The horns have sounded.
From the unrelenting back-and-forth between Lawson and Bart on Inside the League, to every word and gesture of coaches Pederson and Reid being placed under a microscope by the media, to the wild storm of commentary erupting across social networks—Super Bowl fever had fully ignited on all fronts.
Naturally, the real protagonists of this battle weren't going to be left behind.
On one side, the Philadelphia Eagles projected unshakable belief:
They were ready to seize the Super Bowl.
Of the NFL's eight divisions, none had yet achieved the feat of all four teams winning a Super Bowl title. The NFC East was on the cusp: the Cowboys, Giants, and Washington had all done it. Only the Eagles remained.
If the Eagles won, they'd not only etch their names into history—they'd also help their division achieve an unprecedented Grand Slam. This lit a fire within the organization.
Tight end Zach Ertz, speaking on national television, didn't bother hiding his ambition. His eyes gleamed with intensity.
"Any team that dares to stand in our way—we'll crush them. Completely."
Roars erupted.
Not just Ertz. One by one, the Eagles piled in behind him. Shouting, fists clenched, veins bulging, eyes blazing—they scrambled in front of the camera to show their resolve. The energy was off the charts.
"Crush them! Crush them!"
The violent wave of pressure that surged forward was ferocious and searing. The media crew, caught off guard, stumbled back—step by retreating step—until the cameraman tripped over himself, sprawling in a chaotic heap.
The screen spun wildly, a blur of chaos. Through the disarray, only the unrestrained laughter of Ertz and company rang out like war drums.
Meanwhile, the Kansas City Chiefs stayed true to their season-long tone of quiet humility.
Under Reid's guidance, players stayed focused on training and rarely gave interviews. The media found no openings to stir the pot—much to their frustration.
The scene mirrored last year's NCAA national championship, where Alabama's Crimson Tide stormed the pregame media days. Only difference: NCAA interviews were optional. NFL ones were mandatory. The Chiefs couldn't avoid them entirely.
So—another iconic moment for the books.
Lance: "We'll win."
Reporter: "You sound confident!"
Lance: "No, I have no confidence at all. But we'll win."
Reporter: "…Huh?"
Staring at Lance's completely straight face, firm eyes but absolutely contradictory words, the media scrambled for a reaction. They turned desperately to Kelsey, passing by behind Lance, only to see him wearing the delighted expression of a man watching a comedy unfold—he just needed a lawn chair and some popcorn.
The entire press corps glitched.
Veteran reporters were left dumbstruck: Was that confidence? Or the opposite?
They looked to each other. No one had an answer.
And Lance wasn't alone.
He'd apparently set a new trend inside the Chiefs locker room.
Kelsey: "I've got no confidence at all. But we'll win."
Houston: "Honestly? I don't even know. But we'll win."
And then Revis joined in.
Putting on a mock-serious expression, he added: "What's the phrase again? Right—'I have no confidence, but we'll win.' That's it."
"Haha! Hahahaha!"
Revis laughed gleefully and walked off, clearly proud of himself. Behind him, his voice echoed through the breeze:
"Now you know how it feels!"
The media could only clutch their notes in despair. How was anyone supposed to conduct interviews like this?
Even the most reserved, respectful, and media-friendly player, Smith, chimed in:
"…We really don't have any confidence. But we're going to win."
The reporters nearly collapsed.
Alex Smith—of all people?
The betrayal!
Normally, Super Bowl media week was a nightmare for players, with constant media harassment pushing even the calmest veterans to the brink. Not even five-time champs like Brady and Belichick escaped it—so how would inexperienced teams like the Eagles and Chiefs cope?
Now, the Eagles charged head-on with fire and fury, battling the media with brute force—loud and aggressive.
The Chiefs? They took a bizarre, almost zen-like route—disarming the media with nonsensical calm.
It worked.
The internet: ???
Netizens across social platforms lost their collective minds.
Then something unexpected happened.
Fueled by sheer curiosity, countless people dove into deep analysis of Lance's quote, debating it like a cryptic math problem. The noise filled every corner of social media:
Some believed Lance was brimming with arrogance—convinced the title already belonged to Kansas City.
Some argued Lance was timid—losing the game before it even began.
Others thought he was playing psychological warfare—messing with everyone's heads.
Everyone had a theory. No one could prove a thing. Just like the dress from a few years back—was it white and gold or blue and black?
No conclusion, just endless debate. And the engagement numbers soared.
Once again, Lance—without even trying—set the internet ablaze. Supporters, critics, onlookers, trolls—all swept into the whirlwind.
At least one thing was certain:
If this was a psychological game, Kansas City had landed the first blow. The Eagles were shoved off center stage as online buzz shifted to the Chiefs.
It wasn't that no one mentioned Philly anymore—shouts of "Eagles for the win" still rang out—but the more they yelled, the more forced it felt. Even Ertz's fierce declarations started to sound hollow in comparison.
When the Eagles departed for the airport, someone in the crowd yelled at Ertz: "I have no confidence, but I'll win!"
Ertz visibly froze.
Even Lance hadn't expected this.
He swore he'd just been messing around—totally unplanned, 100% off the cuff. Who knew the internet would dissect it like scripture?
Lance: "I'm helpless too."
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Powerstones?
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