The lights in the boardroom at Turning Point USA were dimmed, save for a row of monitors glowing with live social media feeds. The late Charlie Kirk’s portrait hung solemnly on the wall — a reminder of the movement he had helped launch, and a weight on those left to carry on. Erika, now the new CEO, sat at the head of the long table. Around her were veterans of the movement, young digital strategists, and cultural operatives. Tension coiled in the air.

“Bad Bunny,” one of the younger strategists muttered, as he flicked through a dozen negative tweets. “The NFL just picked him as the halftime act. The reaction is explosive.”

Erika nodded. She had seen the announcement earlier that evening. The backlash was already bubbling: conservative pundits saying he was un-American, critics lamenting a performance in Spanish, warnings of cultural shift. But Erika sensed that the moment was larger than criticism — this was an opening.

She cleared her throat. “We do this,” she said. “We’ll put on our own halftime program. A counterprogram. An ‘All American Halftime Show.’”

A hush fell. The veterans exchanged glances. One older member, stern and grey, said, “Erika, do you realize the magnitude of opposing the NFL on its biggest night? This could backfire.”

Erika’s eyes were steady. “That’s why we make it bold. We’ll celebrate faith, family, freedom. We’ll curate talent people believe in. We’ll ask supporters what they want to hear — Americana, worship, pop, country, rock — but it must be in English. It must be distinctly, proudly American.”

Over the next weeks, the machinery kicked into motion. They built a website branded with red, white, and blue — “AllAmericanHalftime.com” — asking people to subscribe, vote on genres, submit musical acts, even suggest slogans. They began lining up performers who aligned with conservative cultural values: Christian rock bands, country singers with “America-first” reputations, some crossover pop artists. They drafted publicity blitzes, negotiated streaming platforms, and scouted venues that could broadcast live during the official NFL halftime slot.

Meanwhile, Bad Bunny’s Super Bowl announcement loomed ever larger. In stadiums and on TV screens, the NFL introduced him with fanfare: a bold, global star bridging Latin music and mainstream pop. He embraced the choice, calling it a moment for representation. His critics, meanwhile, dug in deeper — raising alarms about language, identity, politics, and the shifting character of American popular culture. ABC News+2Forbes+2

As the voices on both sides grew stronger, the all-American alternative show became less of a fringe stunt and more of a cultural flashpoint. Journalists began asking whether this was the first time a political movement was openly shaping a “culture war” halftime. Some saw it as bold; others, theatrical and desperate. The history of counterprogramming against the Super Bowl had roots in novelty stunts — comedy shows, alternative broadcasts — but never so openly ideological. Wikipedia+1

By early February, with anticipation peaking, the team at Turning Point walked a delicate line. They wanted to outshine nothing (they had no illusions they would dethrone the NFL show), but to offer an option: a place for viewers who felt alienated by the choice of Bad Bunny. They scheduled the “All American Halftime Show” to begin exactly as the NFL’s show commenced, streaming on platforms sympathetic to conservative audiences, plus some regional broadcast partners.

On the night of Super Bowl LX, millions tuned into the game. At the appointed minute, on TV screens, the camera panned to Levi’s Stadium as Bad Bunny’s show began. Simultaneously, viewers switching away were greeted by a patriotic intro: a soaring instrumental of “America the Beautiful,” a montage of small-town landscapes, church steeples, rural fields, families waving flags. The announcer intoned: “Welcome to The All American Halftime Show — a place for faith, family, and freedom.”

Because so much of the show had been crowdsourced, several community artists appeared — a country singer from Iowa whose song about working-class struggles had gone viral among conservative youth, a worship band from Georgia, a family-friendly pop artist with a moderate following. Their performances were earnest and unpretentious; the crowd at the alternate show was smaller, the sets simpler, but the audience was deeply committed.

Back in the Turning Point control room, staff cheered at social media numbers — viewers tweeted, switched over, shared tokens of approval. But they also monitored backlash: critics calling it regressive, accusing them of playing identity politics, saying they were mocking Latin culture. Erika watched the numbers rise but also the sentiment shift — people had emotional reactions on both sides.

After the first few acts, a surprise guest appeared — a moderate rock singer who had earlier been courted by both sides but bowed out of More mainstream opportunities. His rendition of a heartfelt anthem about unity and home struck a chord with viewers skeptical of polarization. A moment later, the streaming numbers peaked.

In the NFL stadium, Bad Bunny launched into an energetic dance-packed set, filled with Spanish lyrics, Latin rhythms, and theatrical spectacle. In between songs, he spoke briefly, dedicating the performance to Latinx youth, to immigrant families, to cultural pride. The contrast between the two shows became stark — one brash, international, defiant; the other mild, careful, patriotic.

By the time both halves ended and the national broadcast resumed, social media was ablaze. Clips from each show were compared. Memes proliferated: “Which halftime are you watching?” Some viewers said they’d seen both. Others mocked the alternate show as a “Republican variety hour.” Others praised it for giving viewers choice. Media outlets ran op-eds: Was the counter-show a strategic masterstroke or a cultural misstep? Did it deepen polarization?

In the days after the Super Bowl, Turning Point USA released post-event metrics: streams, peak viewers, engagement, donations, signups. They framed it as a proof-of-concept: a movement could not just critique culture — it could produce culture. They unveiled plans to repeat the model for other contests: award shows, national events, red-carpet nights.

Meanwhile, Bad Bunny’s team praised his performance, highlighting the global streaming numbers and cultural impact. His lyrics, his heritage, his audacity had resonated with millions. Some in the conservative world conceded the spectacle — others dug in deeper, calling the NFL decision symbolic of cultural decline.

Erika sat in her office the morning after. She gazed at the portrait of Charlie Kirk. The experiment had succeeded in lighting up conversation; it had rallied part of the base, shown that counterprogramming could be wielded as a tool. But she also knew the risks were real: it could deepen divides, cement echo chambers, reduce art to ideology.

She typed a short message to supporters: “Thank you. Last night we showed that people want more than a monoculture. They want options. We won’t retreat.”

Outside, the cultural battle-lines remained drawn. But for one night — one Super Bowl night — two halftime shows had stood side by side: one pushing forward, another pushing back. And in that collision lay the shape of the culture wars ahead.