Trey Smith admits what it’s REALLY like blocking for Patrick Mahomes to Travis and Jason

The first time I lined up in Arrowhead Stadium, the noise was like a living thing—vibrating through my bones, rattling my helmet, and pulsing beneath my cleats. I’d played in big games before, but nothing prepared me for the NFL, and certainly nothing prepared me for blocking for Patrick Mahomes.

Coming out of college, I thought I had it figured out. I knew my assignments, trusted my technique, and believed that if I did my job for the three or four seconds a play lasted, good things would happen. But the NFL isn’t college, and Patrick Mahomes isn’t just any quarterback. He’s a magician, a chaos artist, a guy who can turn a busted play into a highlight reel with a flick of his wrist or a spin out of nowhere.

That first training camp, I struggled. There’s this timer in your head as an offensive lineman—an egg timer, Coach called it. You feel it ticking down: one, two, three, ball’s out. But with Pat, that timer means nothing. Sometimes he’d hold onto the ball, dancing in the pocket, eyes scanning downfield for something no one else could see. Other times he’d scramble, not out to the edge like most quarterbacks, but right up the middle—splitting a gap that barely existed.

Coach would get on me every day. “Smith! Don’t let that timer go off! Drive, drive, drive!” I’d grit my teeth and dig in, but it was hard. The first few weeks, I’d lose my man just as Pat ducked under a tackle and fired a no-look pass forty yards downfield. Or I’d hold on too long, get flagged, and kill a big gain.

But then you start to see the greatness up close. Not just in games, but in practice. One afternoon, I watched him throw a ball around his back—like he was playing point guard, not quarterback. Another time, in a preseason game, he spun away from a sack and tossed a behind-the-back pass that left everyone, including the defense, frozen in place. I remember thinking, “Who does that? Who even tries that?” But that’s Pat. He’s one of a kind.

There was this one play against Tampa Bay, late in the game. The pocket collapsed—Devin White coming hard off the edge. I got beat, plain and simple. I thought the play was dead, but Pat spun off White, tiptoed down the sideline, and, just before going out of bounds, whipped a pass to Clyde in the end zone. Touchdown. I jogged back to the huddle, shaking my head. He’d turned my mistake into magic.

It’s not just the big moments, though. It’s the little things he does in practice—the way he reads the defense, the way he talks to us between plays, always calm, always looking for an edge. He makes you want to be better, because you know if you just hold your block a second longer, he’ll make something incredible happen.

After a while, you start to develop a feel for it. There’s the initial play—the way it’s drawn up on the whiteboard. But then, after three or four seconds, you know there’s a second play coming. Your job isn’t done when the ball should be out; it’s just beginning. You have to refocus, reset your feet, and be ready for anything. Sometimes you have to let go, just at the right moment, to avoid a holding call as Pat scoots out of the pocket. Other times, you dig in even harder, knowing he’s about to dart up the middle for a first down.

It’s an art, not a science. There’s no playbook for blocking for a guy like Mahomes. You learn to anticipate, to adapt. You watch film, not just of the defense, but of Pat—his tendencies, his tells. Last season, I started to pick up on his habits. If he got flushed a certain way, I knew to hold my block inside a little longer. If the defense was trying to funnel him to a particular spot, I’d brace myself, knowing he might cut back at the last second.

But even then, he’s unpredictable. Sometimes, I still have no idea what he’s going to do. That’s part of the fun, though. You just have to figure it out on the fly.

There are moments, though, when he pulls off something so wild that you can’t help but lose yourself in the excitement. Like that play against Denver—year two, I think—where he flipped the ball underhand to the jet sweep and it went for a touchdown. Or when we’d score and Wy, our most chill lineman, would suddenly turn into a wild man, headbutting me and yelling, “Let’s go!” I’d laugh, adrenaline pumping, and think, “Yeah, Pat’s that dude.”

But with all the chaos, there’s a rhythm to it. The longer you play with him, the more you learn to trust it. You learn to trust yourself. You learn to trust your teammates. And you learn that, as long as you do your job, Pat will take care of the rest.

There’s a moment, every game, when I look up at the scoreboard, see the crowd roaring, and realize I’m part of something special. Blocking for Patrick Mahomes isn’t easy. It’s unpredictable, it’s exhausting, and it’s the most fun I’ve ever had playing football.

Some days, I still get beat. Some days, I still get flagged. But every day, I get to watch greatness up close. And every day, I get to be part of the magic.

That’s what it’s really like blocking for Patrick Mahomes.