While reviewing old game footage, Patrick Mahomes paused a blurry frame from 2007 — where a woman stood behind the bleachers holding a sign: “Go #15!”
He remembered her — Miss Lily, the janitor who never missed a single game.
Now retired and living alone, she opened her door one Friday to find Mahomes with flowers, groceries… and season tickets.
Taped to the bouquet: “Because someone always cheered — even in the rain.”

The Sign in the Rain

Late at night in his Kansas City home, Patrick Mahomes sat hunched over a laptop, reviewing grainy game footage from 2007. He was 12 years old back then, a skinny kid playing for Whitehouse Junior High in Texas, his jersey emblazoned with #15. As he scrubbed through the tape, a blurry frame caught his eye. Behind the bleachers, barely visible in the drizzle, stood a woman holding a handmade sign: “Go #15!” Patrick froze the image, his heart catching. He knew her—Miss Lily, the school janitor who never missed a game, rain or shine. That sign, that memory, sparked a fire in him.

Miss Lily was a fixture at Whitehouse, always pushing her cart through the halls, humming softly, her smile warm but tired. She’d been at every one of Patrick’s middle school games, standing alone behind the bleachers, her cardboard signs bold with marker. “She believed in me before I believed in myself,” Patrick murmured, the footage still paused. Now 29, a Super Bowl champion and Chiefs superstar, he hadn’t thought of her in years. Where was she now? The question gripped him, urgent and unshakable.

He started digging. Calls to old coaches, a quick search on X, and a chat with a former principal led him to her. Miss Lily, now 71, was retired, living alone in a small apartment in Tyler, Texas. Her pension was modest, her days quiet, her love for football undimmed. Patrick remembered her cheering through storms, her voice cutting through the crowd, shouting “#15!” when he scored. She’d never asked for anything, never sought attention. But he wanted to give her something back.

On a Friday morning in June 2025, Patrick drove to Tyler, a bouquet of sunflowers—her favorite, he’d learned from a former teacher—in one hand, a bag of groceries in the other, and an envelope tucked in his pocket. He knocked on Miss Lily’s door, a faded Chiefs sticker peeling on the frame. When she opened it, her eyes widened, then crinkled with joy. “Patrick Mahomes?” she gasped, her voice still carrying that old cheerleader’s spark. “What’re you doing here, child?”

He handed her the flowers, the groceries—stocked with her favorite snacks, another detail he’d tracked down—and the envelope. Inside were season tickets to the Chiefs’ 2025 home games, prime seats near the 50-yard line. Taped to the bouquet was a note in his handwriting: “Because someone always cheered—even in the rain.” Miss Lily’s hands trembled as she read it, tears pooling. “You saw me back there?” she asked, her voice soft. Patrick nodded. “Every game, Miss Lily. Every single one.”

They sat in her small living room, the walls lined with faded photos and a few old game programs. She told him about those years—working late to clean classrooms, then rushing to the field, rain or not, to cheer for “her kids.” Patrick was her favorite, she admitted, blushing. “You had a spark, even then.” He shared stories of his own—how her signs gave him courage, how her cheers echoed in his mind during tough NFL moments. “You were my first fan,” he said. “That’s worth more than any trophy.”

Patrick didn’t stop at the visit. He’d arranged for a local service to deliver groceries to her weekly, easing the strain of her fixed income. The season tickets came with a driver to take her to and from Arrowhead, ensuring she’d never miss a game. He also slipped her son, who lived out of state, a number to call—a contact to help with her medical bills. “You took care of me,” Patrick told her. “Let me take care of you.”

Word spread when Miss Lily posted a photo on X, holding the flowers and tickets, her smile bright as the sunflowers. “My #15 remembered me,” she wrote. The post went viral, fans linking it to Patrick’s other acts—the college fund for Mr. Daniels, the truck for James, Eli’s game ball. #RainOrShine trended, with users sharing stories of unsung heroes who showed up for them. A local TV station ran a segment, showing clips of that 2007 footage, Miss Lily’s sign faint but unmistakable. “She was his first crowd,” the anchor said.

The impact grew. Miss Lily became a beloved figure at Arrowhead, fans greeting her like royalty when she arrived for the first game. Kids in Tyler sent her homemade signs, mimicking her old ones, reading “Go Miss Lily!” A group of Whitehouse alumni started a fund to repair her apartment complex’s community room, naming it Lily’s Lounge in her honor. Patrick checked in weekly, texting her game predictions, laughing when she teased his play calls.

At the season opener, Miss Lily sat in her new seats, holding a new sign: “Still Cheering #15!” Patrick spotted it mid-game, flashing her a grin from the field. After the Chiefs’ 35-21 win, he jogged over, handing her a signed ball. The crowd roared, and X lit up with photos of the moment. Back in Tyler, Miss Lily placed the ball next to her old game programs, the note from the bouquet framed above. It joined Patrick’s keepsakes—Eli’s letter, James’s voicemail, the chalkboard’s words—a reminder that the loudest cheers often come from the shadows, steady even in the rain.