You had one job… and you did it perfectly actually…

The misunderstanding was completely on their part.

You said football game, and they nodded like yeah, totally, cleats on grass, twenty-two lads chasing a ball, goalposts and jerseys. Easy.

They follow you home, The United States, for a week of leave... bonding... right to the stadium gates with the confidence of men who’ve survived battlefields and bar fights and Soap’s cooking. None of that readied them for the sensory nuclear blast that is an American NFL arena.

It hits them instantly.

Fifty thousand fans wearing foam hats shaped like... is that cheese?. Grills smoking like a ritual sacrifice. Flags so large they could double as emergency shelters. The alcohol-to-person ratio defies known mathematics.

Price squints like the air’s too loud. “This isn’t football.”

“This,” you say, guiding them forward, “is American football.”

Gaz takes one look at a man wearing a full-on shoulder-pad cosplay for a team he does not play for. “Why is everyone dressed like they’re going to war?”

“They are, bro. Emotionally.”

Ghost says nothing, but his mask shifts like it’s trying to retreat off his face.

Soap stops dead in front of a tailgate table stacked with enough smoked meats to destabilize a small country. “This is… this is the real reason yous won the revolution, innit?”

And then the stadium announcer bellows something unintelligible. Fireworks go off for no reason. A marching band storms the field like an invading army of trumpets. Ghost flinches once, silently recalibrating his entire worldview.

The seats shake as the national anthem begins. Everyone rises. Hands on hearts. Hats off. The air thickens with reverence and questionable beer choices.

The boys stand too, instinctively respectful, though their expressions vary:

Price: stoic, respectful, scanning like an officer who’s suddenly unsure if he’s at a sports event or the opening ceremony for the end of the world.

Gaz: quietly impressed, lips parted like he didn’t expect the singer to shred his soul this hard.

Soap: absolutely mouthing along despite this not being his country. Respectful. Amused.

Ghost: stiff as a post. He understands ceremonies, but this one feels like it might summon a deity if the vocalist hits one more high note.

And then it happens.

A rumble. A thunder. A tearing of the sky.

The flyover.

In Europe, these are modest, polite gestures. A “hello we exist” whisper.

Over here?

Four F-22 Raptors scream over the stadium at low altitude, ripping through the air like they’re declaring war on gravity itself. The shockwave claps through the seats. Fans lose their minds. Beer spills, people howl, hats launch into the troposphere. A guy behind you screams “YEAH BABY THAT’S MY TAX MONEY.”

Soap physically jumps. The man who didn’t flinch at mortar fire actually jolts.

Gaz grabs your arm, laughing in disbelief. “Is that...?"

Ghost is... reluctantly amused. “Do they… do they do this every game?”

Price's voice finally appears, low and resigned, like the stadium itself broke him. “I’ve seen enough. Triple their defense budget.”

The anthem ends. The crowd roars. The jets vanish into the blue like smug metal falcons.

The boys stare at the sky in stunned silence.

And you? You’re trying not to laugh because they look like four trained soldiers who just discovered America doesn’t do anything halfway; as kickoff starts and the wall of death on the field clashes like two teams of titans trying to kill each other.

This is America. Welcome to the NFL.