Tradition Tuesday: Tradition Week Matchups Re-Cap, The Year 2002

The rough focus of this blog is the rivalry between the Denver Broncos and the Kansas City Chiefs, but the details surrounding that have been beat into the ground more often than NBA players travel, so let's cut the bullshit.

Two thousand two was, in many ways, a monumental year, The Tradition not excepted. It would perhaps arm Old No. 7 with the mental ammunition necessary to hone his poor-man's Photoshop skills, and win the battle in which we engaged in the creation of this post. More importantly, it would tilt the evened-out, home-field advantage for years to come, damage that only compounds more with sweeps like last year's. Bear with me as I break stuff and sniffle.

A hearty caravan made the drive to KC in October 2002, and the participants included Old No. 7, his kid brother Young No. 19, and the ever-elusive Mayor McVesco. And rest assured, good times were had. On game-day eve, after the Coloradoans went a-golfing while I garage-saled it, the lot of us went to an Irish bar and drank, and watched some sort of epic Red Sox game that I'm not going to research. Prior to that segment of the evening, we visited a dive bar where the nutjob girl I was dating at the time was being paid to "sing," lending way to the now-irrelevant phrase "panic attacks and lounge singers."

It was at the pub, however, while watching baseball in the October, that we thoroughly exhausted tubgirl stories (Editor's Note: Wow.) and nearly died driving home due to uncontrolled laughter. The next day was an epic day at the stadium, complete with a Chiefs doll boofing a Broncos doll on top of an RV, ribs, separated, cell phoneless ticket shoppers in our group, and a lot of beer.

There was also a mulleted man (that in between alcohol-induced naps screamed "I smell donkey doo!"), his five-tier-mullet-boasting wife, and a football game. It was also the first, and perhaps the most blood-boiling occasion in which I was graced with the stellar "In-Com-Plete!" at Arrowhead by visiting fans. On the field, however, there were Tony Richardsons, Ed McCaffreys, Brian Grieses, Ashley Lelies, etc., the typical good and bad from both sides. There was also a Shannon Sharpe, who netted something stupid like 12 catches, 214 yards and a pair of touchdowns, I believe. And one of the clowns with me was likely donning #84 for the contest.

For the second year in a row, the match would not be decided in four quarters alone, and for the second KC-Denver overtime game in a row, the toss-winning club would punt on first possession. The Chiefs, of course, not only couldn't capitalize on the ensuing drive, but had their punt blocked, setting up a short Jason Elam game-winning field goal. Broncos 37, Chiefs 34.

The mix of post-game emotions varied in levels of intensity, but they all turned back to some form of slap-happy as we made our inaugural visit to Popeye's Chicken for game-night dinner. We made quite a spectacle -- one red jersey, three blue -- and the lady behind the counter suggested I acquire one that match those of my buddies. Two gentlemen in line ahead of us then castigated her for not supporting the hometown team, and her reply was the now-famous, "First of all, I don't even like red." Moments later, when she placed the gents' bag of food on the counter, they would counter with, "Is that my food? Throw it in the trash, and make it again."

I'm certain that, while watching Prime Time and the evening game, that we each passed out with red beans, rice, and cajun-ham gravy on our shirts and laps. It was a solid day.

Part two of the '02 Tradition was far less exciting. My father had passed away in June, and it was easy for me to host while mismanaging my money and drinking to excess. When it came time to load the car and head to Denver in December, though, things looked shaky at best, and I bowed out at the last minute. I did, however, watch the game in my bedroom with the same drunk, lounge-singing girlfriend, who, by the way gave me terrible gifts like a copy of the DVD "Serendipity" -- I owned nothing but VHS tapes and didn't much care for lame Sandra Bullock movies -- or a copy of some James freaking Patterson novel that had cover art that screamed chick lit.

To this day, I'm not sure which aspect of the evening was more depressing: spending it with her, cooped up in my room drinking Miller Lite cans and not hanging with the boys in Colorado, or the game itself. The Chiefs fell behind early, but somehow staged a rally, which is pretty much the only time that's happened in Denver since the days of the old Mile High. As the game clock ticked away late in the fourth, a slew of penalties were handed out to both clubs, and ultimately a game-tying touchdown from Trent Green to Tony Gonzalez hit the ground, and the Chiefs lost 31-24. That Green-to-Gonzalez pass, though one of many over the years, travled in the slowest of motions I have ever witnessed as a sports fan. And the Chiefs were on the Denver 15, too, so it wasn't like a Hail Mary.

I remember feeling bummed that I wasn't there, elated at the possibility of the tie, eager for revenge from the home game, and then flutteringly glad that I'd decided not to go.

So, Bummersville, kind of, all around on the Denver side of the '02 Tradition front, but remarkable memories for both sides for the game in Kansas City. Either way, it was a season to remember, the second of many campaigns in which we have lived and died with our teams, dressed to the nines in enemy territory.