It’s 2:50 a.m. local time. Drunken masses huddle in front of the lone big screen at a sports bar in the western part of London. It’s the AFC Championship. The Kansas City Chiefs vs. the Buffalo Bills. Fourth quarter, third down.
It’s 2:51 a.m. local time. The bar is empty.
What happened?
Samaje Perine, the Chiefs’ third-string running back, has just gotten a first down on his first snap of the game, clinching Kansas City’s third Super Bowl appearance in a row and a chance at becoming the first NFL franchise ever to three-peat as Super Bowl champions. There is still time on the clock, and a trophy presentation ceremony is scheduled to begin when the clock strikes zero.
It does not matter. The people of London are not happy. The people of London do not care to stay and watch your trophy ceremony. The people of London are going to bed.
As any American football fan has observed, the meteoric rise of quarterback Patrick Mahomes and the Chiefs has coincided with a meteoric rise in distaste for the quarterback and his franchise. Concealed behind storylines riddling the image of Mahomes’ brother and wife, in addition to Taylor Swift’s romance with star tight end Travis Kelce, a seething hatred for the NFL’s most dominant franchise has overtaken the sports world — and when I say world, I can say first-hand that this hatred is truly international.
Let’s rewind a little. As I resign from B-52 and my editorship at The Fordham Ram to study abroad in London, my insatiable appetite for sports stays with me. Plagued by pneumonia and homesickness, I muster the strength to join some friends at a sports bar for the NFL’s conference championship weekend. You may be surprised to know that my New England Patriots didn’t make the game. Nonetheless, here I am.
As the Philadelphia Eagles decimate the Washington Commanders, I start to notice that the bargoers — who came to watch American football — now seem more interested in a different kind of football: the Fulham vs. Manchester United match on the corner TV. Somewhere between Philadelphia’s fifth and seventh rushing touchdown, I, a known enemy of the sport of soccer, turn my attention to this corner TV. I become a massive fan of a man by the name of Adama Traoré, who is built like Derrick Henry. No soccer player should be built like Derrick Henry. Oh my goodness, he just trucked a defender and wasn’t carded. I take it back. Every soccer player should be built like Derrick Henry.
This experience was infinitely more entertaining than the entire second half of the NFC championship game.
This is a long way of saying that few Londoners seemed to have any partiality when it came to the victor of the Eagles-Commanders game. As the fourth quarter clock dwindled, however, it became evident that the upcoming Chiefs-Bills game would tell a very different story.
Droves of fans who hadn’t even bothered showing up for the NFC championship crowded the bar, almost all donning Bills attire. I heard a few North Americans from New York, Toronto and the Midwest — close enough to be true Bills fans. I also heard dozens of British accents — locals — who seemed as passionate about the Bills as someone born and raised in Rochester. It was extremely fascinating.
Coupled with this fanfare was unrelenting trash talk for any Chief who dared touch the ball. Sarcastic jeers of “Flag! Flag!” filled the bar the moment a Bills defender laid a finger on Mahomes. Such trash talk was far more prominent than any cheers for a Bills first down or score. I began to wonder if these blue-and-red clad bargoers were really Bills fans.
It seems more likely that, had the Baltimore Ravens beaten the Bills in the divisional round, I’d be drowning in a sea of purple. Had the Cleveland Browns rallied behind Jameis Winston to get to this game, the bar would be dressed in Brown — their jerseys would probably still have the tag on them. I’d bet that half of the Josh Allen jerseys at this bar were returned Monday morning.
I don’t say this because the Bills faithful became disillusioned with the prospect of Allen leading them to the promised land, or angry that their quarterback didn’t quite play up to his Most Valuable Player (MVP) standard in the championship game.
I say this because, had the 2016 Golden State Warriors or the 2007 Patriots — two of the most hated teams in sports history — lined up against those red and yellow jerseys, the outcome would have been no different. From the Bay Area of California to the streets of West London, from every corner of this world — and probably even among the seven inhabitants of the international space station — one rule is supreme.
No matter what, you root against the Chiefs.
Whether it’s the extracurricular storylines surrounding the team’s rise, the favoritism many feel the team receives from referees or their uncanny ability to win even the ugliest of games, the Chiefs have become the world’s most hated team.
My time in London has proven this. As the reign of the Chiefs draws on, NFL fandom is becoming less about who you love and more about who you hate. Gone are the days of having a tough decision on your hands about who to root for once your team is eliminated from the playoffs or the playoff picture. That’s because, in 2025, you don’t have to choose who to root for. You must only choose who to root against.
As I walked home that night, I talked with a fellow bargoer — a stranger. I asked who he would root for in the Super Bowl. Logically, there are only two answers to this question: either of the two teams who are playing.
Not so. He responded, bleakly, with three universal words.
“Not the Chiefs.”
