience of my life.
Well, ok, that’s a lie, it’s absolutely terrifying.
But I also know it’s not the be-all end-all. The Chiefs might win that thing that would have Hank Stram’s name on it if that stupid Lombardi hadn’t coached the greatest team ever. They never win it. They might not.
And at the end of it all, it won’t matter to me. Because the Chiefs have won the battle and the war. The Chiefs aren’t just good, they’re good to me. It’s fun to love the Chiefs again. And what’s the point of being in love if it’s not fun?
Here’s to us, baby. 20 years and still going strong. I wouldn’t want anyone else by my side. See you Sunday.