"Stop him! Are you all taking a stroll through the gardens of Versailles? Afraid to dirty your skirts? Then get your pampered asses back to the locker room! There's a line of players waiting to play stretching all the way to Cincinnati, and you're letting him trample all over your pretty little behinds?"
"A bunch of damn idiots!"
Lewis couldn't hold back anymore, exploding with fury, his foul-mouthed tirade blaring like a hair dryer. The sixty-year-old coach showed no signs of aging, his face flushed red, spittle flying everywhere, the veins on his neck bulging as if they might burst at any second.
Even after a whole round of swearing, Lewis still wasn't satisfied. He spun around and kicked a nearby water bottle, sending it flying through the air.
Only then did his rage subside, though his chest was still heaving violently.
Across the field, Lewis glared at number 23's figure. So, that rookie dared to use this as a statement of dominance?
The answer? Yes, but also no.
No, because Lance really didn't care about Lewis at all—the taunts, the disrespect, the dismissiveness meant nothing to him.
Yes, because the Kansas City Chiefs, from top to bottom, were sharpening their blades, gearing up, ready to face the Cincinnati Bengals head-on.
How do you bounce back quickly from the crushing pain of a tough loss?
The correct answer is: with unwavering focus and all-out effort, facing the next challenge head-on, using another brutal battle to reclaim confidence.
The Bengals? Perfect timing.
"The Kansas City Chiefs opt for a four-man blitz—completely unexpected!"
"It's working incredibly well! Chris Jones tears through the pocket!"
"Dalton's in danger!"
"Dalton's desperately looking for targets, but he's trapped."
"The Chiefs didn't send everyone—they've got numerical superiority in the short-pass zone, zone coverage mixed with man-to-man is locking down Dalton's targets—he has no one to throw to!"
"Chris Jones completes a remarkable solo sack!"
"The Bengals' offensive line commits a fatal mistake!"
First, the offense. Now, the defense.
The Chiefs came out with an incredible mental state—both sides of the ball firing on all cylinders, smashing the Bengals with overwhelming force. The relentless impact completely stifled Cincinnati.
The Chiefs only sent four, yet destroyed their pocket and sacked him? Getting sacked was bad enough—but that easily? This was a nightmare—how the hell did this happen?
But that was just the beginning.
The Chiefs' defense roared—now it was time for the offense to shine.
"No—a fake run, real pass!"
"Wait, a screen pass?"
"No—it's all misdirection—Mahomes still hasn't thrown!"
"Mahomes looked ready to throw to Kelce—but he pulls it back, keeps moving laterally, evading the protection pocket."
"The Chiefs' offense has crafted a dizzying sequence of plays—the Bengals' defense can't keep up—their entire scheme is falling apart—they're being led around by the nose!"
"Still scanning—still searching for a target."
"The Bengals' defensive line pushes forward, chasing Mahomes."
"Push-off, brake, pivot, deliver."
"A rainbow deep ball—Mahomes fires downfield toward the end zone!"
"It's sudden—the Bengals defense never saw this coming!"
"Downfield—a one-on-one matchup!"
"They're both locked in man coverage, trying to break free."
"Wait—when did Lance get out there? He looks every bit the wide receiver—using his body to box out Bates—the safety's holding his ground."
"Bates is showcasing his defensive skills—keeping tight coverage on Lance—using body positioning to avoid getting burned."
"Bates is doing excellent work."
"A fifty-three-yard deep shot—the target—"
"Bates is trying to break up the pass—"
"But Lance snatches the ball right above Bates' head, ripping it away like snatching meat from a dog's mouth—muscling his way into the end zone—Bates held position, but couldn't stop the touchdown—Lance literally stepped over Bates' face to score!"
"It's a touchdown—a—touchdown…!"
"Touchdown! Touchdown! Touchdown!"
Arrowhead Stadium erupted into a frenzy, unleashing unbelievable energy—fans raising their arms in wild celebration.
In the end zone, Bates gasped for air, face flushed, glaring at Lance—
But Lance? Effortlessly calm, smiling, not even celebrating—just brimming with quiet confidence. He looked fresh as if he hadn't even broken a sweat, already strolling back after scoring, leaving Bates feeling like a panting, useless dog on a scorching summer day.
He was a rookie—Lance only a second-year player—they were both young—but how the hell was the gap this wide?
Bates couldn't believe it—he got thoroughly beat in a one-on-one, Lance made it look easy.
Lance noticed Bates' frustration, casually tossed him the ball.
Completely baffled, Bates reflexively caught the ball—still confused, when Lance stepped up and patted him on the shoulder—
Like comforting a little puppy.
Rookie—don't lose hope. The future belongs to the young!
Bates, bewildered, stared at the ball, then at Lance's number 23 fading into the crowd—wait… was Lance encouraging him?
Hey! Who needs your pity? What the hell was that "Good job, keep trying, kiddo" look? You need encouragement! Your whole damn family needs encouragement!
Bates couldn't even form words—watching Lance swarmed by his celebrating teammates, the words caught in his throat, nearly choking.
Steelers' receiver JuJu: Heh, finally someone understands my pain.
Bates looked at the ball in his hands, then slammed it down in frustration.
Arrowhead's crowd had seen it all—they weren't like those vicious hypocrites at Gillette Stadium—these fans smiled kindly, clapped in encouragement, shaking hands, cheering for Bates sympathetically.
"Don't get discouraged, kid—you were up against the rookie! Keep grinding—you'll catch up to him soon."
In that moment, Bates couldn't even tell which was worse—the fake kindness… or facing a hostile, venomous road crowd.
Bates: Existential crisis activated.
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