"Heh!"
"An unexpected scene on the field—Bengals head coach Lewis appears to…"
Concern, worry.
After all, Lewis was over sixty. Naturally, people worried about his health.
Some fans in the stands behind the Bengals bench at Arrowhead, having only seen Lewis suddenly collapse awkwardly, gasped and expressed concern—
Even against a rival, no one wished ill on the man.
But—
The TV broadcast, trying to help clarify, showed the replay—and what people saw was downright bizarre.
"…Did Coach Lewis trip himself on purpose?"
"Heh, no way, right? No way!"
"Probably just a weak knee—he couldn't hold his weight and fell accidentally."
"But still…"
The broadcast director was bewildered, watching the footage over and over again. Zooming in, replaying from every angle, trying to figure out what had just happened—like Sherlock Holmes solving a case.
Until NBC's higher-ups called in urgently: Stop replaying that! For heaven's sake, stop it now—go back to the live feed immediately. The whole country is watching—have you lost your minds? Why humiliate him like that on national television? Do you have a vendetta against the Bengals?
Too late.
Everyone sat there, stunned. What exactly… had they just seen?
Lewis, meanwhile, remained oblivious—
Dizzy, disoriented, the world spinning like a kaleidoscope.
And the dream… wasn't ending.
Arrowhead Stadium's roaring sea of red still filled his vision. The scoreboard still read "7:55," that brutal, blinding score.
His mind struggled: what was happening? Had he not fallen hard enough to wake up?
Then Dalton rushed over, grabbing his arm, anxious and concerned for his coach's well-being.
Lewis's blurry gaze finally focused on Dalton. "Andy… punch me."
Dalton, ever the earnest player, froze: Oh no… Coach has cracked from the loss.
Later, this moment became a media feeding frenzy. Footage replayed endlessly, reporters dug for every angle. Even though Lewis insisted afterward that it was just a dizzy spell from low blood sugar, nobody bought it.
Rumors swirled in the weeks ahead—that Lewis was showing early signs of Alzheimer's. Whispers said it was time for the aging coach to retire, and rumors spread as if people had personally witnessed Lewis getting lost in his own home.
Lewis regretted everything—he couldn't explain his way out of this.
Things only got worse.
Now the Bengals' front office had all the justification they needed to dismiss Lewis—with an offer of an "honorary retirement" at that.
Even fans, feigning concern, said it might be time for Lewis to step down for his health—before things get uglier.
Lewis: It's not true! I didn't—I really didn't!
No tears left to cry.
Lewis had been waiting for the Chiefs to falter, hoping to revel in their misfortune—but instead, he had become the clown, starring in the spectacle.
And the worst part: this crushing loss became the turning point for the Bengals' entire season.
From there, they never recovered their rhythm or form, winning just two more games all season. From a promising 4-1 start to a dismal 6-10 finish—collapsing completely and extinguishing even the faintest hope.
At season's end, the Bengals announced Lewis's departure—but Lewis refused to retire, taking a job at Arizona State University instead.
When he left the NFL, Lewis held a strange distinction:
He was the winningest coach never to have won a playoff game, with the most division titles and the most playoff losses for any coach without a postseason victory.
Not exactly glory—but not pure disgrace either. Just… odd.
It's no wonder Arizona State players often saw Lewis glaring at Chiefs games, shaking his fist in frustration.
It all stemmed from that damned Lance and the Chiefs.
But it wasn't just Lewis who was shocked—the online world and NFL analysts alike were reeling.
"7:55."
That scoreline—wasn't it… excessive?
And this wasn't some cupcake opponent.
Yes, some argued that the Bengals weren't at their best—but after Lewis's pregame trash talk and the game's progress, those arguments quickly fell flat.
More astonishing: even the trolls—usually endless in their negativity—went quiet.
Trolls never go quiet. No matter the result, they always find something to hate. If perpetual motion machines existed, they would be fueled by troll hatred.
But this time? Even social media trolls were stunned into silence—for a moment.
In the end, it was Patriots fans who resurfaced first, desperate for attention, even though this game had nothing to do with them:
Look—the Bengals got annihilated by Kansas City. But the Patriots beat this terrifying Chiefs team! Haha, what more proof do you need?
"Patriots are champs!" they chanted.
They kept repeating it—using any excuse to remind the world that they had beaten Kansas City.
When would they stop?
Heh… probably not until they beat Kansas City again.
While some focused on the Bengals, and others on the Patriots, none of this mattered to the Chiefs.
They were completely focused on themselves.
And within league circles, a provocative question arose—
"After suffering a tough loss, have the Kansas City Chiefs really gotten back on track?"
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Powerstones?
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