All lined up, sharing fruit like schoolchildren—one for you, one for me, all friends here.
On stage, smiles and banter flowed freely as the Kansas City Chiefs and Philadelphia Eagles showcased their camaraderie, the atmosphere as warm and cheerful as could be.
For the league, this was ideal—rivals on the field, friends off it. The perfect PR image.
For the journalists? Not so much.
They weren't necessarily hoping for a brawl or shouting match—though if that happened, they'd be the first to cheer it on. But this? This was like a tea party at a sorority house. Delicate pinkies out, sipping tea, trading compliments.
But alas, the NFL wasn't about to let any drama unfold. The moment anyone tried to stir the pot, a squad of security guards—watching like hawks—would immediately shut it down. The official media day had to go off without a hitch.
"Does the Philadelphia Eagles team believe they can win the Super Bowl?"
A single question dropped into the room.
The air froze slightly.
Security hesitated. It wasn't an outright provocation… and the tone wasn't aggressive. The question slipped through.
The Chiefs players all turned right. The Eagles players looked at each other, then all turned to Pederson.
Naturally, the head coach would speak.
But then—unexpectedly—a figure rose to his feet.
"Philly is the champion!"
The Eagles tight end stood tall, both arms raised, declaring victory with passion and swagger. His voice thundered across the hall.
Applause quickly followed, Eagles reporters clapping enthusiastically.
Then, Ertz turned toward the Chiefs. His gaze locked on Andy Reid. Bold. Confrontational.
All eyes shifted, heat radiating, everyone waiting for a response. It was showtime.
Completely unfazed. His expression didn't change in the slightest—serene as a monk, unmoved even by a collapsing mountain.
A fist rose in the air—it was Lance.
"Philly is the champion," he said.
A beat passed, stunned silence. Lance repeated it with solemn intensity.
"Philly is the champion."
Why did that feel so off?
Ertz clearly felt the same way. He stared at Lance like someone dealing with indigestion, unsure whether to laugh or rage.
The atmosphere swirled—until a reporter broke the silence.
"Lance, do you not believe the Chiefs can win the championship?"
Immediately, the temperature spiked.
The entire room turned their attention on Lance, the air buzzing like it was about to crackle. Even Pederson felt the shift.
The vibe was different.
This wasn't a normal question. When it came to Lance, the scrutiny ramped up. You could feel the heat on his skin.
Justin Houston sat up straighter, ready to cut in, but Lance beat him to it.
Calm and composed, the rookie met the fire with a smile.
"No, I don't have confidence. But we will win."
There it was again—that same line.
But the reporters didn't let it go.
"What does that even mean? That's contradictory!"
Still smiling, Lance shrugged. "Sorry, my English isn't very good."
Come on. That's not what they meant.
And now? You could already imagine social media exploding—accusations of racism, claims of attacking an Asian player's language skills. Not a good look. The journalists' image was tanking.
But Lance didn't give them a chance to respond. He flashed a brilliant smile.
"I mean it literally.
"Philly is the champion. We have no confidence. But we will win."
Simple words. Clear gaze.
And yet… there was madness in his eyes.
No one knew who cracked first, but someone burst into laughter watching the journalists get totally stonewalled.
Then laughter rippled outward, growing louder, unstoppable.
Even Foles lowered his head, giggling. Pederson smiled warmly.
He got up and gave Lance a hug. At that point, the press conference was effectively over. The two teams wrapped things up, leaving Ertz awkwardly on stage, his victory shout still stuck in his throat.
Say it? Don't say it?
Later, a reporter noted that when Ertz walked off, he wore a stormy expression like a man you'd be wise not to approach.
Still, after a short break, Ertz returned to his booth smiling again.
"I'm focused on the game. This is the Super Bowl, and I'm ready to give everything I've got."
When Lance entered the hall for solo interviews, the crowd surged like a tidal wave, converging on one point with unstoppable momentum. Dozens deep, they surrounded him.
It wasn't just Asian press. It was the world's press.
One Japanese reporter who'd camped out early at Lance's booth got completely overrun, bewildered, pushed aside—left blinking in confusion.
Usually, thirty reporters crowding a player meant a media frenzy. But now? Lance had over a hundred—maybe two hundred—packed around him, the air buzzing and sizzling.
Neither the Eagles nor the Chiefs had a true superstar. Not even Revis—once nicknamed "King of the Island"—could be considered top-tier anymore. Even the coaches drew more attention than the players.
Which made Lance stand out all the more.
Unparalleled. Supreme.
Just like that, Lance became the sole superstar of Super Bowl LII, effortlessly drawing the spotlight. The NFL didn't need to hype him—his presence alone ignited Minneapolis.
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