Patrick Mahomes Ensures Chiefs Dynasty With Back-to-Back Titles

The presents still needed to be opened. It was Christmas night, after all, inside the Kansas City–area mansion of the greatest player in professional football.

Patrick Mahomes preferred the wrapping paper stay on every present. There wasn’t much to celebrate and what he had hoped to enjoy—a win over the Las Vegas Raiders that afternoon in front of an increasingly skeptical home crowd—instead became a 20–14 loss, another stumble in a season that seemed to be teetering toward collapse. “Definitely never had a worse Christmas,” Mahomes said 10 days before his team’s 25–22 overtime win in Super Bowl LVIII.

Those f—ing presents. Two adorable young children teemed with excitement their father could not muster. He tried hiding his angst, as 2-year-old Sterling marveled at the bouncy house her parents had set up in the basement. He tried summoning kid Christmas energy, studying 1-year-old Patrick III, better known as Bronze, who opened a new basketball hoop.

All preseason, everyone in Kansas City sounded some version of the same theme: never satisfied. Travis Kelce said the chatter started the same night last February when the Kansas City Chiefs toppled the Philadelphia Eagles in Super Bowl LVII. All knew that no NFL champion had repeated since the New England Patriots in 2004, when Kelce was in high school and a few hundred receptions from catching the eye of Taylor Swift. That night, as dozens of lips smeared and smudged the Lombardi Trophy, all eyes pointed forward, ahead, Kelce says. “Two in a row,” teammates kept repeating.

The veterans hadn’t seized upon the same opportunity in 2020 after their first triumph against the 49ers. “And we’ve wanted that feeling of redemption,” Kelce says, “ever since.” He laughs, adding, “Just thinking about it is getting me fired up.” He was saying this nine days before kickoff against San Francisco.

Kelce knew. Deeply, implicitly, confidently, knew. He understood what Mahomes told members of his inner circle on Christmas night. That a franchise once defined by late-postseason losses and what the team’s founder referred to as “buzzard’s luck,” was now an international brand with a worldwide following. This season, Kansas City assembled its best defense of the Mahomes era. It had a good luck charm in Kelce’s Grammy-winning girlfriend. It had survived five playoff runs that unfolded like five lifetimes, with the Chiefs always on the verge of cementing a dynasty.

Mahomes hoped his children were young enough that they would forget the Christmas where Dad wasn’t his usual, jovial self. But he was oddly certain about the season, anyway.

That night, Mahomes discussed the seesawing of 2023 with his private coach, Jeff Christensen, all the dropped passes and close losses that portended doom.

“We’re going to win the Super Bowl,” Mahomes said. Just like that. Simple. Declarative. Firm.

The gift he wanted, he would have to earn.

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Andy Reid’s brilliance lies in stacks of index cards. He carries them everywhere, always the 3x5 version, jamming them into pockets, tucking them into jackets or cradling them in meaty hands. He scribbles inspiration whenever it strikes: new plays, variations; messages to impart; someone he needs to reach, how. He keeps a blank stack in a desk drawer at Chiefs headquarters so he never runs out. “I don’t know how he never has,” Mahomes says. “He always has another 50 ready to go; that’s how he rolls, little red pen, index cards.”

NFL history is on those. Plays like 2-3 Jet Chip Wasp, which Kansas City famously deployed to convert a critical third-and-15 for their first Super Bowl triumph in half a century.

Viewed one way, index cards are to Reid what No. 2 Ticonderoga pencils are to Bill Belichick. They’re proof that Reid loves football. As his green Ford Model A attests, Reid is as much tinkerer as coach. Viewed another way, the cards illuminate Reid’s least-discussed strength: adaptability. And more proof was the 2023 season.

Perhaps this ethos of indexing came from Reid’s father, a man who applied the same thought process to entirely different realms. Walter Reid’s family emigrated from Scotland. His father worked as a caretaker at a mansion on Cape Cod. Walter met visitors from all over, while befriending workers of all types. He would apply all those lessons to his career as a scenic artist in Hollywood.

His son took that spirit into shop classes, onto athletic fields and into coaching. Even this season. Especially that. As the Chiefs spiraled toward that Christmas Day nadir, one of Reid’s longtime friends, Lee Bruno, told everyone, “Be patient. This is Andy. They’re getting close.”

In this season of great swings, Reid’s largest adjustment was subtle and brilliant, born from instinct, informed by decades of experience. Both pointed him toward the course they’d already charted. The biggest issues—ill-timed penalties and dropped passes—were correctable. He decided to correct them with trust.

Trust, mostly, in their plan. In the past two drafts, GM Brett Veach selected 12 defenders. Eleven were corners or defensive linemen. The overhaul was intentional and necessary, in light of Mahomes’s contract. Veach prefers his staff whittle down the number of prospects, then asks coordinators—in this case, Steve Spagnuolo—for independent evaluations from a smaller pool. The goal: more accurate assessments.

Like: After their first championship, one player who reached Spagnuolo was safety L’Jarius Sneed. Evaluators put him in the third tier. Spagnuolo broke down the tape and told Veach he loved Sneed—as much as any safety in any tier. Veach snagged Sneed in the fourth round in 2020.

Veach went into camp optimistic but unsure. He augmented the youth movement with four veteran defenders. Spagnuolo took over from there. Veach didn’t necessarily believe in August they’d showcase one of the NFL’s top defenses. But Mahomes did tell him he wasn’t enjoying practice all that much against them."

Signs of elite football started in Week 2, at Jacksonville, when the Jaguars high powered offense was still healthy and Chris Jones was starting his first game since his holdout. Jacksonville’s four trips into the red zone yielded zero touchdowns. “This defense,” Veach told the coaches, “is good.”

Reid soon agreed with the motto defenders soon slapped onto T-shirts: In Spags We Trust. “I got him a team picture,” Reid says of his coordinator’s worst-Christmas-ever gift. “And a box of nuts.”

Christensen notes that many “bad situations” for the 2023 Chiefs started with complacency, the product of so much recent success. The fix: “Andy’s wisdom as one of the top three coaches in NFL history,” he says. Reid simplified the offense and focused on the offensive line. Mahomes did the same with the receivers. The plan: back to basics.

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Forget, for now, the arm talent, athleticism, throwing angles, creativity, vision and instincts. Another overlooked Mahomes superpower saved Kansas City’s season: his brain. “He’ll pull out examples from games he didn’t even play in,” Kelce says. “He’s able to process information at speeds I can’t [fathom]. Like he’s a Martian. Or a mutant.”

Mahomes stops short of describing his memory as photographic. “I don’t know if I could, like, go to Harvard,” he says. His father, Patrick Mahomes Sr., chooses another term: eidetic, or the ability to recall images from memory with precision, even after only one viewing.

As Veach watched Mahomes this season, he kept thinking back to his pre-draft visit. Reid put Mahomes through film review, same as always; those meetings last anywhere from an hour to six hours. “Most don’t survive,” Veach says. Reid closed the door that day. Veach waited, freaking out, popping by every so often just to see if they had finished. He wanted Mahomes that much. Finally, on bathroom break 45 or so, after more than six hours, Veach finally saw Reid. The coach simply flashed a thumbs up—which was all Veach needed.

They still laugh about the marathon meeting, still laugh about Mahomes’s first practice, where he sprayed pass attempts. Wobbly ducks, Veach says, laughing. Two weeks later, at the first practice that was open to the public, he noticed something else—every attempt spiraled and whistled; poetry in every throw. This signified that Mahomes played his best with the entire world watching.

Even on the worst Christmas, deep into the freefall portion of the season, Mahomes’s memory mattered more than ever. The sky, after plummeting, had burrowed deep underground. This, popular sentiment went, just wasn’t Kansas City’s year.

The antidote wasn’t that magical right arm. Reid noticed something more important: how Mahomes imprinted the locker room—and how deeply. He was their soul, the one, him, the person upon which everyone and everything rotated, including the only two ways to assess a recent Chiefs season—championship or failure.

Reid noticed the imprinting starting once more last spring, when Mahomes summoned skill-position teammates to Fort Worth, Texas, where he trains. For the second consecutive year, Mahomes and Kelce became teachers, professors of a specific and deadly form of offensive football—theirs.

Among the attendees: Rashee Rice, who starred at nearby SMU before Veach selected him in the second round. Rice welcomed the indoctrination, which isn’t to say his rookie season met even modest expectations. He struggled—with route precision, drops and acclimating to the NFL.

The bonds strengthened in Texas had to hold. Had to ensure Mahomes not only trusted that Rice would eventually overcome his struggles but would vault higher. Had to ensure extra film review sessions and additional reps after practice until both had perfected the precision Rice needed to become the catalyst for a late-season surge.

And it did. Against the Raiders in Las Vegas on Nov. 26 Rice gained a season-best 107 receiving yards. Against Cincinnati in Week 17, as Kansas City clinched an eighth consecutive division crown: 127. Against Miami, in the wild-card round where the trendy upset pick never materialized: 130.

After the bold Christmas night prediction, Christensen studied Mahomes in warm-ups. He always does. Christensen knew Michael Jordan; he played golf with His Airness. “Guys like that go to a different place,” Christensen says. “Michael Jordan has that look. LeBron James does not. Michael had a stare, this expression that seemed like he was searching inside your soul. Tiger had it. Muhammad Ali. Derek Jeter.”

And Patrick Mahomes. “You watch him, and you see he’s in a different place,” Christensen says. “He reminds me of Elvis, just the greatest of the greats at their chosen crafts. In his mind, he’d already won.”

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The Taylor Swift–meets–Chiefs kingdom story actually began around 2009, when Kansas City hired Mark Donovan from the Eagles and named him chief operating officer. Upon arrival, Donovan noticed the Chiefs had not hosted a major concert in more than a decade. He resolved to land the biggest name possible. A concert promoter he knew, Louis Messina, ensured Kenny Chesney would return concerts to Arrowhead Stadium.

The next evolution of a franchise that’s central to NFL history started then. Kansas City hosted the NFL draft last spring. Officials began modernizing a decade ago, starting with an all-mobile platform for tickets and contactless entry for fans. The franchise reaches—through various channels—10.7 million members of the Kingdom. The Chiefs have their own filmmaking arm, 65 Toss Power Trap Productions, which produces The Franchise docuseries for YouTube and pushed K.C. into the top NFL slot for TikTok engagement.

Kansas City also pushed for more participation within the NFL’s international ambitions. The Chiefs beat the Dolphins this season in the league’s first game in Germany, while proving Mahomes and company are huge even in Munich.

The next World Cup will stop at what’s now GEHA Field at Arrowhead Stadium. So have college football games, motorsport events, Monster Jams and food or drink festivals, including, of course, the annual Q BBQ Fest. Along with Beyoncé, Ed Sheeran, Luke Combs, Billy Joel and a certain international pop star who hijacked this NFL season. (Messina promotes Swift’s concerts, too.)

Swift’s far-more-than-anticipated Eras Tour wound through Arrowhead for two nights last July. More than 135,000 watched her sing in person. Among the sold-out crowd on July 8, a reigning Super Bowl champion stood among the Swifties. In his pants pocket, Kelce carried a friendship bracelet with his phone number beaded on the inside. He hoped, against reason, to be able to simply hand the jewelry to her at some point that night. Alas, he never did.

Still, Kelce invited Swift to a game. She came. Romance bloomed. Dismiss the irrational criticism of their union. If anything, Donovan says, “The world is going to realize how brilliant Travis Kelce is. He’s a Hall of Fame player. But his intelligence is what makes him.”

With Travis and Taylor in the house, Clark Hunt walked the stadium parking lots, same as his father, Lamar, once did, with the Dolphins in town. Temperatures dropped to –4. When the wind whipped through, they fell even further, to –20. The fourth-coldest game in a sport where streams of breath are breathlessly celebrated was played on a night that would become known for two things: The day the Chiefs became contenders again—and the icicles that formed on Reid’s meme-worthy mustache.

Walk, Hunt would. “I’ve never been colder, anywhere, in my entire life,” says the longtime Kansas City and Chicago resident. “Anytime you went outside, with any part of your skin exposed, it froze.”

As he strolled, the chairman took a different kind of temperature, and he was heartened to hear the Kingdom had not given up hope. Not that the Chiefs have given anyone a reason to abandon their supersized bandwagon. But still.

Hunt watched this get-right win unspool from the relative warmth of the owners’ box. We’re capable of doing something special, he thought but refused to say out loud.

They were. They did. Line up all the same events and emphases, Veach says, and without Lamar Hunt, his family, Reid, Mahomes, Kelce and the rest, and this dynasty doesn’t form. “Only in this place, with these people,” he says.

For the football coach who not only embraces adaptation but continues, at age 65, to adjust and tweak and attempt solutions no one else considers, some things will never change. Next season, unless Bill Belichick or Pete Carroll make a surprise return, Reid will be the oldest coach in the league. But to consider him a dinosaur in relation to the Shanahans, McVays and McDaniels of his world would miss what powers him.

Christensen never did need to remind Mahomes of his we’re-going-to-win-the-Super-Bowl moment on the worst Christmas ever.

Mahomes, after all, remembers everything. Especially every step in six postseasons that ensured a dynasty would take shape.