In just a year, it all feels so vivid, yet so dreamlike. In random monts of daily life, a sense of disbelief creeps in—did all of this really happen? But every ti they confirm again, "The Kansas City Chiefs are the defending champions," a smile inevitably spreads across their faces, and the taste of happiness returns.
Maybe to outsiders, the Super Bowl was eight months ago, and it's a little crazy for this city to still be basking in championship glory.
But West would say—that's because they don't live in Kansas City.
"These past few years, the whole city has been struggling. It's like we've been hit by an invisible storm—shuttered factories, crumbling neighborhoods, mass unemploynt, and young people forced to leave just to survive."
"It's been a cloud, a gloom hanging over us."
"If soone asked how Kansas City was doing, I would've said it's a disaster. Don't co here. We were all worried we'd beco the next Detroit."
West noticed Lance's surprise and gave a bitter smile.
"Yes, it was that bad."
Detroit, once a proud automotive powerhouse, declared bankruptcy in 2014—the largest municipal bankruptcy in U.S. history. The city was taken over by federal managent.
Even the Detroit Lions, the NFL team, have long teetered on the edge of collapse.
Who would've thought Kansas City faced a similar downturn?
Even now, the economic situation in Kansas City remains dire. High unemploynt casts a long shadow over the entire city.
West took a deep breath.
"This is a blue-collar town, filled with workers."
"We're not geniuses. We're not gifted. We work with our hands, live simply and honestly. We couldn't keep up with the internet economy. We just try to live, without big dreams or ambitions. Just… live."
"But when the factories go under, people lose their way."
"This city has fought through adversity and suffered so much. These people don't deserve that."
"Football is the only thing we really have. It gives us the strength to keep going."
"If we win, Monday doesn't feel so bad. You see smiling faces. You catch a sliver of sunlight through the clouds."
"But if we lose… things get harder."
West paused.
He looked at Lance, a little sheepish. "Sorry. We don't really have any other kind of entertainnt."
Lance shrugged. "Hey, you're talking about my job. A little respect, please?"
"Ha!" West couldn't hold it back. "Hahaha." The laughter just spilled out.
West had worried about piling too much pressure on Lance. These second- and third-year guys were already under enough scrutiny and expectation. He shouldn't be placing the hopes of an entire city on his shoulders.
But now, he could see—there's a reason Lance is who he is.
He relaxed a bit.
"Football, to us, isn't just football."
"I know you've never been to the Old Oak Tavern on ga day. You've got your job to do—God, what am I saying? I hope you never get the chance to see it on a ga day."
"But…"
"It's always packed. Every single ga day. No exceptions."
"To us, football isn't just a ga. From early morning, we gather at the bar, crack jokes, build anticipation—all the way through the ga and after."
"It's not just drinking and partying. It's a group of old friends coming together. People need soone to lean on, soone to listen to their problems. You feel like you belong, like you're part of sothing."
"My parents were regulars. I still rember the first ti I ca here after a ga with them. We won."
"September 20, 1993. Ho opener against the Denver Broncos. Score: 7–15. We won."
"I was five. Picture this: holding my dad's hand, walking through the tavern doors. The jukebox blasting, people singing, raising their glasses, hugging—soone even dancing in the middle. That mont is burned into my brain."
"That's when I fell in love with this place."
With just a few words, West painted a vivid picture in Lance's mind.
Lance had never experienced it, but he could imagine it—just like football in England, Spain, or Germany, in North Arica, football is woven into the fabric of the community. It's far more than a ga.
"In my mory, the Old Oak Tavern only closed once in twenty-five years—when Old Anderson fell at ho. David had to rush over. Later, Anderson was diagnosed with Alzheir's… and then…"
"Anyway, it's been open ever since. Not even Christmas is an exception. Open year-round."
"People always say, 'Hey, it's just a ga. Don't take it so seriously.' But it's not. It's not just a ga. It's part of our lives."
As he spoke, West beca more animated, his whole face glowing with passion.
"I still rember the first ti my parents took to Arrowhead Stadium. The sea of crimson rolling across the stands. All those joyful faces."
"After my father passed, my mom never went back. Too many mories. Their first date. The proposal. God, can you imagine—he proposed at Arrowhead? Haha, but he did. He really did."
"And ? Sa thing. Ti doesn't matter to . What matters are the gas, the stadium, those mories."
"I fell in love for the first ti on November 28, 2004. We were crushed by San Diego and lost our playoff hopes. I t her right here, at the Old Oak Tavern. She was cursing alongside . I still rember her black jeans under her jersey."
"But I didn't have the courage to ask her out—until December 25. Christmas Day. We beat Oakland. Outside Arrowhead, I finally asked if she'd go to a movie with . She said yes."
A smile crept across his face, full of joy.
There's a saying in the world of soccer: "Football is not a matter of life and death; it's more important than that." The sa goes for football here.
It's not that football is greater than life itself—but rather, it's a part of life. Births, deaths, and everything in between—football, teams, the stadium—it's all intertwined, adding weight and warmth to existence.
Whether joy or sorrow, football is inseparable.
We all must face death, but the life, the mories, the stories tied to football and the team—those never fade.
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Powerstones?
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