The Unlikeliest People’s Revolution in Sports History: Why the Entire NFL World Is Suddenly Chanting “Donny! Donny! Donny!”

For sixty-one years the Super Bowl halftime show has been the ultimate coronation stage for pop culture’s reigning monarchs: Michael Jackson moonwalking into immortality, Prince drowning the Miami rain in purple glory, Beyoncé turning the field into a political manifesto, Usher roller-skating through two decades of hits. Yet on a random November weekend in 2025, something no oddsmaker in Las Vegas saw coming happened: the people rose up and, with one voice stretching from the nosebleeds of Allegiant Stadium to every corner of the internet, demanded that the next king of the halftime show be… Donny Osmond.

Yes, that Donny Osmond. The teenager who made your grandmother faint in 1971. The man who voiced Shang in Mulan, who survived the 2009 Dancing with the Stars mirror-ball gauntlet, who still sells out the Flamingo showroom eleven nights a week at age 67 with a voice that somehow got richer instead of thinner. The same Donny Osmond who has never had a number-one pop hit in the TikTok era and whose last Grammy nomination came when Bill Clinton was president is now the subject of what can only be described as the most wholesome fan revolt in NFL history.

It started innocently enough. During a primetime Raiders home game in Las Vegas, the stadium DJ spun a harmless medley of past halftime hits. When the opening chords of Usher’s “Yeah!” faded into Kendrick Lamar’s “Humble,” a strange thing happened: pockets of the crowd began to boo. Not at the music itself; everyone loves Usher and Kendrick. The boos were for what came next, or rather, what fans feared would come next: another safe, algorithm-approved pop star who would deliver a competent but ultimately forgettable thirteen minutes.

Then, from Section 128, a lone voice shouted the words that would ignite the movement: “We want Donny!” Within seconds the chant spread like wildfire through the stands. By the time the second quarter began, 65,000 people were on their feet screaming “Don-ny! Don-ny!” in perfect unison. The jumbotron operators, unsure what else to do, threw up a 1973 photo of Donny in his purple socks and cape. The roar that followed registered on seismographs in Southern California.

Social media did the rest. Within an hour #DonnyBowl was the number-one trending topic worldwide, eclipsing even the actual game score. Memes flooded timelines: Donny photoshopped riding a shark à la Katy Perry, Donny in Prince’s purple trench coat, Donny doing the “Single Ladies” hand choreography with the Rockettes. A petition on Change.org titled “Give the People What They Want: Donny Osmond Super Bowl LIX” gained 1.2 million signatures in 48 hours. Barstool Sports, never ones to miss a cultural wave, declared it “the most powerful organic sports moment since Malice at the Palace, except everyone is sober and wearing cardigans.”

Why Donny? Why now?

The answer lies in a perfect storm of nostalgia, exhaustion, and a collective craving for joy untainted by controversy. After years of halftime shows that felt like corporate focus-group products or, worse, extensions of the culture wars, fans are starving for something that simply makes them happy. Donny Osmond is the human embodiment of uncynical entertainment. He has never pretended to be edgy. He has never courted scandal. He smiles with his entire face, actual face, not the half-smirk of someone calculating brand synergy. He thanks the audience after every song as if he still can’t believe they showed up.

And the man can still sing. Ask anyone who has seen his current Vegas residency: at 67 he hits every note he hit at 17, only now with the weight of a lifetime behind it. His “Soldier of Love” sounds less like a slick 1989 pop track and more like a battle-scarred veteran returning home. His “Puppy Love” is no longer the swooning plea of a teenager but the tender reflection of a grandfather who has loved the same woman for 47 years. When he launches into “Go Away Little Girl” the audience doesn’t laugh at the corniness; they weep at the purity.

There is also the Vegas factor. Super Bowl LIX will be played in Las Vegas for the second time in a row, and the NFL executives are desperate to lean into the city’s showbiz DNA. Who better than the man who has been the undisputed king of the Strip for fifteen years running? Donny knows how to command 90,000 people the same way he commands 1,400 in the Flamingo showroom every night: eye contact, gratitude, and a set list that somehow makes Boomers, Gen Xers, Millennials, and their kids all lose their minds at the same time.

The groundswell has already forced the league’s hand. Anonymous sources say the NFL and Roc Nation have quietly reached out to Donny’s team for “preliminary discussions.” Translation: they’re terrified of the optics of ignoring the loudest fan mandate since the Tuck Rule riots. Pepsi, still smarting from the 2022 all-hip-hop backlash, sees Donny as the ultimate unifier: a superstar who offends precisely no one yet still fills arenas.

Imagine it: the lights drop, the stadium goes dark, and that unmistakable five-note piano intro to “Sweet and Innocent” begins. Donny rises from beneath the 50-yard line in a white cape (because of course there’s a cape), launches into a medley that somehow makes “Crazy Horses” sound like Metallica and “The Twelfth of Never” sound like a hymn. He brings out Marie for “A Little Bit Country, A Little Bit Rock ‘n’ Roll,” invites the Mormon Tabernacle Choir for “I’ll Make a Man Out of You,” then closes with a ten-minute “Soldier of Love” that ends with 90,000 phone lights swaying and grown men openly sobbing.

It would be the most gloriously, defiantly un-cool moment in Super Bowl history. And it would absolutely bring the house down.

The NFL has spent decades chasing relevance. This year, relevance is chasing them, wearing purple socks and a smile that never quits. The people have spoken, and their message is clear: Hand Donny Osmond the microphone. Let him remind the world that sometimes the biggest rebellion of all is refusing to be cynical.

The stage is waiting, NFL. Don’t make us boo again.