My Son’s Kansas City Chiefs Hat
I wear ball caps unashamedly and constantly. My closet holds more hats than ties. It’s no shock then, that my son has followed suit, and has a hat that holds more of his affection than any object not containing sugar. The perplexing if not deeply concerning element of his hat habit is which hat he reaches for each morning with an unfiltered grin:
A flat brimmed Kansas City Chiefs hat.
Hold please if you can’t see the inferred emojis of disgust that accompany that sentence. I grew up in Colorado, meaning my allegiance lies unwaveringly and irrationally with the Denver Broncos. John Elway was more important than the president. Terrell Davis was the epitome of cool. And the memory of John Mobley’s game winning break up of Brett Favre’s last second pass in Super Bowl 32 still sits clear and accessible like the first 3x5 notecard in a box of useless but vivid memories.
This is a nostalgia laced way of saying the Chiefs were our hated rival. (I hesitate to say they are still a rival, because rivalry infers a level of competition that’s been nonexistent as Kansas City had beaten us 16 times in a row until this season.) Since Christmas, my son has declared and boasted his Chiefs allegiance through his favorite hat. Only after 15 minutes of box breathing can I put aside my Broncos devotion, and realize my son’s newfound love makes sense.
Reason #1: The Chiefs are good. Really good. What seven year old wants to practice loyalty and long-suffering patience? It's way more fun when your team is a wrecking ball of points, confidence, and Taylor Swift cutaways.
Reason #2: The Broncos have been atrocious since my son entered the world. So bad that many Sunday afternoons I’ve chosen to shovel horse crap rather than watch them. Because shoveling manure is not a three hour prolonged exercise in assured disappointment. Why would he willingly root for a lousy team?
Reason #3: My son is a contrarian. It's as if I can hear his thoughts saying, “Why follow the masses? Who cares if I live in Colorado? I’m not a sheep, I’m rooting for KC baby!
At this point you could be wondering about the thesis of this story. I don’t blame you. Over-exuberant sports talk and micro-family analysis is a bad mix. I share this because it tugs the covers back on a question more significant than fandom and fashion:
In whose image is my son made?
I could parrot a Sunday-School teaching and quickly affirm that he is made in God’s image. While that is true, this whole hat situation asks whether I believe it. More to the point, would I rather form my son in my image? I realize that sounds laughably arrogant. And yet, I’ve wondered if it’s true.
Would I rather his sweatshirt rock a sweet old school D instead of an arrowhead enclosed KC? Undoubtedly yes. Would I prefer him to have the decency to wear a non flat brim hat? Probably.
Would I like him to learn the magic and challenge and beauty and grace that waits in the game of basketball? Absolutely.
The same thing happens with my girls. I not so subtly encourage them to ride horses, wear their ranchy plaid fleeces and follow the path of my preferences.
It feels easiest to cast my kids in the mold of my expectations. Love them as I do, the Sunday School answer is still true: I did not knit my children together. They bare their Creator’s image, not mine.
What might it look like to give your attention and wonder to the image of God shimmering in those around you? Do you have a sense of the masterpiece made up of their quirks, developing interests, and burgeoning gifts? Do you know the Master more fully because of them?
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Jesse French
Executive Director
