On Feb. 9, 95% of NFL fans and 100% of anti-Swifties rejoiced as the Philadelphia Eagles comprehensively defeated the Kansas City Chiefs, 40-22, in Super Bowl LIX. For my fellow Kansas Citians, these were four of the most miserable hours of our lives. So strong was my misery that I remarked to my friend sitting next to me that “This was the first sporting event where I have felt no joy at any point.”
I’m assuming most people are reading this only to revel in the misery Chiefs fans are “deservingly” experiencing. If this described reader is you, you sick bastard, and that’s too bad, because, frankly, I don’t care. Would I have preferred we won? Yes. Was I sad during and after the game? Yes. But I cannot write this article even pretending I had the same emotional investment watching this game as I did the past four Super Bowls the Chiefs have played in since 2020. I have been able to legally drink alcohol for less than two months, yet I have seen my hometown team win three Super Bowls — there are Vikings and Bills fans born before the Vietnam War who have seen zero.
I’m allowed to be upset following the loss, I understand that. But I am also in no position to dwell on the fact that the Chiefs couldn’t achieve the “three-peat” and have had to settle for three Super Bowls in five years. Patrick Mahomes getting sacked every play ruined my night but did not even ruin my day, and certainly won’t ruin my year. Perhaps you will say I’m only a casual Chiefs fan — you’re wrong — or that I’m simply coping with the loss — you’d be correct — I’m writing a Mess article about this for God’s sake. Oh well. At least Kendrick Lamar delivered.
