This year, Sam is a swashbucklin’ Buccaneer’s fan. He’ll tell you it’s because he has always been but in reality, he is just further up Tom Brady’s arse than a championship ring after an unfortunate 2 ply finger slip.
Don’t you dare call Sam a bandwagoner though. He’s owned his team’s merchandise for an entire month. That’s at least 2 weeks longer than all the other fairweather Brady stans.
Like all champions, Sam has a pre-game ritual that he sticks to every year – uploading a 6 am photo of the boys at the pub with a caption that implies he knows a fair bit about American Football,
“Time to reclaim the glory of Super Bowl XXXVII!!! It’s been a long wait for us but it’ll make victory so much sweeter!!! What a story! Brady, Wirfs, Marpet how can they lose #superbowlLV #americansportfanatic #tombrady”
After showing everyone he can read an ESPN article he gets back to sipping his pint. Which he refuses to admit is going down rougher than a beaver’s breakfast.
During the game, he overcompensates for his lack of actual knowledge with obnoxious hollering at the screen. In true American fashion, he knows that being the loudest is more important than being the most correct.
He begins to hear rumbling among Chief fans that the ref is favouring his beloved Buccaneers. He hears someone yell, “may as well give the refs a Tampa jersey!” His comment is met with hearty agreement from the room.
Sam is enraged. He knows he disagrees with the guy but he isn’t exactly sure why yet. He jumps on Twitter to read up on the comments and decides to establish his dominance as the authority figure in the room, “playing for the Chiefs more like it!!”
Sam stews in the unpalatable broth of awkward silence. He assures himself that the room just didn’t understand the rules of the game because if they did they would be giving him a standing ovation for that schooling.
To recover, Sam ramps up his bullshit and refuses to let anyone enjoy the halftime show in peace. He’s 1cm from some random’s ear talking in excruciating detail about all the trades he made in his NFL fantasy footy team. He WILL be respected.
With minutes to go, a wild “streaker” interrupts the game. Sam racks his brain for something witty to yell out. It’s his time for redemption but he can’t think of anything. His mate leans over and quietly says to Sam, “that bloke just got more yards than the chiefs”.
Sam does the unthinkable and loudly booms to the room, “THAT BLOKE JUST GOT MORE YARDS THAN THE CHIEFS!” He looks at his mate like a dog that just shat on the carpet. He knows what he’s done.
By the end of the game, Sam is a wreck – inebriated on both alcohol and bandwagoning. He knows he can’t just stop drinking after 6 pre-noon pints so he decides to continue the party like he’d won the Super Bowl.
By about 2 pm, he’s as lost as a yank with an atlas. Stumbling around the city, rambling about the Goat and trying to make regular citizens care about gridiron.
Sadly, the only emotion he gets from people going about their day is when he crashes into a bloke eating his lunch while trying to impersonate one of his idol’s trademark plays. He’s abruptly shoved into a bench where he wallows around in a stupor.
This is not how you treat a champion.
