Travis Kelce is back in the headlines, but this time, it is for his football-playing exploits instead of the constant reIationship drama between him and Taylor Swift that has been ever-present throughout the last half of the Kansas City Chiefs NFL season.
As the year came to a close, the Chiefs suffered a painful 20-14 Ioss to the Las Vegas Raiders, which clearly set Kelce into a tirade.
Following a game in which Kelce’s efforts as a tight end were impactful but not up to his standards as the elite player that he has become, he was seen throwing his heImet in the first quarter and speaking his mind to head coach Andy Reid on the sideline after the loss.
This tension flared in full sight of cameras as NFL fans all across the country witnessed the turmoil.
The helmet throw, which is not typically the most uncommon sight in pro football, was a shocking move as Kelce launched his protective headwear at the team’s water cooler. That didn’t seem to get all the anger out, however, as a staff member was denied by Kelce when trying to return the helmet to the disgruntIed superstar.
After the game, a quick discussion that appeared to be a bit heated sparked up between Kelce and Head Coach Andy Reid in which the two bumped each other.
That can be seen in the video beIow, which was posted to X by NFL on CBS.
Andy Reid, for his part, seems over the altercation and ready to move on to next week’s game against the Cincinnati Bengals on New Year’s Eve. He told reporters after the game, Yeah, listen, I mean, he went back in and did a nice job. So, things happen, emotional game. Trav’s emotional and sometimes my red hair gets to me a little bit, but it all works out.
Kelce has yet to comment on the matter, and with Reid being over it so quickly it wouldn’t be surprising if we never got a peep out of the star tight end about this.
Star quarterback Patrick Mahomes answered question after the game about the state of the team and the plan for the season going forward as the group Iooks to secure a playoff spot.
Mahomes said, They played better than us today, and they were the team that deserved to win. All you can do is move on to the next day, and the next game…I still believe that we can go do what we want to do, it’s just a matter of correcting our mistakes as quickly as possible.
Buttons and Memories
I miss my mom. I used to push all the buttons just as she would walk down the aisle, a mischievous glint in my eye. Each time we visited the grocery store, I’d dash ahead, my small fingers dancing over the colorful buttons of the self-checkout machine. With each beep, she’d turn around, half-laughing, half-exasperated. “You little rascal! One day, you’re going to break it!” she’d say, shaking her head, but her smile would give her away. Those moments were filled with laughter and light, the kind of memories that could brighten even the dullest days.
Since her passing, the grocery store has become a hollow place for me. I walk through, the automatic doors sliding open with a soft whoosh, and I feel the weight of the emptiness settle in my chest. The shelves filled with brightly packaged goods seem to mock my solitude. I can still hear her voice, echoing in my mind, reminding me to pick up my favorite snacks or to try a new recipe. I wander through the aisles, my heart heavy, searching for a piece of her in every corner.
I remember how she would linger by the produce, inspecting the apples with care, always choosing the shiniest ones. “The best things in life are worth taking a moment to choose,” she would say, her hands gently brushing over the fruit. Now, I find myself standing there, staring at the apples, unable to choose. They all seem dull and lifeless without her touch.
The self-checkout machines are still there, their buttons waiting to be pressed, but they feel like a cruel reminder of what I’ve lost. I can’t bring myself to push them anymore. The last time I stood in front of one, the memories flooded back. I could almost hear her laughter, feel her presence beside me. But it was just a memory, fleeting and painful.
Every week, I return to the store, hoping that somehow it will feel different, that I’ll find a way to connect with her again. But the aisles remain unchanged, their fluorescent lights buzzing overhead like a persistent reminder of my loneliness. I see other families laughing and chatting, and I feel like an outsider looking in on a world that no longer includes me.
One evening, as I walked past the cereal aisle, I spotted a box of her favorite brand. It was decorated with bright colors and cheerful characters, a stark contrast to the heaviness in my heart. I hesitated for a moment, then reached out and grabbed it, a sudden rush of nostalgia washing over me. I could almost see her standing beside me, her eyes twinkling with excitement. “Let’s get it! We can make our special breakfast tomorrow!”
With the box cradled in my arms, I made my way to the checkout. I felt a warmth spreading through me, the kind of warmth that comes from cherished memories. But as I stood there, scanning the items and watching the screen flash numbers, I realized that I was alone. The laughter we shared, the spontaneous dance parties in the kitchen, all of it felt like a distant dream.
When I got home, I placed the box on the kitchen counter, a bittersweet smile tugging at my lips. I thought about making pancakes, just like we used to, the kitchen filled with the scent of vanilla and maple syrup. I reached for my phone to call her, to share the news, but my heart sank as reality set in. There would be no more calls, no more laughter echoing through the house.
That night, I sat in the dark, the box of cereal beside me, feeling the weight of my grief settle in. I poured myself a bowl, the sound of the cereal hitting the milk breaking the silence. As I took the first bite, tears streamed down my cheeks. Each crunch reminded me of the moments we had shared, and I felt an ache in my chest for the warmth of her presence.
“I miss you, Mom,” I whispered into the stillness of the room. “I wish I could press all the buttons just one more time, hear you laugh, feel your hand in mine.”
But the buttons would remain untouched, just as the aisles of the grocery store would remain silent, a reflection of the emptiness I felt inside. And in that moment, I realized that while the world continued to move forward, I would always carry her with me, a bittersweet reminder of the love that once filled my life.
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