Eric Bieniemy and his former student — the Chiefs’ future captain, unite for Texas relief: “These folks need us now more than ever”

In the fading light of a scorching summer afternoon, Eric Bieniemy — the former Chiefs offensive coordinator and a symbol of grit and leadership — leaned against the side of an old pickup truck, its bed filled with food, water, and blankets. His eyes scanned the devastation in Kerrville, Texas, where floodwaters had left neighborhoods in ruins and hundreds of families displaced.

Across the truck stood Isiah Pacheco, his former player, now a rising star in Kansas City’s offense. Sweat rolled down his face, but his hands didn’t stop moving as he loaded another box. The two shared little conversation — they didn’t need it. Their bond was forged through years of hard practice and playoff battles. But today wasn’t about football. They were here for something greater.

“Man… these Texas folks need us,” Bieniemy said quietly, his voice firm and low. 

Pacheco paused and nodded with conviction.

“I’m in, Coach. Let’s hit Kerrville. Food, water, whatever it takes. Maybe we can lift their spirits too.”
His tone held the same quiet determination that once carried him down the field through blitzes and doubt — but today was no game. This was real life, and real people needed help.

Bieniemy allowed himself a rare smile.

“You bring your playbook? Might need a few schemes to keep us on track.”
Pacheco chuckled.
“Always, Coach. Let’s show them they’re not alone.”

The truck roared to life, headed toward Kerrville. Along the way, the once-vibrant Texas landscape was now scarred by nature’s fury. Uprooted trees lined the roads, fields lay under murky water. Inside the truck, the silence was focused. Bieniemy drove, strategizing as always — not for a win, but for impact. Pacheco monitored local updates, locating the hardest-hit areas.

When they arrived, the destruction was sobering. Homes were splintered, streets submerged. Families clustered near makeshift tents. Bieniemy parked near a relief center and they jumped into action — no fanfare, no delay. They unloaded boxes quickly, efficiently, like running a perfectly rehearsed play.

Whispers rippled through the crowd:

“Is that Bieniemy?”
“That’s Pacheco, right?”
Their presence sparked hope, if only briefly. But they hadn’t come for attention. They had come to serve.

Pacheco passed out bottles of water, asking gently,

“You holding up okay?”
He knelt beside kids, handed out blankets, tossed a football into a nearby field to get them smiling again.
“Ever think about being a running back?” he teased a boy who fumbled the ball.

Bieniemy, ever the tactician, ensured every box was accounted for and reached the right place. He watched Pacheco from afar, eyes filled with pride. The same young man who once ran through defenses was now running toward people who needed more than supplies — they needed hope.

An older man whose home was destroyed pulled Bieniemy aside.

“Coach… I saw you win Super Bowls. I never thought I’d see you here helping someone like me.”
Bieniemy placed a firm hand on his shoulder.
“We’re all on the same team today.”

As the sun set, the supply truck was nearly empty, but their purpose burned bright.

“We did some good today,” Pacheco said, wiping dirt from his hands.
“We did,” Bieniemy replied. “But we’re not done. These folks still aren’t back on their feet.”
Pacheco nodded:
“Then we go back.”
“Let’s go,” said Bieniemy, starting the engine once more.

They drove off — not just a coach and a player — but teammates in humanity, carrying not just boxes, but dignity, resilience, and a promise: Texas, you're not alone.