Setting aside all the talking points, the number one thing that was always going to show itself most with this World Cup: Americans love sports.
Are we as big into soccer as our football? No. But we love sports and tournaments, and have awesome stadiums.
Five Guys doesn’t count as fast food because they don’t have a drive-through at any of their locations, as far as I’m aware.
It’s also a triple the price of In-N-Out Burger, and the food is not better quality.
I’d be willing to bet Five Guys doesn’t play their employees nearly as much as In-N-Out Burger, even though they are three times the price.
In-N-Out Burger is superior to Five Guys, and I will die on this hill.
Norway's Erling Haaland is the first player to score twice on their World Cup debut since...
Elijah Just for New Zealand on Monday, who was the first player to achieve the feat since...
Yasin Ayari for Sweden on Sunday, who was the the first to do so since...
Folarin Balogun for the U.S. on Friday.
In America, a stranger will rename you in public, and you are simply expected to become that man.
I entered a busy café.
The line was long.
The machines screamed.
The people moved with confidence, like everyone had been trained since birth to order milk in secret codes.
A woman at the counter smiled.
“Name?”
I stood tall.
Eight hundred years of family history rested on my tongue.
“NyanChuu.”
She nodded with great confidence and wrote something on the cup.
No hesitation.
No fear.
A professional.
Then she read it back.
“Nacho?”
The café continued.
Nobody stopped.
Nobody gasped.
Nobody drew a sword.
Just me.
Standing there.
Watching my soul become a snack.
In Japan, a name is a house you inherit.
In America, a name is wet clay in the hands of a barista.
I wanted to correct her.
But she had said it with such bright certainty.
There was no mockery.
Only service.
Only speed.
Only a cup waiting to be born.
So I bowed.
“Yes. Today, I am Nacho.”
The man behind me said, “That’s kind of a cool name.”
He had no idea what he had witnessed.
A funeral.
A baptism.
A menu item.
I stepped aside and waited.
Every time the staff shouted another name, people moved instantly.
“Emily!”
“Jason!”
“Mike!”
Then it came.
“Nacho!”
The sound hit the room.
Not as a mistake.
As destiny.
I walked forward.
Not fast.
A man should never rush toward a new identity.
The barista handed me the cup.
“Have a good one, Nacho.”
I received it with both hands.
Because when America gives you a new name, it also gives you the courage to answer to it.
I drank the coffee.
Too hot.
Too sweet.
Too large.
Perfect.
For twenty minutes, I was not NyanChuu.
I was Nacho.
I sat by the window and wondered what kind of man Nacho should become.
A lighter man.
A crispy man.
A man who does not fear melted cheese.
Before leaving, I looked at the cup again.
The handwriting was terrible.
The meaning was holy.
You call it a misspelled name.
I call it a temporary American rebirth.
Tomorrow, I will return to another counter.
If they call me NyanChuu, I will bow.
If they call me Nacho, I will bow deeper.
And if one day they call me Taco, I will not resist the ceremony.