For 26 years, I watched the Kansas City Chiefs lose in the biggest spots. Then, in a four-week span, everything changed forever.
The Kansas City Chiefs are Super Bowl champions. Let that sink in. Forever.
I don’t often get to write from a fan’s perspective, so forgive me for dropping in like this. Hopefully the esteemed Matt Conner will understand. Sometimes, a moment demands our testimony. I needed a week to get my head together for this one.
Back to the Chiefs. The world-champion Chiefs.
It’s early Sunday afternoon, the day of Super Bowl LIV.
I’m in my Miami hotel room looking into the courtyard. Palm trees, a slight breeze and nothing but sunny skies. A day meant for football. I’m thinking about the decades gone by. I think about how I’ll feel six hours from now as the national anthem is sung with me in the press box. What will I be thinking then?
Ultimately, what would the Chiefs winning a championship mean to me?
The answer is relatively simple. From a proper perspective, it would be a great memory. The Chiefs have been my team since I was five years old in 1993. They’ve been a lifetime passion shared intensely with my father. We talk for hours every Sunday, myself in Chicago and he in New York.
It would mean the world as a fan.
As a husband and father, it would be an amazing moment. However, if Kansas City loses, the sun will rise on Monday morning. I’ll fly home and kiss my wife, hug my daughter, and life will be no different once the sting subsides.
As a 31-year-old man, it would be gratifying but not necessary.
The Chiefs are down 20-10. Patrick Mahomes has been intercepted in the red zone with 12 minutes remaining.
I harken back to the conversation I had with myself hours earlier, looking at those palm trees. If Kansas City loses, the sun will rise on Monday morning. I’ll fly home and kiss my wife, hug my daughter, and life will be no different once the sting subsides.
The Chiefs get a stop. Eight minutes left. Third and 15. Touchdown. Another stop. Another score.
Oh my God.
During the TV timeout after Damien Williams‘ touchdown for Kansas City’s 24-20 lead, I’m doing everything imaginable to keep composed. After all, I’m FanSided’s NFL reporter. I take my job seriously. I’ve never hidden my fandom, but there’s no emotion in the press box. Be professional.
I’m keeping myself in check externally. Internally, I’m dying.
Emmanuel Sanders is running free. He’s running right at me. Rashad Fenton and Charvarius Ward are in furious pursuit. It’s futile. A good throw and Sanders has it. It’s not a good throw. A minute later, Frank Clark is draped on Jimmy Garoppolo. Chiefs ball.
Another TV timeout. Now it’s feeling real. One more first down and it’s over.
I lied all afternoon to myself. I’m now realizing it was a defense mechanism. If the Chiefs lose this game, especially now, I’ll be crushed. I can’t imagine what the pain would be like.
Please, Kansas City, not like this. Just one time, come through.
Second down and six from the San Francisco 38-yard line. I’m located in the opposite end zone, getting the view a fullback would have. Speaking of fullbacks, Anthony Sherman gets the block of a lifetime on 49ers linebacker Kwon Alexander. Williams is around the edge and down the sideline.
For the rest of my life, I’ll never forget the sight of Williams disappearing into the darkness.
Touchdown.
Minutes later, the confetti started raining down. The Chiefs poured onto the field. Travis Kelce threw his helmet a mile high in celebration.
Fifty years of losing was superseded by eight minutes of the legendary.
I had the answer to my question. What would it mean?
More than I could have dreamed.
It meant all the years of pain was worth it. Lin Elliott. Steve Bono. Elvis Grbac. The No Punt Game. Scott Pioli. 38-10. Two touchdowns to none. Marcus Mariota‘s touchdown pass to himself. Dee Ford.
In fact, the pain is essential. Without it there would be no pleasure. The journey sets the stage for elation. Our perfect day is impossible to understand without comparison to our worst.
Walking out of Hard Rock Stadium in the early hours of Monday morning, I made a phone call. I called my dad.
A man normally in bed by 10 was wide awake at 1 a.m. The Chiefs had done it. Dad couldn’t risk going to bed. What if this was all some fantastic dream?
We talked. We congratulated. We shared our favorite moments. We realized they are ours for all time.
The Kansas City Chiefs are Super Bowl champions. May that sentence never get old to write.