Josh

In America they told me the football game starts at 1 PM. I arrived at 1 PM. I was five hours late. The parking lot was already a city. A man had built a living room beside his truck. Not metaphorically. He had a couch. A television. A chandelier powered by a generator the size of a small horse. He was grilling enough meat to feed a village, and when I walked past he said, "You hungry?" I said I had not been invited. He looked at me the way you look at someone who has apologized for breathing. "Brother," he said. "You're here. That's the invitation." He handed me a plate. It was not a small plate. The brisket hung over the edges like a man sleeping in a bed he has outgrown. I ate it standing beside a stranger's couch in a parking lot in October, and it was among the finest meals of my life. A woman across the row had a tent, a smoker, a speaker system, and a flag so large it could have sheltered a family of five beneath it. She had been here since 6 AM. The game had not started. The game, I began to realize, was not the point. I asked the man what time he would go inside the stadium. He said, "Depends." I asked on what. He said, "On whether the ribs are done." I want to be clear. He had a ticket. He had driven four hours. He had assembled a small civilization from the back of a pickup truck. And he was considering not going to the game. Because the ribs were not ready. In Japan we tailgate nothing. We do not build living rooms in parking lots. We do not grill for strangers. We sit quietly on trains and think about whether we remembered to bow at the right angle. I have since attended eleven tailgates. I have never once cared who won the game. Nobody has. The game is inside the stadium. America is in the parking lot.