American Football: Domination

Clearly, Bart had that infuriating gift—able to get under everyone's skin, not just Lance's.

Colts: No, you're wrong. Your whole family's wrong.

They fumed.

Bart? He loved it. That was the fun of his job: he could roast anyone in public, sharp as knives but never vulgar.

And truth be told, the Colts' defense wasn't bad at all. Better than Kansas City's, in fact.

When the season ended and the stats rolled in, Indy ranked 10th in defense, while the Chiefs sat all the way down at 24th. The gap was clear, especially in pass defense: KC ranked 31st, next-to-last. Even worse than last year. Veach's defensive draft moves hadn't paid off. Berry's absence, Houston's decline—these wounds couldn't be patched quickly.

Yet, somehow, Kansas City's defense had held in key moments. They bent, but they didn't break, clawing out wins at the edge of collapse. Houston, Jones, Fowler—young names stepping up under fire.

Indy was the opposite. Pretty numbers, strong rankings—but when it mattered, they cracked. Six losses on the season, double Kansas City's tally.

At their core, both teams were offense-first.

The Chiefs? Ranked No. 1 in the league, and it wasn't even close. Pundits compared them to the 2013 Broncos, maybe even stronger—more balanced, more versatile. Mahomes' youth showed at times, his twelve picks just the surface of his inexperience. But Lance steadied everything. His poise on the ground complemented Mahomes' fire through the air, together forming an unstoppable attack.

The Colts? Fifth overall in offense. Passing was elite, ranked 6th, but their run game sat at 20th. Top-heavy, lopsided. If the pass sputtered, everything jammed.

But the Chiefs' pass defense was atrocious. So Indy's faith soared. They truly believed they could outgun Kansas City.

Then came Bart with his ice water.

No, he said. No team this year had beaten the Chiefs by going blow for blow. Not one. The Rams with Goff and Gurley were closest, but even their firepower came up short.

If it turned into a shootout, Indy didn't stand a chance. And if their pass game stumbled, it would be over by halftime.

Bart laid it out plainly:

"I don't see the Chiefs repeating. Once they hit the AFC Championship, whether it's the Patriots or Chargers, they'll stumble. But against Indy? They'll win. Book it. Back-to-back AFC title games—that's an achievement already, isn't it?"

Chiefs: Uh… thanks, I guess.

Colts: Heh.

That was Bart. Insulting both sides in a single breath.

And yet—most agreed with him. Around the league, consensus tilted overwhelmingly toward Kansas City.

Nine of ten analysts picked them.

The Colts were furious. The league scheduled them first on Saturday for a reason—seen as the least suspenseful matchup of the divisional round.

The Chiefs, though, weren't relaxing. They knew the danger of arrogance. They carried more than their own pride into this game.

Felix.

Not just a fan—their fan. The boy in the wheelchair, always smiling, always fighting through pain while standing with the team. Everyone knew him.

When Houston brought the hand-painted jerseys from Felix and the other kids into the locker room, the weight settled on every chest. Victory wasn't owed. It had to be earned—for themselves, and for him.

That Thursday, after practice, Reid gathered the team.

"Felix is out of danger. He's gone home with his mother. But his condition… it's still serious. He won't be able to make the divisional game."

Relief at first. Then hearts clenched again. The shadow of death still hovered close.

Afterward, Lance noticed Mahomes looking low, restless. He clapped his shoulder.

"Felix has his battle. We have ours. And don't forget Eric."

Eric Berry.

Felix fought death itself. Berry fought his body. Time ticked down on the season, déjà vu of last year. He wanted to return for the playoffs, to give life to KC's broken secondary. His injuries had healed—but his form hadn't.

He was still Eric Berry. But maybe no longer that Eric Berry.

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Powerstones?

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