Nick Foles, quarterback of the Philadelphia Eagles, stood there like a dazed monk who'd wandered into a spider's lair. Wide-eyed, confused, totally caught off guard.
Run, Nick, run!
Finally, Foles' brain sounded the alarm. He turned to bolt—only to realize he was completely surrounded. No way out.
"Nick!"
Lance was the first to start, jumping in place, pumping his fist to set the rhythm. In an instant, the whole crowd around him was lit up.
"Nick! Nick! Nick!"
Then, a swarm of gray-shirted teammates followed suit, bouncing in place with fists raised. A wave of bobbing heads rolled forward like a flood.
A group of gray-clad Minions.
To make it even funnier, the stadium was ringing with deafening cheers and howls from fans.
Just a second ago, these rival players had been giving each other the cold shoulder—now, they were teaming up for the ultimate prank.
"Nick!"
The chant rolled louder and louder, wave after wave.
Foles wore a look of utter despair.
In the media's narrative, Foles was the castoff from Kansas City—abandoned, overlooked, itching to exact revenge on his former team.
But Foles saw it differently.
He didn't hate the Chiefs. In fact, he remembered his year in Kansas City fondly. The players might not have been his best friends, but they weren't enemies either.
Now, as he found himself alone, tossed to the wolves, his eyes scanned familiar faces:
Kelce, Houston, Smith—guys he knew well.
Lance, Mahomes, Hunt—new faces, yet ones he'd studied so often on tape that they felt familiar too.
Sure, in four days, they'd be tearing each other apart on this very field. Only one winner would emerge.
But today? Today was a celebration—the biggest sports event on the continent.
So—
Why not dance?
Foles closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and let the crowd's rhythm guide him.
Then he dropped it—busting out a surprise breakdance move straight from Saturday Night Fever.
Cheers erupted.
When Zach Ertz arrived, he was stunned by what he saw: "Did I just walk into a dance battle with the devil?"
If Foles needed rescuing, he could just blink twice.
Naturally, this moment—players from both teams laughing and partying together—was immortalized by press cameras and exploded across social media.
It also reminded fans of the "Harbowl" five years ago, when the Ravens and 49ers met in the Super Bowl with similarly warm pregame vibes.
Amid the crowd of over twenty thousand roaring fans, the Chiefs and Eagles marched into U.S. Bank Stadium. The place looked totally different from just a day ago.
The field had been transformed into a convention floor. Platforms were set up in orderly grids, reporters, photographers, and media crews filling every gap and weaving between booths.
The whole thing looked more like a music festival than a press conference.
Each podium was like a mini stage, and the bigger the crowd around it, the hotter the player. Journalists wandered freely, switching targets as needed.
Nothing was hidden. Numbers don't lie. Popularity, spotlight, buzz—everything laid bare for all to see.
Before individual interviews began, there was a brief joint appearance.
Both teams sent five representatives to the central stage—four players plus their head coach—for a handshake ceremony and official photos to kick off the festivities.
The Eagles' picks: Nick Foles, Zach Ertz, Fletcher Cox, and Nigel Bradham.
The Chiefs: Alex Smith, Lance, Justin Houston, and Darrelle Revis.
Two offensive and two defensive players from each team—balanced and sensible choices, except perhaps for Revis.
After all, he'd only joined the Chiefs in November, and his career had always been controversial. Even during his stint with the Patriots, he hadn't fully won over the coaches.
Still, now?
Among all eight players on stage, only Revis had actually played in a Super Bowl. That, in hindsight, made Andy Reid's choice crystal clear.
Despite all the media warfare and hype outside, once on stage, the players looked relaxed, even cheerful. Especially Lance and Foles, who chatted and laughed like old friends.
The press wasn't surprised—word had already spread about the scene outside the stadium earlier.
Now, seeing it firsthand, reporters swarmed them with questions.
"...What exactly happened out front just now?"
Every eye turned to Foles and Lance. Even coaches Reid and Pederson leaned in curiously.
Lance graciously gestured to Foles. "Please, our main character should answer this one."
Polite as it was, Foles looked at him like he was betrayed. "Wow. You're just going to dump this on me? You're the mastermind!"
"Whoa, whoa—are we rewriting history already?" Lance said, completely straight-faced. "Nick, please watch your wording. We wouldn't want to cause any unnecessary misunderstandings."
Foles turned forward—only to see the crowd's twinkling eyes lighting up like stars.
Even if he had ten mouths, he couldn't explain it all.
Finally, he just looked up at the ceiling. "Seriously?"
Lance, with a helpful smile, added, "Nick 'Timberlake' Foles was just giving us a little preview of the halftime show, that's all."
Foles, "LANCE! YOU—!"
And then Pederson chimed in with a grin, "Nick, I wanna know too. Why didn't I get a sneak peek?"
Foles nearly cried.
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Powerstones?
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