Tradition Tuesday: Tradition Week Matchups Recap, the Year 2004

The rough focus of this blog is pee-wee football. Just because these kids have Chiefs and Broncos helmets on means nothing to us. Occasionally, over the last eight years, the scribes that call this House home, have attended a professional contest or two between the Kansas City Chiefs and Denver Bronocs of NFL-status. Sometimes, the players on the field are that small because our seats are that bad. Sometimes, we can trace the vulvi of Chiefs cheerleaders because our seats are that good. Most of the time, the contest on the field is really bad. Like Cameron Frye in "Ferris Bueller's Day Off," however, we sit in our cheap cars and bash our heads on the steering wheels murmuring "I'll go, I'll go, I'll go..." It's a hoot and six hollers in either stadium.

We've already been graced with one installment of TT today, and every third Tuesday of months that start with 's,' we throw up two. Today is that day.

The year 2004 was Spack-tacular in Tradition terms. By that I mean that, as usual, the road team lost, visiting HoG clans were bummed in each stadium, and everyone got flippin' hammered. The NFL schedule makers graced us with a gift on Kickoff Weekend, as Denver hosted Kansas City on Sunday night to open up the season. I matriculated to the Mile-High city with my girlfriend -- who, for good measure, I later wed and still call my wife -- and 'twas there that we greeted Old No. 7, and 76 of his closest Bronco fans. I might take this opportunity to mention that he had matriculated from a six-hour distance in a 24-foot moving van that was loaded with an entertainment center, two couches, a television, three barbecue grills, a few lockers packed with meast marinated with various rubs and oils, and a portable liquor store to make any Berbiglia owner jealous. There was of course a generator to run this getup, and there was of course Mayor McVesco's lone chore of procuring fuel for said generator, and there was of course the mayor's failure to do so, but that's a different story for some other post. There was also our then-difficult chore of procuring permission from Cecil's wife for Cecil to come out and play for a few hours, at which we succeeded. There was also a certain ticket fiasco including regular seats, obstructed-view seats, and seats that the InVesCos thought we'd forged, but digressions...

In the parking lot, there was consumption of aforementioned measts and spirits, and a lot of talk about Quentin Griffin. I, of course, sated with spirits, said "Fuck that clown." I later said "Oops."

In the stadium, the Chiefs, with the likes of Priest Holmes, Tony Gonzalez, Eddie Kennison, Johnnie Morton, and Trent Green, matriculated down the field and scored a touchdown on their first drive. No. That is not a typo. The Chiefs actually scored a touchdown on their first drive. This of course was back in an age where the Chiefs still knew how to play tackle football.

The Denver side of the ball included some Jake Plummers, some Garrison Hearsts, some Reuben Droughnses, and the aforementioned Griffin. Jason Elam was there. He kicked a field goal to make it 7-3. In the second quarter, Mr. Griffin, who I might add, did in fact for a short time cross over, scored two touchdowns in the second quarter, while the Chiefs were content on fine-tuning their punting skills, 17-7 Denver. Elsewhere in the quarter, John Lynch made an appearance with a token personal foul, more punts happened, and the Chiefs' Lawrence Tynes failed to split the uprights.

After the break, Plummer showed fans that, like Green, he too can throw interceptions, and Tynes added three to the score, 17-10. Plummer then throws another pick, and Holmes finds the end zone, tie game. Ensuing possession, Griffin goes nuts again: touchdown. Priest Holmes says he can do that too: touchdown. It's 24 all, one of the better contests (to this point) in Tradition history. That takes us to the fourth quarter where Elam booted another three, Plummer threw a touchdown pass, and that was pretty much it. Denver takes a tight game, 34-24, and the crew wearily makes its way back to the Mayflower, to find Seven's kid brother, and some homeless guy named the Catfish, passed out on the matriculated couches. Turns out the InVesCo box office had made a faux paus, and printed two copies of the same ticket, or some bullshit, in which they assumed that young Seven had forged something, and there were some ejections. Lucky for all involved, the yoot can really handle his liquor, especially when it's in the form of liters and liters of straight vodka. Family feud, kid brother storms off, older brother almost gets in fight with several large, line-cutting men as we wait for taxis in our plan to abandon the Mayflower for the night, and kid brother makes off with all of elder's American currency. Happily angry, I might add. It was quite the evening.

The Kansas City game was, as it seemed to have been for many years, in December. And I'll note, for those of you that haven't had the privilege, December in Kansas City can occasionally be a touch chilly. Like 12 below.

Either way, the game fell on my 30th birthday, or there about. On this weekend, Seven was the lone member of the House to matriculate out to Kansas City, and unbeknownst to the both of us, my wife had been planning (for some lengthy amount of time) a surprise party. I traditionally don't care about my birthday. I almost always work on it, unless it falls on Tradition Weekend, in which case I take six weeks off for livercide, and the ensuing recovery. I had attempted to acquire some tickets for KU basketball, and my wife secretly contacted my sources to tell them to tell me there were none to be had. It was odd, given that both had all but guaranteed them. And her efforts of course came after she had broken into my e-mails and cell phones for party-planning purposes.



Game Day eve, I want to take Seven to the Negro Leagues Baseball Museum, which I'm sure my wife thought was code for cocaine-hooker parties, and we argued over time departures and arrivals to the point that I didn't even want to speak to her anymore, because she wanted to take me out to dinner, regardless of our out-of-town visitor. I was not a fan, and thusly invited Seven to join. He accepted, then backed out, which was also odd. Nevertheless, there was a massive party, I was surprised, and everyone got good and liquored up. So much so, that we woke up late for stadium departure, and Seven, via his bowels, did permanent damage to our plumbing. Insert the ingenius idea of coffee and McDonald's breakfast for our drive to Arrowhead, and by the time we've parked, my bowels are pressing hard for some tenant eviction. The nearest Johnny had 12 -- yes, 12 -- women in line in front of me, and they all had 47 layers of clothing on. How I did not soil my game-day drawers that morning is still a mystery.

Our tailgate party looked like this: two guys, six tickets, four hands too cold to even hold beers. We went in. At the concession stand, Seven, in his non-library, Asian-impersonating voice, announced to the all-Asian all-star vending team that he'd really like some hot sake. Awkward...

"Beer, then," he said. The Asian point guard repeatedly pulled each beer tap to demonstrate that there was no malt beverage flowing; they were all frozen. We moved to a portable stand, and stood in line, in the shade, for easily 15 minutes before discovering that the guy two spots in front of us has wiped the all-Asian AAA team out of tall boy cans. An Asian power forward is dispensed to locate more. Mind you, these are all women with plastic gloves on their hands, and they are all also, very cold, but unaware of the concept of quick movement being synonymous with blood flow and higher body temperatures.

When she returns, priority one becomes to stock the cooler with the practically frozen cans of beer. The guy in front of us gently hints that they might be slightly chilled already. Her gloved fingers, however, are too numb to open them, and guy in front of us goes behind the stand and (somewhat postally) opens roughly 37 Miller Lites to expedite the process. We get to our seats finally, and our boogers have turned into ice capsules while the liquid in our eyes is threatening to also freeze.

Just before kickoff, we look high and to our left, and spot a crew of fans with the letters "D-A-N-T-E" spelled out, to which Seven jabbers, "Yeah. Dante. We love you, blah, blah, blah."

He later said "Oops." Like nine seconds later, as Dante Hall took the opening kick to the house. Denver punts, the Chiefs march -- and include some receiver named Samie Parker (see earlier note on Griffin) -- down the field, and Larry Johnson, sans diaper, scores a touchdown, 14-0 home team. Tatum Bell is not stealing luggage on this day; he's in the mix. And so is Rod Smith. Denver embattles the cold, and throws a seven up on the board. In the second quarter, there were some punts, a Jake Plummer interception, a good old unnecessary roughness call on Lynch, another KC touchdown, and then another KC touchdown, 28-10 as we head to the third.

Ashley Lelie is in the building today. He's the intended target for another Plummer interception, and KC converts that turnover in the form of a 48-yard touchdown pass to Parker. It's 35-10, and it hasn't gotten any warmer out I might add. Kennison's always good for a touchdown against Denver, 42-10. There were then many sacks and incomplete passes courtesy of both quarterbacks, and Todd Collins comes in for some action. He engineers a field-goal producing scoring drive. Denver answers with a touchdown from Hearst. Game, set, match: 45-17.

Though each in its own rite, these two games were entertaining, and as usual, resulted in sour trips home for the visitors, ever-enforcing the notion of good, good times.