บท 181: Small Town Stories
At first mention, people often assume Kansas City is in Kansas. In reality, it straddles the border between Kansas and Missouri, but administratively, it belongs to Missouri.
Like Tuscaloosa, it's a quintessential Midwestern town. Only one state, Tennessee, separates Missouri from Alabama. Kansas City exudes tranquility, vastness, and timelessness—free from the bustling chaos of the East and West Coasts. Its economy centers on agriculture and industry, and the city itself is home to a modest population of just 650,000 people.
It's more of a town than a city.
As far as sports markets go, Kansas City can't compare to metropolises like New York or Los Angeles. Nor does it boast the storied history or mystique of smaller markets like Green Bay. In fact, even within Missouri, Kansas City isn't the primary choice for professional sports teams.
Leagues like the NHL, MLB, and MLS all chose St. Louis as their base of operations. Even the NFL's St. Louis Rams followed this trend, relocating from Los Angeles to St. Louis in 1995 before returning to Los Angeles in 2015.
The reason? Big market opportunities in LA.
It's this backdrop that makes the Kansas City Chiefs' permanence so remarkable. Originally founded in Dallas in 1959, the team moved to Kansas City in 1963 and never looked back.
The 2008 financial crisis struck Kansas City hard. The city's economic infrastructure crumbled, unemployment soared, and its future seemed bleak. During this dark period, the Chiefs became more than just a football team—they were the city's beacon of hope, its guiding light out of the darkness.
On game days, the city of 650,000 transforms. Streets empty as the entire town flocks to Arrowhead Stadium, turning the event into a festival. Like Tuscaloosa, Kansas City is filled with down-to-earth, genuine people whose unwavering passion supports their team through thick and thin.
Serene.
That was Lance's first impression of Kansas City.
Driving from Tuscaloosa to Kansas City, Lance could have opted for a flight, but he chose a road trip instead. It was a symbolic farewell to his college years, a journey into a new chapter of life.
The 10-hour drive stretched over three days, offering him time to soak in the sights. Low-rise homes, open fields of wheat and corn stretching endlessly, azure skies that seemed within reach, and clouds like cotton candy painted a watercolor of pastoral beauty under golden sunlight.
And then—
Clunk.
Clunk-clunk-clunk.
The car engine sputtered in protest. Lance quickly pulled over, not even getting the chance to turn off the ignition before a loud cracking noise erupted under the hood. Just as he began to panic, wondering if the engine might explode, the chaos subsided into eerie silence.
He stepped out to inspect the situation, but the hood was scalding hot—clearly, something was very wrong.
Back in the car, Lance grabbed his phone to call roadside assistance. He tapped the screen several times…
No response.
The phone was dead.
Lance stood by the roadside, dumbfounded, and let out a wry laugh. Alone in unfamiliar territory with no means of communication—what now?
Taxis? Not an option.
In a town like Kansas City, where nearly everyone owns a car (and probably more than one), taxis are scarce. Hailing one on the street is a near-impossible task; you'd need to call a company to arrange a pickup.
He considered hitchhiking to the Chiefs' training facility and coming back for his car later.
Looking around, Lance noticed a bar across the street.
"The Old Oak Tavern."
Bars usually have phones—either landlines or chargers. Someone might even be able to help him call for a tow.
Creak.
Pushing open the weathered red door, Lance stepped into the bar. Directly in front of him was a counter where a man with greasy hair faced away from the entrance, grumbling loudly to no one in particular.
"Yeah, yeah, those big-shot suits always think they know better than us. They've got all their secret plans, huh? So drafting two running backs—that's their genius idea?"
"And let's be honest—running backs are the cheapest commodity in the league right now. But no, let's burn a third overall pick on a rookie who's only played one year of football. Brilliant strategy. Just brilliant."
The man's voice dripped with sarcasm.
At the other end of the bar, a buzz-cut man spread his hands. "Oh, come on, Chris. At least the kid won the Heisman Trophy."
The greasy-haired man let out a derisive snort. "Oh, yeah, sure. So now we're pinning all our Super Bowl hopes on this Heisman-winning rookie? Can't wait to see that." His tone was drenched in mockery.
Lance felt a twinge of awkwardness.
The bar was clearly a haven for Kansas City Chiefs fans—Chiefs memorabilia adorned every wall, including framed jerseys that traced the team's history over the decades.
Lance hesitated. Should he inform "Chris" that the subject of his ridicule was standing right there? Perhaps they could have a more direct conversation?
Before he could decide, he was interrupted.
"Do you even love me?"
A sharp cry silenced the bar.
All eyes turned to a booth where a man in a floral shirt was standing, seemingly ready to leave. Across the table, a black-haired woman pleaded with him, her voice quivering with heartbreak. Her tear-filled eyes fixed on his back.
"Three years. Not once did you tell me you loved me. So tell me—do you love her? Did you ever say 'I love you' to her?"
The man in the floral shirt stopped in his tracks. Slowly, he turned back to face her.
Then, striding over, he stood directly in front of her and declared, "I loved you."
"I loved the girl who dreamed of becoming a baker. The girl who visited every bakery in Kansas City to find the best cakes. The girl who smelled of flour and cream. But that love—ended long ago."
Splash.
A glass of water hit the man square in the face, cutting off his dramatic monologue.
A blonde woman, seated in the corner of the booth, stood up and positioned herself protectively in front of the black-haired woman. Her expression was icy as she stared down the man.
"Bullshit."
"For three years, you freeloaded off Jenny—eating her food, spending her money. She worked herself to the bone to save for her bakery, while you used her credit card to party and even book motel rooms with other women."
"And you dare talk about love? The only thing you loved was Jenny's bank account."
Her words landed like punches.
The man clenched his fists, his face contorting with rage. The air grew thick with tension, and it seemed he was ready to swing.
Danger loomed.
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Powerstones?
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