Think watching the Jets open the season like an 8th-grade team was painful? Try being at Arrowhead Stadium in a Jets T-shirt.
Old-school gangsta rap videos depict safer scenes.
For the most part, Midwesterns seem very friendly. They're outgoing and genuinely nice, something New Yorkers too often are not. We met some lovely people at Arrowhead.
Alas, as with everything in life, there are some outliers. The proverbial bad apples.
Once some of them don their Chiefs clothing, they kick old people, spit on babies and burn Hallmark cards.
One Chiefs fan infiltrated our tailgate using his well-endowed lady friend. He begged to use the port-a-pottie we had at our tailgate tent. Several minutes later, he walks out smiling. After dropping a bomb, he drops, “I left you a Kansas City baby arm.”
Right there, we should have known all the J-E-T-S, Jets! Jets! Jets! chants would not help our team win.
Chad Pennington fumbled more footballs than was thought to be humanly possible. Laveraneus Coles dropped a clear touchdown pass, then for an encore, dropped another one on the very next play.
When the Chiefs took a 14-0 lead, a man resembling a swollen gummi bear turned toward myself, Restaurant friend Rob (rocking his green Vilma jersey) and the 10 others in our crew. He began talking some smack, which is his right, especially with his Chiefs hammering our Jets.
Our collective manhood insulted, we rose to defense of our team. (At this point in the game, there was still some hope.) We instantly began the “6 and 10! 6 and 10!” chant, reminding this wannabe truck driver of his team’s record last season. That shut him up quickly.
“It must suck to be a Jets fan!” one fan yelled down toward us. Mind you, we were in row 38, two rows from the top of Arrowhead, so this fan had worse seats than us.
“Yeah, it kinda does,” I responded, hoping such a verbal concession would spare the lives of my friends.
But the madness would not end. The Jets would bring us no joy. The Chiefs fans would remind us of such with each Kansas City Chiefs first down. The stadium announcer was also kind enough to advise us of each first down with the most annoying stadium-fan gimmick in the history of stadium-fan gimmicks.
The only thing that dulled pain was karate-chopping Party promoter friend Jann in the leg every time the fans signaled and screamed first down. Why? We're not sure. But it worked for everyone but Party promoter friend Jann.
The Jets forced us to play defense for three hours and play up the obnoxious New York stereotype Chiefs fans expected.
The combination of domination, heat and plenty of alcohol had Chiefs fans feeling on top of the world. (Note: Row 38 at Arrowhead is about 12 feet shy of outer space.)
A young lady sitting behind got a little uppity in her fandom. I offered her my phone number. Hey, she was cute. Of course, I followed that with, “Will you promise to call me in January when the Chiefs don’t make the playoffs?”
She left shortly thereafter.
A number of grody Midwesterners offered the “J-E-T-S Suck! Suck! Suck!” chant in our direction. Despite the veracity of such a statement on this particular afternoon, every self-respecting fan has his breaking point. This was it for me.
“You still live here! You still live here!” I responded.
That shut them up quickly.
I’m not proud of resorting to perceived geographic superiority, but I could use the “excited utterance” defense in court and walk away scot-free like the young Henry Hill in “Goodfellas.”
Giants fan Brown was even more out of hand with the geography cheap shots, but decorum prevents publication of such comments.
The highlight of the game came when the Chiefs offense drew itself offside with a hard count. On fourth-and-inches deep in Jets territory, two Chiefs jumped early for the false start. A field goal ensued, instead of four more downs to score another touchdown against the sieve the Jets called a defense.
Restaurant friend Rob took that play to heart for it was he who fell for the hard count twice the night before. Driving from St. Louis in a pimped-out limo bus that would make Luther Campbell jealous, we decided a football game was necessary.
Short-yardage specialist friend Pete executed the hard count with John Elway-like precision. Restaurant friend Rob fell for it both times, due in part to his Vilma-like intensity on defense, my Buckingham Palace guard-like stillness at center, and New-to-the-group friend Disco's growing reputation as a rampaging beast on the left side of the line.
Oh, by the way, the bus was traveling at roughly 70 mph during this game. Short-yardage specialist friend Pete never fumbled.
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General rule of thumb: Never turn off a football game when the Jets are involved. Regardless of the score, you almost never know who's going to win. And you're guaranteed to have a better-than-average chance of seeing something you've never seen before in football.
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