Let me tell you about the day I discovered that Americans don’t just watch the Super Bowl; they worship it. They treat it like a religious experience, complete with rituals, sacrifices (mostly of chicken wings), and enough devotion to make my mother’s Sunday service look casual.
As a Nigerian living and working in America, I’ve seen some things that make me go “Ah! I can’t come and kill myself.” But nothing prepared me for the beautiful madness of Super Bowl Sunday. Honey, this isn’t about that football that has Okocha and Messi dancing with the ball—no. This is about that other “football.”
The one where grown men, built like cement bags, chase an egg-shaped ball like their lives depend on it.
Let me paint this picture properly.
I clocked in for my shift at 2 PM, thinking it would be “just another Sunday. Boy, was I wrong! The parking lot was already fuller than a Lagos bus during rush hour—and this was five hours before kickoff! The energy inside the restaurant? Palpable.
“How long’s the wait?” became the question of the day. Two hours, I’d say, watching faces fall faster than the naira’s value. That’s when the Benjamins negotiations would begin. “Hey, between us,” they’d whisper, sliding a crisp $100 bill my way, “is there any chance we could speed this up?” I would politely decline, of course, while mentally converting that hundred into naira—over 150,000!
All for just moving a name up a list!
Bro! The temptation was doing press-ups in my mind, but integrity won every time (winks).
Money aside, these fans don’t play. The crowd. The people. The vibrant waves of laughter.
They were a masterpiece of American football culture.
I met an elderly couple, both proudly wearing vintage 49ers jerseys from the ’80s. They completed each other’s sentences as they reminisced about watching Joe Montana in his prime. Then there was a group of Chiefs fans who appeared as if they had raided Party City’s entire red and gold section. I’m talking face paint, wigs, and one guy even sporting a full Chief’s headdress.
The sports bar where I work is a sensory overload in itself. From the floor to the ceiling, it offers a visual experience that lights you up as soon as you walk in. With TVs lining every inch of the walls and the sheer size of the restaurant, it truly feels like a place only found in Texas.
The energy of that Super Bowl Sunday made it seem larger, zestier.
Added to the verve was the sweet aroma of barbecue burgers, tacos, wings, and nachos. And the sound—oh, the sound! It was like being inside a blender filled with sports commentary, classic rock, and passionate debates about whether Taylor Swift would make an appearance.
Speaking of food, I’d never seen so many plates of wings fly by. Our servers were doing their best impression of NFL running backs, juking and spinning their way through the crowd with loaded trays. The kitchen staff deserved MVP status that night, I swear! Keeping up with an endless stream of orders while trading friendly trash talk about their team predictions was no joke!
The best moment came right before kickoff.
The whole place just… synchronized. Every conversation paused, every head turned to the screens, and for that beautiful moment, there was no race or gender. Just a beautiful meld of football fans united in their love for the game (and their shared anxiety about their Super Bowl squares).
As my shift ended and I counted my tips (doing more naira conversions than a Bureau De Change), I couldn’t help but smile.
Back home, we have our football passion—the kind that makes grown men cry when the Super Eagles play. But this? This was my American Super Bowl.
I walked away with a story that day, a deeper understanding of American culture, and a newfound appreciation for why they call it Super Bowl Sunday and not just, you know, Sunday.
Thanks for reading this, lover.
Until the next one.