The good, the bad and King Carl
December 16
Kansas City Star columnist Jason Whitlock
"I laughed out loud. I smiled. Feelings of jubilation rushed through 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"
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