Chiefs Concerns: Desmond Bailey (@CCWriterDez)
This past weekend, I had a dream that I saw a psychologist (who had an uncanny resemblance to Rosario Dawson) and told her about a dream I had about the Chiefs. Yes, this is some ‘Inception‘ type stuff. But here’s my attempt at a transcript. I’m starting it in the middle of the session so hop on:
Dez: “So then….this tactical unit…
Therapist: “Tactical Unit?”
Dez: ” Yeah…special ops….S.E.A.L.’s or somethin’. “
Therapist: “Interesting. Please…continue.”
Dez: ” So this tactical unit is moving with impeccable precision and purpose down this dark, smoke-filled corridor. They’re all geared up with the latest in military tech, communicating with these cool hand signals and have their guns fixed on a door at the end. The dots from their infra-red beams dance chaotically over a name plate on the door that reads “Clark Hunt“.
Dez: “Exactly! You a fan?”
Therapist: “No. Raider Nation.”
Therapist: “In time. Please continue…”
Dez: “You know the word ‘Therapist’…splits into two words…and that’s somebody I don’t feel comfortable sharing my inner-most thoughts with.”
Therapist: “Mr. Bailey! Look….we can do this all day if you’d like. It’s your money.”
Dez: “Okay okay…well…alright…so finally they reach the door. From inside, they hear growling and ripping noises as if something was being savagely torn apart. Something terrible is transpiring on the other side. They all exchange confused glances before the unit leader – played by Commissioner Roger Goodell – signals another guy to breach the door. When they do…”
Therapist: “Yes?….what did they see?”
Dez: “A feral Clark Hunt – wild hair, fangs, claws…the whole nine – atop his desk feasting ravenously on what appears to be a Denver Broncos football player…a shredded and bloodied #58 jersey is all that could be made out from where the soldiers are standing.
Therapist: “Von Miller?”
Dez: “That’d be my guess. Oblivious to the soldiers, Hunt continues to ravage Miller’s corpse as red dots scatter about his head. “STOP!!” shouts Goodell. Hunt snaps a sharp, penetratingly evil stare at the unit before lunging at them. They open fire.
The view then switches to the exterior of the building. From there, I see several bright orange flashes of gunfire through the window before the shredded remains of Goodell crash through the glass with a leaping Hunt following as he flees into darkness. Then I woke up.
Therapist: “Hmmm. I know you hate the Broncos. We both do. But there’s something deeper here. Tell you what…I won’t charge you for this session. Come back tomorrow at the same time. Let me go through my notes and I’ll have an analysis for you in the morning. How’s that?”
Dez: “How about we discuss it over dinner tonight?”
Therapist: “That’ll be fine”
Then I woke up…for real this time…like real-world, real-time. And pissed that I never had that dinner date with such a beautiful woman.
That Sunday morning I began to query myself as to what the deeper meaning of that dream could be. Then it dawned on me that perhaps I want the Chiefs to simply be a more violent team, especially on defense.
As passionate as I am about football, I think this stems from my equal affinity for horror films. The gorier the better.
Nothing enhances the taste of popcorn and cheese-soaked nachos like an onscreen slaughter of innocents…their intestines strewn across the dusty floor of some wretched cellar turned makeshift torture chamber by some vile, horribly disfigured recluse.
Nothing stimulates my appetite for cinematic violence like the brutal slaying of some obnoxiously clueless, teenage camp counselor searching for one of their long dead peers in pitch black woods with only thin slashes of moonlight illuminating a path to eminent disembowelment.
As a Chiefs fan I can’t help to crave the same sinister satisfaction when watching the Chiefs defense this upcoming season. I want Arrowhead Stadium to become a pit of death and despair.
I want the bloodied and broken bodies of opposing offensive players sprawled all over the field as the final seconds escape the clock in regulation. I want the world to watch with mouths agape in utter terror as the field becomes a bloodswamp littered with the mangled remains of the Chiefs opponents and the lingering ghosts of all that was once decent and sane.
The Chiefs’ defense needs to hurt people. Hit ‘em hard enough that the impact reverberates beyond the victim’s broken and breath-deprived body and into the silent film-rooms of upcoming opponents as they watch footage that will rob them of precious sleep in the week ahead.
Yes…I may be a tad disturbed. Just a tad, mind you. But left up to me, the Chiefs’ defense, from 2013 forward, would establish themselves as one of the hardest-hitting and feared units in NFL history. Left to me, when people thought football, monstrous hits and pain…they would think Chiefs.
But I’m not Chiefs head coach Andy Reid nor am I defensive coordinator Bob Sutton. I’m just a writer who had a horrifically awesome dream this past weekend and thought I’d share. That’s all. The type of defense Sutton puts on the field has yet to be seen but I’m hoping it’s one that I can discuss over a nice dinner with Dr. Rosario Dawson.
Talk to ya later