The whole affair was more spectacle than sport, with pyrotechnics, smoke, and enough flashing lights to make the Strip outside jealous.

Most of the packed crowd were Aussies, a testament to the dedication of NRL fans willing to cross the Pacific for their teams.

But amid the sea of Aussie expats and vacationers, there were quite a few Americans, easily spotted by their puzzled expressions at the sight of men not wearing helmets and pads throwing themselves into tackles.

Their curiosity was undeniable, with questions flying left and right from the Americans seated, beside me, behind me and in front of me.

“Why do they kick after the last tackle?” they’d ask, or, “How many tackles are they allowed?”

As a Brisbane native, it was a weird mix of pride and amusement, guiding these newbies through the basics of a game I’ve loved since childhood.

The fashion too was distinctly Aussie.

The sight of men in “budgie smugglers” paired with footy jerseys and Lowes shirts might have raised a few eyebrows among the locals.

And the soundtrack to the night? A line-up of Aussie classics, from AC/DC to Icehouse’s Great Southern Land, that had us all feeling a bit homesick.

What struck me most wasn’t just the novelty of the event but the bridge it built. Here we were, a bunch of Australians, bringing a piece of our culture to the heart of America.

And while the nuances of rugby league might’ve flown over the heads of some of our new American mates, the excitement, the cheers, and the collective groans over a missed try were universal.