Punting Is for Pansies

Yarnell grew up in Topeka and has lived in Olathe since 2000. When he's not making movies, he helps coach the Olathe East High School football team. Yarnell, 32, says he probably would have retired if arena football hadn't arrived suddenly in Kansas City, though he's not certain what a future with football holds. "I'm scared, I think, to get to the real world," he says. "I think that's why I think I can still keep coming back and try to play."

Noah's teammates fail to respond to the pressure of the money quarter. A Dallas touchdown early in the fourth puts the Desperados ahead by 14 points. Kelly throws an interception on Kansas City's ensuing drive.

Butler, the Brigade fan who fashioned a costume, realizes that the turnover will make it difficult for Kansas City to mount a comeback. From his seat in Section 106, Butler begins looking forward to the next game. "As soon as we get the first game out of our system, we'll be doing OK," he says.

Four plays later, Dallas scores another touchdown. Butler looks up at the scoreboard: Dallas 51, Kansas City 37. "Hey, I get a free pizza," he says, remembering a public-address announcement that promised ticket holders a free Papa John's pie if Dallas scored 50 or more points.

Aside from the score, Butler likes what he sees, though some of the rules are confusing. Still, the view from Butler's seat explains a lot of the league's popularity. The short and narrow field seems to emphasize the gladiatorial elements of the game. Bodies streak and bang. Tackling a guy into the padded wall often lands the player into a fan's lap. Arcing spirals sail through the air. Punting is illegal. When the ball is not in play, loud rock and hip-hop boom from the speakers. The arena's announcer says a player is not just tackled but "hammered." For the requisite playing of "Y.M.C.A," five promotion types run on the field dressed like the Village People. The crowd — reported generously at 11,571 — makes enough noise to compensate for the fact that there are hundreds of empty seats.

"We're in a good position because the game itself is such an exciting product," Prochnow says. "We don't have to get out there and start to convince people, 'You should really go see this game, because it's great.' People kind of understand the excitement around the game."

The Brigade's ticket sales support Tyler's contention. In selling 8,000 season tickets, the Brigade already ranks among the top three or four teams. But the arena league seems incapable of becoming something more than an entertainment option on a par with movie theaters and dart leagues. The sport is watched but not followed. Going on year four of the NBC deal, even Sports Illustrated subscribers would struggle to name an arena league player.

Reggie Harris, Prochnow's partner in the sports-management business and the Brigade's general manager, got a feel for the partial nature of the victories in the arena league when he ate at a Dallas steakhouse the night before the game. During the meal, he learned that his server had been to a Desperados game. She said she had enjoyed herself, but not because of the game. The reason she had a good time, Harris says, "was because she won a Whataburger contest."

With a minute to play in the game, lineman Noah plops his 6-foot-2-inch, 280-pound frame on one of the folding chairs that serve as the Brigade's bench. He rests his helmet on a thigh. "Oh ... my ... God!" he says to no one in particular, an expression of shock at the looming defeat.

Kansas City scores a late touchdown, but no miraculous comeback is in store. Dallas wins 58-44.

In arena league tradition, players and cheerleaders hang out by the sideboards after the game to sign autographs. A few Brigade players chat with several New Orleans VooDoo fans who attended the game. "I want you back, man," a middle-aged woman in a purple VooDoo jersey tells Cohen.

Speaking to a small group of reporters, defensive specialist Pointer blames the defeat on his unit giving up too many big plays. "If you look at the whole game, we really beat ourselves," he says. "We just gotta bounce back. It's the first game of the season. We've got 15 more."

In the Brigade locker room, players undress. They use scissors to cut the tape on their ankles. The room smells like sweat, sports cream, and pizza that's been left in boxes on a folding table. The players seem disappointed but not disheartened by the loss. In spite of three turnovers and 11 penalties, the team still managed to finish within two scores of its opponent.

Fans saw a "team on the road, playing with new guys and anxious to do well instead of settling down and making plays, including myself," Cohen says between bites from a slice of pizza. "You can't do that when you're on somebody else's turf.... We might have lived through the penalties, but we definitely couldn't have lived through the turnovers."

Quarterback Kelly meets reporters after a shower. He walks gingerly, the way that men do when they feel groin pain. He's wearing team-issued gray sweats and holding a small plastic bag he picked up at Kansas City International before the flight to Dallas. "I think we're all still confident," he says. "We're a good team, and we're going to come out and play hard every week. If we just limited some of the mistakes, we'd have had a chance tonight."

Outside the arena, a bus waits to take the team to its downtown hotel. Cohen and a few other players spot former VooDoo head coach Mike Neu, who now works as a scout for the New Orleans Saints. Neu gives Cohen a good ribbing.

"Going bald?" Neu asks Cohen, tapping his scalp.

"A little bit," Cohen replies.

Eventually, the door of the idling bus closes. At 5:42 p.m., the driver pulls away from the arena. A sheet of paper taped to the front window of the bus announces the passengers as the "Kansas City Brigades."