ChiefsCountry
12-16-2008, 12:12 AM
http://www.kansascity.com/sports/columnists/jason_whitlock/story/938712.html
I laughed out loud. I smiled. Feelings of jubilation rushed my entire body.
King Carl’s dethroning struck me the way the collapse of the Soviet Union must have hit Ronald Reagan.
Then I realized: It’s OK to feel good today and have renewed interest in and optimism about the Chiefs, but there’s no real justification for an end-zone dance.
Sunday’s remarkable loss to the San Diego Chargers certainly warranted a strong response from Chiefs owner Clark Hunt. But no one could have predicted or expected this, a next-day removal of the man who has ruled the Chiefs for 20 years and ruined them for the last 10.
Of course, Hunt stated that Sunday’s 73-second collapse and surrender of a double-digit lead had nothing to do with Carl Peterson’s “resignation.” Yeah, and my affinity for Gates barbecue has nothing to do with the belt of flab wrapped around my waist.
An empty stadium, back-to-back seasons of 4-12 or worse and stupefying losses are generally accepted precursors for an ax to fall. We just thought Peterson wouldn’t be dragged to the guillotine until after Christmas, until all the ballots had been counted.
Hunt read the exit polls and projected the outcome early. For that, we are thankful, respectful and excited. We’re also realistic and honest.
If news of Peterson’s demise filled you with joy, caused you to celebrate, you must acknowledge that Peterson is the reason you care so much about the Kansas City Chiefs. He rebuilt the franchise, made the Chiefs this city’s No. 1 confidence booster, inspired us to wear red on Fridays and talk football every day of the week.
With Marty Schottenheimer driving the bus, Peterson had a magnificent run. From 1989 to 1998, the Chiefs were a model franchise — a cut below the Cowboys, 49ers, Bills and Broncos — but a consistent regular-season and box-office winner.
Peterson acquired Joe Montana and Marcus Allen, signed Dan Saleaumua and James Hasty, drafted Derrick Thomas and Dale Carter, put the Chiefs on FM radio and turned Arrowhead Stadium’s parking lot into a giant barbecue pit.
Peterson made my job easy and your Sundays in the fall seem like small holidays.
Come on, we can’t deny that. When the Chiefs were winning, Peterson was our Tony Soprano, an irresistible, unscrupulous bad guy, a man dedicated to his football family and a danger to anyone he perceived as a rat.
I admit it. I was a rat, a Donnie Brasco, someone who wanted the inside dirt to share with you and expose Peterson’s shortcomings. I loved our game of chess. I’m going to miss it.
We’re going to have difficulty replacing what Peterson brought to this community and franchise, a distinguishable and defining identity, a swagger.
Peterson, his black leather coats, his oversized ego, his dismissive condescension and love of the Plaza provided this town with a genuine celebrity cult figure. He gave us someone to gossip about and alternately love and hate.
I’ll never forget Peterson coming to my house for my mother’s annual Christmas party and refusing to eat. Maybe he thought she would poison him. When he left, we couldn’t decide whether to be offended by his refusal or impressed by his graciousness to even attend.
That was King Carl, an intriguing enigma, the top story in Kansas City for two decades.
It was news when he wore a kilt at his daughter’s wedding, parked in a handicap zone, cursed at John Tait’s agent, bickered with Marty about their last joint contract extension, failed to properly tip a waiter and attempted to get Jack Harry and Don Fortune fired.
For the longest time, I wanted Peterson to run for mayor. We knew all of his warts and couldn’t refute his effectiveness.
Then Marty left, and pretty much everything changed for Peterson. He never won another playoff game. He never fielded another complete team. The consistent winning disappeared. His arrogance became toxic for the organization and polluted every football decision he made.
Gunther Cunningham learned of Peterson’s decision to can him reading the Internet. Dick Vermeil pouted in front of the media when Peterson drafted Larry Johnson rather than a defensive player. Peterson’s scouting-department cronies selected Ryan Sims without doing the proper homework. And Peterson consistently gave lucrative contract extensions to descending players out of loyalty instead of reasonable expectations for future contributions.
King Carl came to symbolize all the wrong things.
He was no longer hip and cutting-edge. He was old, cantankerous and out of step. He was obsessed with holding onto his power. He hired Vermeil and Herm Edwards for the right reasons and also because he assumed that allegiance would prevent them from being a threat to the grip he held on multiple titles — president, CEO and general manager.
Hunt said Monday he would split the assignments of president and general manager. He’s looking outside the organization for a football man (general manager) and looking within the organization for a businessman (president).
Kansas City’s young owner realizes a simple truth: Absolute power corrupts absolutely.
King Carl’s implosion in KC was predictable and commonplace throughout history. It was a Shakespearean tale, a wonderful read, a story we will tell our grandchildren.
But we don’t want to read it again or have it told in a movie. It left too many emotional scars and nearly forced us to permanently cross the thin line between love and hate.
I laughed out loud. I smiled. Feelings of jubilation rushed my entire body.
King Carl’s dethroning struck me the way the collapse of the Soviet Union must have hit Ronald Reagan.
Then I realized: It’s OK to feel good today and have renewed interest in and optimism about the Chiefs, but there’s no real justification for an end-zone dance.
Sunday’s remarkable loss to the San Diego Chargers certainly warranted a strong response from Chiefs owner Clark Hunt. But no one could have predicted or expected this, a next-day removal of the man who has ruled the Chiefs for 20 years and ruined them for the last 10.
Of course, Hunt stated that Sunday’s 73-second collapse and surrender of a double-digit lead had nothing to do with Carl Peterson’s “resignation.” Yeah, and my affinity for Gates barbecue has nothing to do with the belt of flab wrapped around my waist.
An empty stadium, back-to-back seasons of 4-12 or worse and stupefying losses are generally accepted precursors for an ax to fall. We just thought Peterson wouldn’t be dragged to the guillotine until after Christmas, until all the ballots had been counted.
Hunt read the exit polls and projected the outcome early. For that, we are thankful, respectful and excited. We’re also realistic and honest.
If news of Peterson’s demise filled you with joy, caused you to celebrate, you must acknowledge that Peterson is the reason you care so much about the Kansas City Chiefs. He rebuilt the franchise, made the Chiefs this city’s No. 1 confidence booster, inspired us to wear red on Fridays and talk football every day of the week.
With Marty Schottenheimer driving the bus, Peterson had a magnificent run. From 1989 to 1998, the Chiefs were a model franchise — a cut below the Cowboys, 49ers, Bills and Broncos — but a consistent regular-season and box-office winner.
Peterson acquired Joe Montana and Marcus Allen, signed Dan Saleaumua and James Hasty, drafted Derrick Thomas and Dale Carter, put the Chiefs on FM radio and turned Arrowhead Stadium’s parking lot into a giant barbecue pit.
Peterson made my job easy and your Sundays in the fall seem like small holidays.
Come on, we can’t deny that. When the Chiefs were winning, Peterson was our Tony Soprano, an irresistible, unscrupulous bad guy, a man dedicated to his football family and a danger to anyone he perceived as a rat.
I admit it. I was a rat, a Donnie Brasco, someone who wanted the inside dirt to share with you and expose Peterson’s shortcomings. I loved our game of chess. I’m going to miss it.
We’re going to have difficulty replacing what Peterson brought to this community and franchise, a distinguishable and defining identity, a swagger.
Peterson, his black leather coats, his oversized ego, his dismissive condescension and love of the Plaza provided this town with a genuine celebrity cult figure. He gave us someone to gossip about and alternately love and hate.
I’ll never forget Peterson coming to my house for my mother’s annual Christmas party and refusing to eat. Maybe he thought she would poison him. When he left, we couldn’t decide whether to be offended by his refusal or impressed by his graciousness to even attend.
That was King Carl, an intriguing enigma, the top story in Kansas City for two decades.
It was news when he wore a kilt at his daughter’s wedding, parked in a handicap zone, cursed at John Tait’s agent, bickered with Marty about their last joint contract extension, failed to properly tip a waiter and attempted to get Jack Harry and Don Fortune fired.
For the longest time, I wanted Peterson to run for mayor. We knew all of his warts and couldn’t refute his effectiveness.
Then Marty left, and pretty much everything changed for Peterson. He never won another playoff game. He never fielded another complete team. The consistent winning disappeared. His arrogance became toxic for the organization and polluted every football decision he made.
Gunther Cunningham learned of Peterson’s decision to can him reading the Internet. Dick Vermeil pouted in front of the media when Peterson drafted Larry Johnson rather than a defensive player. Peterson’s scouting-department cronies selected Ryan Sims without doing the proper homework. And Peterson consistently gave lucrative contract extensions to descending players out of loyalty instead of reasonable expectations for future contributions.
King Carl came to symbolize all the wrong things.
He was no longer hip and cutting-edge. He was old, cantankerous and out of step. He was obsessed with holding onto his power. He hired Vermeil and Herm Edwards for the right reasons and also because he assumed that allegiance would prevent them from being a threat to the grip he held on multiple titles — president, CEO and general manager.
Hunt said Monday he would split the assignments of president and general manager. He’s looking outside the organization for a football man (general manager) and looking within the organization for a businessman (president).
Kansas City’s young owner realizes a simple truth: Absolute power corrupts absolutely.
King Carl’s implosion in KC was predictable and commonplace throughout history. It was a Shakespearean tale, a wonderful read, a story we will tell our grandchildren.
But we don’t want to read it again or have it told in a movie. It left too many emotional scars and nearly forced us to permanently cross the thin line between love and hate.