The Whole World Watches: How the Bengals Schedule Became a Geopolitical Mood Ring

In a world where supply-chain disruptions can sink currencies faster than a TikTok trend, the Cincinnati Bengals have quietly published a schedule that, on the surface, is merely 17 dates and a few bye-week tears. Yet from an international vantage point—say, a damp café in Istanbul where the espresso tastes like geopolitical regret—the Bengals’ calendar reads like a Morse code tapped out by late-stage capitalism itself.

Let’s begin with the obvious: the NFL’s global expansion is no longer content with polite London cameos. This year, the Bengals don’t leave the Lower 48, which is either a diplomatic slight or a mercy killing, depending on how you feel about Joe Burrow’s passport photo. Still, the league’s insistence on marketing gridiron pageantry to nations that already have perfectly serviceable football (the round one, the one that actually uses feet) means Cincinnati’s home opener against Baltimore will be simulcast in 197 territories. That’s more countries than currently recognize the Armenian genocide—make of that what you will.

The schedule drops right as BRICS nations flirt with a dollarless future, so naturally the Bengals’ prime-time slots are sponsored by a cryptocurrency exchange whose CEO is either in Singapore or a federal holding cell—authorities can’t decide. Each Thursday, Sunday, and Monday night telecast thus becomes a soft-power communique: watch our linebackers, ignore the inflation gnawing your 401(k). It’s soft imperialism wrapped in seven-layer dip.

Zoom out and you’ll notice the Bengals’ away schedule traces the rusting spine of post-industrial America—Pittsburgh, Cleveland, Baltimore—cities that once forged the steel now used to build Chinese aircraft carriers. The irony isn’t lost on overseas fans streaming through VPNs named after Norse gods. One Shanghai-based Bengals supporter (handle: WhoDeyXi) told me he watches to “study American decline in 4K.” His government, ever helpful, slows the feed just enough to insert subliminal messages about Taiwanese reunification. By the fourth quarter he’s 80 percent sure Taiwan is already part of Ohio.

And then there’s the bye week, strategically placed in Week 7, right when European gas prices traditionally spike enough to make German pensioners nostalgic for coal. The NFL calls it competitive balance; the Bundesliga calls it free content. With no Bengals game that Sunday, German broadcasters will loop highlights of last season’s playoff collapse against Kansas City, overlaying Bundesliga crowd noise for emotional resonance. Somewhere in Düsseldorf, a man in lederhosen yells “Ochocinco!” and feels alive.

Perhaps the most quietly global subplot is the Bengals’ Halloween showdown with the 49ers—an intra-national contest freighted with Silicon Valley symbolism. While San Francisco’s tech titans pivot to AI girlfriends who never file HR complaints, Cincinnati’s roster is a living experiment in guaranteed contracts and publicly funded stadiums. The game will be pirated in Lagos internet cafés where “Joe Mixon” autocorrects to “joie de vivre.” Viewers there aren’t sure what a first down is, but they recognize debt peonage when they see it.

All of which is to say, the Bengals schedule isn’t merely a list of who to hate on Sundays. It’s a trans-Atlantic Rorschach test: to Americans, hope; to Europeans, a cautionary tale about public subsidies; to the rest, a glittering sitcom in shoulder pads. When Cincinnati travels to Dallas on December 10, the Cowboys’ new $2 billion practice facility—complete with climate-controlled holograms—will beam into refugee camps whose inhabitants measure wealth in potable water. Somewhere in that camp a kid will mimic Ja’Marr Chase’s touchdown dance, and for six seconds the temperature of human suffering drops a degree.

So circle your calendars, comrades. The Bengals play at 1 p.m. Eastern, 6 p.m. in Lagos, midnight in Tashkent, and sometime next week in whatever time zone Elon Musk is terra-forming. The games will be won or lost, salaries deposited, ligaments shredded. And yet, like any decent imperial spectacle, the final score is almost beside the point. The point is we’re all watching—streaming, memeing, betting, hoping—proof that the empire may be circling the drain, but at least the drain has surround sound.