Ghana was having a tough time with Serbia, finishing the first half in a scoreless tie before many New Yorkers had had their second cup of coffee Sunday morning.

But the team’s luck was bound to change because Kwaku Gyamfi, 36, stepped off McClellan Street and entered the Anokyekrom African Market in the Bronx.

Mr. Gyamfi, a mountain of a man, was wearing his thick wool fugu robe stitched with patches and small mirrors. When he entered, cheers went up in the market, in a neighborhood of Ghanaian immigrants just off the Grand Concourse several blocks from Yankee Stadium in the Bronx.

“Let me tell you, man, I got medicine in this shirt,” Mr. Gyamfi said. Translation, courtesy of Kwadwo Kwakye, a friend who was draped in their native country’s flag: “This is the robe the Ashanti warriors, the great men of war, wear to battle for spiritual protection.”

“If you shoot him,” Mr. Kwakye added, “the bullet is not penetrating.” And the leather helmet Mr. Gyamfi wore, which also had several small mirrors stitched into it, was “made from the hide of a tiger,” Mr. Kwakye noted, saying that “the mirrors are eyes, so if you come at him from behind, he will always see you.”

Then the store owner, Fred Danso, who wore an ornate print shirt for the first half, pulled on his lucky yellow Ghana jersey. Again the cheers went up, and the two dozen Ghanaian men watching the game seized drums off the store’s shelves and began singing songs of their West African homeland. Mr. Gyamfi pounded the main beat on the largest drum, called a fromtomfrom.

The store sells a wide array of Ghanaian goods, from musical instruments to tall, wooden mortar and pestles used for crushing grain. It sells the flour used for Ghana’s famous fufu dish, and also the popular dumpling dish known as kenkey. The shelves held grains and beans in bags and containers with no labels.

A group of men stood next to boxes of dried shrimp and yams, near the cashier’s counter, watching on a television mounted between a large drum and a display of hair weaves.

Some drank from recycled vodka bottles, now filled with an alcoholic tonic that includes medicinal roots from trees in Ghana.

For the second half, a group of men repaired to a back room emptied of everything but a television and a dozen flimsy plastic chairs. Some spoke the Twi dialect and drank tall, cold green bottles of palm wine.

“From the tree,” said one man, Yvon Serge Dmiyo, holding up his hands to an imaginary palm tree. The men bought the drinks from Mr. Danso and, before opening them, shook them and slapped the bottom of the bottle while it was turned upside down, making the beverage fizzy and cloudy.

With five minutes left, the energized Ghanaian strikers pressed the Serbian defenders to score the game’s only goal, sending the two dozen immigrants in the store into a frenzy.

The party started as the game ended in a Ghana victory. A sound system blasted African pop. The men commenced dancing and paraded into the street.

“You see,” said Mr. Gyamfi, the mirrors on his outfit gleaming. “It is the spiritual strength of the Ghana warriors.”