I said “Super Bowl Sunday” out loud, and instantly the chicken yard went silent—that eerie pre-snap quiet where everyone’s waiting for the count.
Mike Crowe puffed up and took a few confident steps like he’d just won the coin toss. Hennifer Lopez lifted her head slowly, eyes locked on my hand, then the ground, then back to my hand again—that same dog-beg look that says, You’re going to want to put the food right here. I’ll wait.
Andrea shifted position, reading the field. Goldie Hen pretended she wasn’t interested, which fooled no one. Dixie Chick edged closer to the feed bin. Meryl Cheep and Reese Featherspoon hung back like veteran defenders, watching for mistakes. Reba McHentire stood her ground like she’d been doing this her whole career. Sheryl Crowe sidled in (last name purely coincidental, no relation to Mike Crowe) already prepared to steal something and deny it later.
I hadn’t even opened the bag, and I was already under pressure.
When the bowl finally hit the ground, the first mealy worm dropped like a kickoff, and the yard exploded. Andrea charged straight up the middle, driving her beak down for yardage. Goldie Hen slid in from the side and threw a solid block, cutting off Dixie Chick and opening a lane wide enough to drive a tractor through.
Hennifer Lopez saw it instantly and cut left, scooping the worm and heading for daylight—but Andrea wrapped her up mid-stride, wings flaring, feathers flying, a clean, no-nonsense tackle that stopped the play cold.
The worm didn’t move.
Everyone else did.
Mike Crowe ran the sideline crowing like a play-by-play announcer who had very strong opinions and absolutely no influence over the game.
In the chaos, Sheryl Crowe darted in, snagged the worm, and took off on a return so fast nobody saw the interception happen. Reese Featherspoon gave chase. Meryl Cheep followed. Dixie Chick joined in late, because that’s her style. Reba McHentire held her ground, unimpressed, like she’d seen better plays in earlier seasons.
By the time the dust settled, possession was unclear, tempers were high, and at least one hen felt she’d been robbed by bad officiating.
Then the pace slowed. The hens flopped into the dirt like linemen between drives, dust bathing and pretending this was all very controlled. Mike Crowe strutted past them, chest out, crowing victory for reasons known only to him.
I thought the quarter was over.
Hennifer Lopez stood up, shook off the dust, and stared at the empty patch of ground where the bowl had been. Then she looked at me. Then the ground again.
Same expectation.
That look said, Nice drive. Now bring out the real play.
And that’s when I realized my mistake. I had said “Super Bowl” without clarifying terms. I’d hyped the crowd, crossed midfield on nothing but optimism, and left myself wide open.
Inside homes everywhere, humans argued about refs and commercials.
Out in my yard, the chickens ran their own game—blocking, tackling, intercepting, calling audibles, and demanding a replay in the form of a refill.
And eventually, worn down by relentless pressure and one rooster who would not stop crowing about it…
I refilled the bowl.
Final score:
Chickens—undefeated.
Human—still learning
the rules.
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