A squeak from the PA system startles a Red Sea already anxious.
The stands are looking more red with each passing second.
Seats start to flip up. Some beer spills, though most of it rests safely in a thousand left hands while the right ones are held over a thousand replica jerseys, right over the heart.
Three minutes later, the national anthem concludes, and you can hear “CHIEEEEEEEEEEEEFFFFFFFSSSSSSSS” in a menacing baritone all the way from the Plaza, should you be there, startling you as you sip your latte.
“Humpf,” you would say at your rustic coffee shop, rustling the Christian Science Monitor in your hands, “those animals just can’t control themselves.”
You’d be dead right.
But we are not here to control ourselves.
We are not here to suffer patience any longer. We are not here to anticipate, speculate, or rest in idle.
We are here for football. And we are going to beat the hell out of you.
You didn’t do anything to us. And you probably don’t deserve it.
But we’re not whipping your ass because you deserve it. We’re whipping your ass because we can.
We run crisper routes.
We hit the gap harder.
We block and we receive.
We roll our coverage better.
We pop at the line of attack.
We are more talented, deeper, and better coached. Our organization is run in ways that make well-oiled machines look crusty.
We are bigger, stronger, and faster than you.
We are more rabid. We savage the tea leaves. We devour depth charts and injury reports.
This is Kansas City Chiefs football.
And the wait is over for mayhem to ensue.