Two years ago, if you were enough of a sadist, you could pick any of the peculiar calls levied against an opponent of the Chiefs and gently suggest that this was all part of a grand conspiracy to get the Taylor Swift–attached franchise deeper into the playoffs.
Like hurling a pine cone at a beehive, the immediate result was both expected and totally surprising in its totality. The minute you thought the stinging couldn’t possibly go on, there was a grandmother from Overland Park whose social media bio said “TREAT OTHERS KINDLY” telling you to take a long walk off a short pier.
From the perspective of the pine cone thrower it was all in good sport, but I’ve gained a new appreciation for the beehive, or fans of any franchise that has had the narrative beauty of a team’s magical run tainted by our understandable nature to turn any surprising world event into a conspiracy of global power, money, and/or politics.
Despite covering World Cup games for Sports Illustrated, I cannot deny enjoying this iteration of the United States men’s soccer team. I took my 18-month-old to the bar to watch America beat Australia while she ate free pretzels in a plastic Michelob cup (father of the year?) and chanted U-S-A with the rest of the patrons. I met up with one of my best friends to watch the Bosnia and Herzegovina matchup, with the two of us marveling at the Russell Crowe–like aura of our Argentinian head coach Mauricio Pochettino.
It all blended into what I felt was a kind of beautiful American fever dream. People visiting this country and loving our ranch dressing and absurdly large wholesale retail stores. People driving four hours just to try a Taylor ham, egg and cheese sandwich on a bagel (worth it). I forget where I saw this exactly, but the idea that, If you want to love America you can visit here, and if you want to hate us you can just watch the news stuck with me. We’re really not the expletives many people might think, you know?
So, you can see where the writer in me got swept up in the idea that the World Cup was a cleansing rain of sorts over a fraught time in the country’s history, and how a group of young Americans of all different backgrounds and origin stories led by an Argentinian who had adopted our custom of singing random songs like “Take Me Home, Country Roads” after games felt like the Disney-flavored antibiotic we all needed.
I even thought this as Folarin Balogun was sent off with a red card on Wednesday. It fit. Bad call from this global organization with a history of confounding decisions? We’ll overcome it. That’s part of the classic hero’s journey. Then, Balogun returns a match later to score a game-winner and propel us into the finals. Air Force jets fly overhead. A dozen baby bald eagles hatch at once and soar across the landscape. Prince and Jimi Hendrix reanimate to collaborate on a new guitar-only version of the national anthem.
But instead, our president may or may not have called FIFA, gotten Balogun reinstated without much of an explanation and littered our peaceful landscape with people who sound an awful lot like Chiefs fans urging people to COPE HARDER. I’m a little surprised, honestly, at the reaction by a lot of my colleagues who suggested that FIFA is always corrupt and that we should not feel any sort of way for accepting the corruption. That Belgium, a country about 31 times smaller than the United States—and the USMNT’s round of 16 opponent Monday night—is somehow just proving to be afraid of our awesomeness by appealing the decision. This feels like rooting for hedge fund owners during the AMC scandal. Since when did we celebrate having enough power to alter the chess board instead of our 250-year-old default setting, which was to accept the disadvantages at hand, raise a middle finger and press onward? It’s so much more fun being David, folks.
I know Chiefs fans have made it to this point in the column feeling as though they have caught an unbelievable stray and that the Taylor Swift controversy was far less believable than the president calling FIFA (mostly because the president admitted to calling FIFA). Point taken and point given, but the underlying idea that this run now feels tainted, much like it may have for Chiefs fans who are endlessly subjected to poorly filmed, Zapruder-style Reels breaking down hard-to-explain pass interference calls, tainting the entire experience.
I think about the version of us that people fell in love with here and in person. Instantly, we are becoming the ones you see on the news. Chest-thumping. False equivalance-ing. Whatabout-ing. We are Chiefs fans, forced to reconcile with the fact that our own Cinderella story—at least mine—is, to the rest of the universe with eyes, ears and a brain, more like The Big Short.
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