If you don’t know anything about Travis Kelce, let this story—told by the Kansas City Chiefs’ 27-year-old star tight end, about his 23-year-old self—light your path to understanding. It’s early 2013, and Kelce, who had recently finished a standout senior season at Cincinnati, is in the process of interviewing with prospective pro teams ahead of the NFL Draft. There are fewer questions about Kelce’s talent, which is prodigious, than there are about his character, which is...knotty. He missed his entire sophomore season on suspension for violating team rules, but the reason why was not then disclosed publicly. (Turns out he failed a drug test as a redshirt freshman. In his words: “I smoked a lot of reefer.”) He goes to meet with Ozzie Newsome, the general manager of the Baltimore Ravens and Hall of Fame tight end who played for Kelce’s hometown team, the Cleveland Browns. Kelce has an autographed picture of Newsome autographed in his parents’ Cleveland Heights home, and he's eager to tell the Ravens’ GM.
But not as eager as Newsome is to tell Kelce to sit down, which is what the Hall of Famer does when the 6’5”, 255-lb prospect barrels in. Without getting up to shake Kelce’s hand, Newsome grabs a nearby remote and flips on a highlight reel. Though maybe “highlight” is not the word. The tape showcases Kelce’s affinity for being a bit extra—pointing in opposing players’ faces, talking trash, roughing them up after the whistle has been blown. Again and again, the film shows the college star’s penchant for offsetting downfield catches with yellow flags. According to Kelce, Newsome let about five clips play before throwing the remote on the table, turning to face him, and asking “Son, are you a fucking asshole?” (The Ravens declined to comment on their draft process.)
The Ravens did not draft Kelce. The Kansas City Chiefs did, with the first pick of the third round. He was the fifth tight end taken. He tells me this story coming off back-to-back Pro Bowl seasons, and his inaugural First-Team All-Pro selection. His 1,125 receiving yards in 2016 were best among tight ends and twelfth-highest in the NFL, more than wideouts Julian Edelman or Demaryius Thomas. Rob Gronkowski only played eight games, but Kelce—who played all sixteen—averaged more yards per game than New England’s lovable oaf. So though Gronk may still be King Tight End when he’s healthy, showing up is significant in a league where each game matters. Kelce is more vital to his team, leading the Chiefs in both targets (117) and receptions (85—which was 24 more than the second-closest team receiver) last season. The Patriots won the Super Bowl without Gronk; if the Chiefs make a deep run into the playoffs this year, it’ll likely be on the back of Kelce.
How to Buy a Suit When You Eat Cornerbacks for Breakfast
Travis Kelce is big. This is a good thing: it’s what’s made him a two-time Pro Bowl tight end for the Kansas City Chiefs. But that size also makes dressing up tricky. Big-and-tall stores traffic in suits that’ll make a big guy look bigger in all the wrong ways. Our advice: grab one from your favorite designer or mall brand (many of whom now sell “athletic” cuts), and make sure the shoulders aren’t too padded (or else you'll look like a rectangle). Have your tailor nip the jacket in at the waist to create a strong V-shape, and leave the super-skinny lapels and super-skinny ties to your super-skinny friends. Then do your best Travis Kelce end-zone dance.
That doesn’t mean Newsome’s question has been definitively answered. When asked what the most common misconceptions about him are today, Kelce uses the labels punk, douchebag, and, yes, asshole. His least favorite questions—outside of any about his one-season-long dating show Catching Kelce, especially ones asking if he’s still dating the winner (he’s not)—are about those plays that end with referees putting him in timeout. Like the third quarter mishap in last year’s postseason loss to the Pittsburgh Steelers. Kelce, true to Newsome’s tape, pushed a Steelers player after the play was over, costing his team fifteen yards in a game they’d go on to lose 18-16, ending their season.
“My actions on the field are very—I don’t want to say emotional, but emotion does get the best of me out there. If I do something wrong, I’m livid. I take it that seriously. So, sometimes, during important moments of big games, like the Steelers game where I pushed the guy, that was a moment where I lost it,” says Kelce. “At the same time, I don’t want to get asked about that, because that’s the hardest question to answer. Oh, why did you do that? ‘Cause the motherfucker pushed me in the back!”
Exhibit B: Earlier in the season, he was ejected from a game after protesting a missed pass interference call in the end zone (in Kelce’s defense, a fairly obvious penalty). When Kelce went to “ask” the referee about it, the ref turned his back. “Alright, you don't hear me?” Kelce says he shouted, before adding, for good measure, “FUCK YOU!" Well, that drew a flag. So Kelce expressed his respectful disagreement. “You want a flag?” he says he yelled. “I’ll give you a fucking flag.” Then he took the towel tucked in his waistband and threw it at the referee’s head. Thus ended Kelce’s afternoon.
Kelce says he conceded to Newsome, “Alright, when I'm on the field, I'm a little bit of an asshole.” He knows he needs to control himself out there, in the same way he says that getting caught smoking pot and catching a label as a partier taught him that he “couldn’t be a kid anymore.” But for all the times being a kid has failed him, it's also part of what makes Kelce so fun to watch on the field: his meme-worthy, Internet-beloved dance celebrations. The Nae Nae; the Shmoney Dance; the Ric Flair, the Donkey Kong Punch: Kelce’s done them all. “I wouldn’t even say I’m really good at dancing, I’d just say I’m not shy to movement,” he says. “At a young age, people would laugh at me moving. None of it looked like it should have been called a dance move. But it was just me being goofy.”
The Travis Kelce who tells me all this, earlier this summer, high up in New York’s One World Trade Center, is laid back and charming. Midwest manners mean he looks you in the eye—his are striking, bright green with a splash of yellow in the middle—and says “excuse me” in a crowded elevator, which, by nature of his build, is every elevator he enters. He's honest, and if he’s been media trained, it doesn't show. (He tells me, for instance, that “half of the guys in the NFL play the game of football because you're legally allowed to damn near murder somebody on the field.”) In an increasingly rigid league bound by rules legislating everything from how uniforms should be worn to how vigorously Antonio Brown can shake his ass, Kelce is in a crowd with Cam, Gronk, Marshawn, and the Bennett Brothers as players unwilling to compromise their personalities to kowtow to Roger Goodell’s No Fun League. That means dancing. And sometimes it means telling a ref (occasionally with an obscene gesture) when he’s cramping your style.
Kelce was a self-described “knucklehead” growing up, “just doing bonehead, stupid things” that often resulted in a visit to the principal’s office. At home, he was wreaking havoc with older brother Jason, now a center for the Philadelphia Eagles. When they were out in the backyard—the “Kelce Sports Complex,” they called it—they’d use the house as their backstop when they practiced pitching, throwing baseballs at each other. “Just about everything in the house was broken,” he says. Kelce’s dad worked in the steel mills as a young man, and, recognizing his son’s talent, took a teenage Kelce with him. “He was like, ‘This is real work,'" says Kelce. "'You don’t want to do this. You have an opportunity here. Don’t fuck this up.’”
Of course, Kelce almost did fuck it up. He followed Jason to the University of Cincinnati, having been recruited as a quarterback. After redshirting his freshman year, he ran a few plays out of the Wildcat formation his second year, primarily as a rushing QB. After a 12-0 season, the Bearcats went to the Sugar Bowl in New Orleans, where Kelce was hit with that drug test. He was kicked off the team, his scholarship revoked. He spent his year away from football living in a room with his brother, paying for school by working construction with a teammate’s dad and conducting phone surveys, asking people in Southern Ohio, Eastern Indiana, and Northern Kentucky how they felt about the recently passed Affordable Care Act. (They did not feel positively about it.) Kelce flirted with going pro in baseball, but his family stepped in: Dad told him that real men don’t run from difficult situations; and big brother Jason joined with some teammates to convince Cincinnati to give him another shot. Coach Jones agreed, but told Kelce he’d only get his scholarship back if he came on as tight end. So he did—“Everybody my entire life had been telling me I was a tight end anyway,” he says—and went on to first-team All-Big East honors his senior year.
Not that he doesn't still have QB dreams. “I’m being a little bit arrogant here, but I think I could play quarterback [in the NFL]. I can throw the ball. I’ll never get the opportunity." But he's even more confident about where he ranks as a tight end: “I’m not going to lie to myself. I’m going to look at the film. I’m going to look at the stats. I’m going to look at where my team is compared to everyone else, and I’m going to say, am I the best?” he says. “I'm not going to go out there and say that I'm better than X, I'm better than Y. I think I’m the best tight end in the game.”
He’s not as much of a hulking mass as Gronk—and so not quite as adept at blocking or pummeling defenders. But he has a similar combination of speed and size that makes him a nightmare matchup for opposing teams. All those years in the Kelce Sports Complex have bestowed upon him a fluidity rare for his giant frame. His mix of agility, hands, and speed allows him to line up as a wide receiver, a spot in which most tight ends are too big and lumbering to do much damage. Combine those assets with an offense (led by Alex Smith) and a game plan (led by Andy Reid) that favors short passes, and you have a recipe for a tight end who can put up league-leading numbers.
Which means you'll see a lot more end zone dancing this season. Kelce says his moves are largely instinctual, something that he does because it feels right at the time—like, say, exploding at a ref. That’s not to say he doesn’t take requests: One day, while getting his hair cut, his barber’s son asked him to hit the quan the next time he scored. Kelce told the kid to watch that week, and he delivered: in the third quarter, he ran a route across the middle, made a sure handed catch in the endzone, and hit that damn quan. It was the best of Travis Kelce wrapped up in one play: unstoppable, wild, and exultant, having and giving fun in equal measure.
“[The] kid’s ecstatic when he sees me after the game. Just through the roof. He’s like, ‘Man! You actually did it! Oh my gosh!’” Kelce gushes now, a hulking 27-year-old All-Pro who never did get to tell Ozzie Newsome about that picture hanging in his house. “I was just like, damn, man. I remember being that little kid. It’s cool shit.”
Styled by Kelly McCabe.