After a beloved hot dog vendor passed away, Patrick Mahomes bought the entire stand and renamed it “Big Joe’s 15” — but what his dad does every game day melts hearts
Big Joe had fed Mahomes since his rookie year. Now, every home game, Patrick’s father stops by, buys a hot dog, and leaves one untouched on the counter — a silent tribute to a man who once said, “This kid’s gonna be someone.”

Big Joe’s 15

In Kansas City, where the Chiefs’ red and gold pulse through every street, Patrick Mahomes was more than a quarterback—he was the heartbeat of a city. By 2025, with multiple Super Bowl rings and a legacy as the NFL’s brightest star, Mahomes was a global icon. But for one beloved hot dog vendor, Big Joe, Patrick was always just “that rookie kid” with a big smile and bigger dreams. When Big Joe passed away, Patrick bought his entire hot dog stand and renamed it Big Joe’s 15 in his honor. Yet it was what Patrick’s father, Pat Mahomes Sr., does every game day that has melted hearts across Chiefs Kingdom and beyond.

Big Joe Thompson was a Kansas City legend, a larger-than-life figure whose hot dog stand outside Arrowhead Stadium was as much a part of game day as the tailgates and touchdown cheers. With his booming laugh and mustard-stained apron, Joe had been slinging hot dogs for 30 years, feeding fans, players, and even the occasional celebrity. When Patrick arrived in Kansas City as a rookie in 2017, he was just another hungry 21-year-old, drawn to Joe’s stand by the smell of grilled onions and the vendor’s infectious energy.

“Hey, rookie!” Joe called out after Patrick’s first game, tossing him a hot dog on the house. “This kid’s gonna be someone,” he said to the crowd, pointing at Patrick with a pair of tongs. That became their ritual: every home game, Patrick would swing by Joe’s stand, trade jokes, and grab a hot dog—always free, despite his protests. Joe saw something in Patrick—a spark, a humility—that went beyond football. “You keep that heart, kid,” Joe would say, slapping mustard on a bun. “That’s what’ll make you great.”

Over the years, as Patrick’s star soared, he never forgot Big Joe. Even after Super Bowl wins and MVP awards, he’d make time to visit the stand, sometimes bringing teammates or his daughter, Sterling, who’d giggle as Joe snuck her an extra pickle. Joe, now in his late 60s, never asked for anything, but Patrick knew the vendor’s health was fading. Diabetes and a bad hip made long game days tough, yet Joe kept showing up, his stand a beacon of Kansas City spirit.

In early 2024, Big Joe passed away quietly in his sleep. The news hit Kansas City like a fumble in the red zone. Fans left flowers and Chiefs jerseys at the shuttered hot dog stand, and Arrowhead felt a little emptier without Joe’s laugh. Patrick, on a bye week in Texas, got the call from his dad, Pat Sr., who’d grown close to Joe over the years. “He believed in you from day one,” Pat Sr. said, his voice heavy. Patrick sat in silence, remembering Joe’s words: This kid’s gonna be someone. He knew he had to do something.

Without fanfare, Patrick bought the hot dog stand, which was at risk of being sold off to a chain. He invested thousands to refurbish it—new grills, a fresh coat of red paint, and a sign that read Big Joe’s 15, honoring Joe’s faith in him and his jersey number. Patrick hired Joe’s nephew, Marcus, to run it, ensuring the stand stayed in the family. The grand reopening was a quiet affair, just before the 2024 season, with Patrick serving the first hot dog to Joe’s widow, Clara. “Joe loved this city,” Patrick said, voice cracking. “This is for him.”

But it was Pat Mahomes Sr.’s game-day ritual that turned the story into something unforgettable. Pat Sr., a former MLB pitcher and Patrick’s biggest cheerleader, had always been a fixture at Chiefs games, tailgating with fans and swapping stories about his son. After Joe’s passing, Pat Sr. started a new tradition. Every home game, he’d stop by Big Joe’s 15, buy two hot dogs, and place one—untouched—on the counter. “This one’s for Joe,” he’d say softly, tipping his Chiefs cap before walking away. It was a silent tribute to the man who’d fed his son, believed in him, and become a friend.

Fans noticed. One Sunday, a tailgater snapped a photo of Pat Sr. at the stand, the extra hot dog sitting on the counter, a small Chiefs flag tucked beside it. The image, posted on X with the caption “Pat Mahomes Sr. honors Big Joe every game. This family’s heart is unreal,” went viral, racking up millions of views. The photo captured something raw—Pat Sr.’s weathered hands, the untouched hot dog, the stand’s glowing sign. It wasn’t just a tribute; it was a love letter to a city, a vendor, and a shared history.

By the next game, Big Joe’s 15 was a pilgrimage site. Fans lined up, not just for hot dogs but to leave their own tributes—notes, candles, even a tiny grill-shaped charm inscribed with Joe’s name. Local news picked up the story, and soon it was national: “Patrick Mahomes Buys Hot Dog Stand for Late Vendor, Dad’s Tribute Steals Hearts.” Clara, Joe’s widow, gave a tearful interview, holding the photo of Pat Sr.’s ritual. “Joe always said Patrick was special,” she said. “But this? This is family.”

The ritual became a game-day staple. Pat Sr., ever humble, didn’t expect the attention. When asked about it, he shrugged. “Joe was good people. He saw something in my boy before anyone else. This is just respect.” But for fans, it was more. It was a reminder of the small acts that bind a community—the vendors, the tailgates, the shared dreams. Patrick, meanwhile, stayed quiet about the stand, letting his dad’s tribute speak louder than any press conference. At games, he’d glance at Big Joe’s 15 from the sidelines, a faint smile crossing his face.

In Whitehouse, Texas, where Patrick grew up, the story felt like home. This was the same Patrick who’d swept confetti with a janitor, saved a teacher’s job, and worn his old jersey to a coach’s funeral. “That’s Pat,” his mom, Randi, said, beaming. “And that’s his daddy, too. They don’t forget who helped them along.” Kansas City embraced the Mahomes family even tighter, with Big Joe’s 15 hot dogs becoming a must-have at Arrowhead, each bite a nod to a man who’d fed a future star.

The stand thrived, with Marcus adding “Joe’s Special”—a hot dog with extra onions, just how Joe liked it—to the menu. A portion of every sale went to a scholarship fund for local kids, set up in Joe’s name. Pat Sr.’s ritual continued, rain or shine, each untouched hot dog a quiet prayer. Fans started their own tributes, leaving notes at the stand: “For Joe, who fed us all.” A mural went up near Arrowhead, showing Joe at his grill, Patrick at his side, with Big Joe’s 15 in bold letters.

By 2025, as the Chiefs chased another Super Bowl, the story of Big Joe’s 15 had touched the world. A fan in Japan recreated the stand’s sign for a Chiefs watch party. A school in Missouri taught kids about kindness using Pat Sr.’s ritual. And at Arrowhead, Patrick wore a patch on his jersey with “BJ15” stitched in gold. When asked about it, he said simply, “Joe’s still with us. Every game.”

On game days, as Pat Sr. sets that extra hot dog on the counter, the crowd at Big Joe’s 15 falls quiet, honoring a vendor who saw a rookie’s potential and a family that never forgot. In a city built on football and heart, the Mahomes’ tribute to Big Joe proves that the greatest legacies aren’t just in trophies—they’re in the love you leave behind, one hot dog at a time.