Close to quitting football, Travis Kelce battles back

SCOTTSDALE, Ariz. — A retired United States military leader walked into the office of Butch Jones, then the head football coach at the University of Cincinnati, and promptly closed the door behind him. "Coach," he began, "you're going to want to sit down for this." A contingent of military personnel had occupied Jones' football practices for the past day or two on campus to analyze a team that included just one NFL draft prospect that year — the extroverted tight end who, at that time, had 14 career catches but had proven difficult to corral in another avenue entirely. These weren't scouts, though. They had come to enact a leadership training course, rotating players through drills that tested quick decisions in stressful environments and strenuous activity. After observing every athlete on the roster, grading actions and reactions, they arrived in Jones' room the following morning for a debrief. "You're not going to believe it," one of them said to Jones, as the coach recalled during an interview this week. "But, by far, the leader of your football team is Travis Kelce." That fits neatly into place as we sit now, in February 2023. Kelce will appear in his third Super Bowl. He is not only destined for the NFL Hall of Fame one day — he is the loudest voice in a room that never lacks volume. But Jones had a different education. The college education. And so his response that morning was a double-take. "Wait," he replied. "Are you sure?" If only they understood the history. The journey at UC Jason and Travis Kelce have been the topic of Super Bowl media week here in Glendale, the first set of brothers to play against each other on this stage. And this matchup, keep in mind, will pit head coach Andy Reid against the team he led for 14 seasons. Jason, in particular, has done his best to deflect the sibling storyline, but that effort hasn't done much — more people here can tell you the name of his mother than can provide you the name of the guy who plays one yard to his right on the offensive line. But here's the thing about the Kelce brothers. One of them almost didn't make it here. Let's rephrase that: One of them was once convinced he wouldn't make it here. In 2010, Travis Kelce had been removed from the football team for a full year, his scholarship stripped along with it, after he flunked a marijuana test. "I got kicked off the team for having a little too much fun off the field," he said. That semester, he considered football part of his past, at least for the moment. And he'll tell you that, at the time, it felt like this might be permanent. So he picked up the classifieds. A local call center hired him in the spring. Every day, Kelce would phone residents in Southern Ohio, Eastern Indiana and Northern Kentucky and try to encourage them to sign up for a new government initiative: Obamacare. "I was just getting yelled at every single day," he said. In the summer, he joined an Ohio baseball league. He'd been a three-sport star in high school — football, baseball and basketball — and figured, Hey, why not give baseball another shot? After all, "I thought football was over for me," he said. The Cincinnati football program incurred a coaching change at the onset of Kelce's one-year suspension. Brian Kelly took the head-coaching job at Notre Dame and Jones was hired in his place. At the time, Kelce was trying, albeit unsuccessfully, to latch on mostly as a wildcat quarterback. His new coach had little tape to watch, but Kelce was pretty evidently playing out of position, even though it's the one he played in high school. He had one college reception to his name. There were few who considered his future bright. Few who anticipated that an NFL career awaited. His brother believed otherwise. Shortly after Jones was hired, Jason Kelce walked into the office of Kerry Coombs, the team's secondary coach and special teams coordinator. To Jason, he was simply an ally. Jason had a plan to help his younger brother return to the Cincinnati team. What if he could persuade Travis to move in with him, even if it meant lounging in the shared room of the off-campus apartment Jason rented with quarterback Zach Collaros? "I need you to help sell that to Coach Jones," Jason told Coombs, who shared this response during a phone interview, "and that's exactly what I did. Because when Jason Kelce vouches for you, you're golden. And that's what I told Butch. "This was a crossroads for Travis, and I've seen it go both ways. But he wasn't a bad guy. He was a very likable guy, in fact. I knew he had gold inside of him; you just had to knock off some dirt." Jones had agreed with the plan, but in the interim the one-year suspension stuck. Kelce was not only banned from the Bearcats' games but also from their practices, meetings and the weight room. His brother, two years his elder, would bring a form of football homework back to the apartment. He provided meals and found a place for Travis to work out. "He knew exactly what I wanted to do in life," Travis Kelce said. That was the first time it was taken away. There would be a second. And this is a snippet of the Travis Kelce story that's been lost somewhere along the way. While it was a bit difficult to hide the 2010 suspension from the public — Kelce didn't suit up for a single game that season — Jones divulged that another suspension followed, one understood between player and coach. In response to the first question he received about Travis during a conversation with The Kansas City Star this week, an inquiry into what resonated most about his time coaching Travis, Jones quickly replied. "A journey," Jones said with a laugh. "I think it's a great, great story of perseverance, resolve, drive, and the ability to mature over time." But it took every bit of Kelce's time at UC. In the spring semester ahead of his final season, Kelce violated team policy again. Older brother Jason had already been drafted by the Eagles, but Jones called him in search of some counsel. For a couple of years, Jones had leaned on Jason as his brother's keeper. Now what? How can I get through to him? "Jason's like, 'Don't give up on him, Coach. Please, please don't give up on him,' " Jones recalled, adding. "I never, ever once thought of giving up on him. You now, Travis is a very truthful person. I knew his heart and I knew his character. I loved Travis Kelce. But sometimes you have to give someone some tough love." Jones would inform Kelce of his decision to enforce another suspension. And then, he would outline the parameters for a return to the team. Kelce would have to earn a 3.0 grade-point average that semester. "He jokes about it to this day — that he never had a 3.0 in his life," Jones says. This was a first, then. He got a 3.2. "Doing things that, you know, you didn't typically see Travis Kelce doing his first couple of years at Cincinnati," Travis Kelce said. 'Lesson for all of us' Coombs still coaches at the University of Cincinnati, though there have been stops elsewhere in the last decade. But every fall camp, wherever he might be, he tells his players the same story. More like two stories, actually. One is about a former player who received a team suspension, then refused responsibility for it and left for a new school. The second is about a guy who received a similar punishment, didn't offer a single excuse for it and stuck it out through the hardest year of his life. At the end of the two stories, Coombs will quiz his players on the name of the first example. Ever heard of him? They shake their heads in response, he said, declining to identify that player. Then he'll quiz his players on the name of the second example: Travis Kelce. Ever heard of that guy? "He is a great lesson for all of us," Coombs says. "Not just football players — everyone." Kelce has developed into the best tight end in the NFL, perhaps not just currently but historically. He owns franchise records and NFL records, and if he's slowing down at 33, he's doing an awfully good job of hiding it. This didn't come together by accident. A day ago, he sat at a table inside the lobby of a Scottsdale hotel, answering questions from national media. About 15 feet to his right, Chiefs wide receiver Marquez Valdes-Scantling fielded a question about the guy on his left. "Couldn't ask for a better teammate," Valdes-Scantling said. "He's always talking. Leading by his actions. Leading by his words." When his former coach, Jones, says that Kelce "is the most remarkable turnaround I have ever been a part of," it's more than the 3.0 GPA for one semester. (Kelce returned to school last summer to complete his degree.) It's more than passing a couple of drug tests. Before just about every game — "and this has never happened before or since," Jones says, interrupting himself — referees would approach Jones and request a favor. Help us control No. 18. You know he likes to play through the echo of the whistle. Help us get him under control. "I would smile internally because I knew we had already psychologically affected our opponent," Jones said. "He was our heart and soul. He was our passion. He was the toughness of our football team. He was the mentality of our football team. He was our leader — in every aspect" More succinctly, those retired military leaders got it right. Jones is sitting in his office at Arkansas State, where he's coached since 2021, for the duration of this interview. On one of the walls, he has a framed red Chiefs jersey, Kelce's name and number printed across the back. It arrived as a gift. Kelce scripted a message across it. "One second," Jones said into the phone toward the end of this conversation. "I want to read this to you." Presumably, he moved closer to the jersey, then returned to the phone. And read it out loud. "Coach Jones, it's been one hell of a journey. From giving me a second chance in life to pushing me every day to be great. I love you like a father." It's his favorite item in the room, he said, a conversation piece for anyone who enters. If only they understood the history.