More than a thousand Scotland supporters hired a fleet of yellow school buses to take them to Boston Stadium for the World Cup on Saturday. It started as a novel way to save money on transport, but the yellow school bus has become a symbol of the Tartan Army. Full story below

This is FANTASTIC #BillyJoel #Knicks

USA. A backyard. A man. A grill. Four hours. He never left it once. Everyone else drifted, drank, wandered, laughed. He stood before the flames, turning meat with a long fork, immovable. I knew him at once. The keeper of the sacred fire. I took my place beside him. I said nothing. This is the first rule. You do not speak first to the man at the grill. After a long while, he spoke. "Low and slow," he said, eyes never leaving the coals. "You can't rush it. Rush it, you ruin it." I bowed my head. A blade. A tea. A life. None can be rushed. I had crossed four thousand miles of ocean to hear my grandfather's words spoken by a man in a "KISS THE COOK" apron. "Everything worth doing is slow," I said. I have never cooked meat in my life. But I said it as if I had said it a thousand times before. He glanced at me. Something passed between us. A current older than language. His voice dropped, low, almost ashamed. "My wife says just use the oven." He shook his head at the fire. "She doesn't get it." "They never do," I said. And this is where the man transformed. For the first time in years, he had been understood. He rose to meet it. His back straightened. His shoulders set. His voice fell half an octave. A teenager reached for the grill. He lifted one hand without even looking. "Not yet." The boy retreated. He did not argue. He could not have argued. A woman asked when the food would be done. He told the flames, not her. "It's ready when it's ready." Three people approached. Three were turned away with a single word each. By the fourth hour, no one questioned him. The whole party had arranged itself around the man and his fire, the way a village arranges itself around a shrine. Then he turned to me. He held out the fork. "Watch it a sec. I gotta pee." I have stood at the gate of lords with a naked blade in my hand. Nothing has ever weighed as much as that fork. I did not move my eyes from the coals. I did not touch the meat. I did not know how. I would not learn. To learn would be to break the moment. When he returned, I handed back the fork without a word, as one returns a sword to its rightful master. He served everyone before himself. He ate last, standing, still watching the fire. We never traded names. We did not need to. He believed he had finally met a man who took grilling seriously. I believed I had finally met America's last samurai. Neither of us will correct the other. Not now. Not ever. So I have made a vow. Every summer of my life, I will return to this country. I will find a backyard. I will find a man at a grill. I will stand beside him and say nothing until he speaks. And when he says "low and slow," I will bow my head as if my grandfather had spoken. I will die before I tell him I do not know how to cook meat. "KISS THE COOK," his apron commanded. I have obeyed. I will obey again.

🤭

Just want to thank all the international World Cup fans for coming and lifting all of us Americans up with your absolutely charming encounters with our big weird country. We needed it. Best 250th birthday gift ever.

Prolly tomorrow as well.

Oh my goodness this is ME!

Amen

Fantastic idea!!

#lyricoftheday “Seasons come and seasons go But love will never die Let me hold you darlin’ So you won’t cry.”

First year coach, coaching an expansion team in the UFL, NO PROBLEM 😤 Chris Redman has led the Louisville Kings to a championship in his first year coaching professional football 👏

Same 🙄

Here in America, i returned to my hotel room at night and found that someone had entered, remade the bed, folded my toilet paper into an ARROWHEAD — and left a chocolate on my pillow. A chocolate. On the pillow. Centered. Foil gleaming. A small sweet sentinel, waiting in the lamplight. I assessed the scene as the intrusion it technically was. Someone had been here. They had touched my blankets. They had TIGHTENED them — to a tension my own mother never achieved, and she was not a gentle tucker. They had pointed my toilet paper like a compass. And then, as either signature or apology, they had left candy where my head goes. I called the front desk to report all of this, in order. The young woman heard my complete account and said: "...Yes sir, that's turndown service. Is everything okay?" TURNDOWN SERVICE. It has a NAME, America. It is SCHEDULED. While you dine, a professional enters and prepares the room for sleep — dims the lamps, draws the curtains, folds back one corner of the bedding into a welcoming triangle. The bed, OPENED for you, like a letter. And the chocolate. I asked her why the chocolate. There was a pause. No one had ever asked her why the chocolate. "It's just... a nice way to end the day?" A NICE WAY TO END THE DAY. There is the entire doctrine, America. The chocolate is not food — it is two bites. It is not luxury — it costs pennies. It is a MESSAGE, stationed at head-height where it cannot be missed: someone thought about the exact moment you would lie down, stranger. Your day is over. Here is something sweet to close it. The curtains are already drawn. In Japan, the ryokan prepares your futon while you bathe, and you return to a room transformed for rest. I have been moved by it all my life. Your version is the same vow in a different dialect: efficient, slightly anonymous, chocolate-based. I ate the sentinel. Mint inside. The pillow mint contains MINT, America. Occasionally your naming conventions achieve perfection, and I want credit given. A man does not ask who tightened the blankets. He eats the sentinel, and sleeps as instructed. I left a tip the next morning with a note: "The triangle was noticed. The chocolate was understood." That night, under a fresh chocolate, housekeeping had written back: "They never notice!! Enjoy your stay! — Maria" THEY NEVER NOTICE, America. Maria is out there ending your days nicely, two bites at a time, unthanked, nightly, in every hallway in this nation. NOTICE. That is the whole instruction. Maria has the rest handled.

KINGS TAKE THE CROWN 👑 Proud to be the 2026 United Bowl CHAMPIONS!

You can do it!

This country. A driveway. My neighbor Dale owns a truck, and I have discovered who actually defends this nation. Monday, a family down the street moved. Dale's truck. Wednesday, a tree limb fell on Mrs. Carter's fence. Dale's truck. Friday it snowed, and an unspoken signal traveled the block, and Dale appeared with a plow blade like a one-man cavalry. No one pays him. No one drafts him. He is summoned by need alone. "Dale," I asked, "who do you serve?" "What?" "Who commands the truck?" He thought about it. "Whoever's stuck, I guess." WHOEVER IS STUCK. Eight hundred years of military philosophy in my bloodline, and this man in a hoodie has perfected it: a standing army of one, sworn to the realm of Whoever Is Stuck. In my land, a lord keeps soldiers for his own gate. Dale keeps a truck for everyone's gate. I offered him my loyalty. He offered me a beer. We were both confused by the other's gift and accepted anyway. That is diplomacy. I asked what I could do to repay the block's debt to him. He said, "Help me load a couch Saturday." I have never trained harder for anything. The couch was heavy. I was not strong enough. I want to say I was. I was not. Dale carried his end and most of mine and said "good lift" anyway, which is the kindest lie in the language. A man with a truck does not ask who needs him. He has already backed into the driveway. I cannot buy a truck yet. So I have become the man who shows up when the truck does. Every truck needs a vanguard. Dale has not approved this title. Dale does not need to.

USA. A diner entrance. There is a glass tower beside the register, and inside it, pies revolve slowly. Like planets. Like trophies. Like a test. I stood before it longer than is socially acceptable. In my land, the spoils of victory are displayed once, humbly, then put away. Here, the spoils ROTATE. Lit from within. Cherry passes. Lemon meringue rises over the horizon. Chocolate cream descends like dusk. The display has seasons. "You want a slice?" the waitress asked. "Which one is correct?" "...They're all correct, hon." ALL correct. Then the rotation is not a ranking. I had assumed the tower was an order of merit — the strongest pie ascending, the weakest cast down. No. They circle as equals. Eternal. Unranked. I watched two full rotations. The man behind me waited, then gave up and pointed. "Apple." Just like that. No vigil. No study. He pointed at a moving target and committed his evening to it. The decisiveness of this country will never stop humbling me. I confess what I did next. The lemon meringue came around a third time. Its golden peaks caught the light. I raised my hand as it passed, like a man hailing a ship. "The yellow one. Before it escapes." "It's not going anywhere, sweetie." It is going somewhere. It is going in a circle, and a circle is a journey too. The pie was perfect. I ate it facing the tower, so the others could see that their comrade was honored. The pies do not turn to tempt you. They turn so that no pie is ever first, and no pie is ever last. Next visit: cherry. It has been making eye contact for three rotations.

USA. A breakfast counter. The waitress recommended the biscuits and gravy, and when the plate arrived, I thought something had gone wrong in the kitchen. I say this with shame. The dish looked like a construction site after rain. Pale mounds. Gray ladle-fall. Speckles I could not identify. In my land, the eye eats first. A meal is arranged like a garden. This meal was arranged like weather. "Is it… finished?" I asked, carefully. "Honey, that's what it looks like." The man beside me was already eating his. He did not look up. "Just try it." I am a man who has charged hillsides at dawn. I raised the fork. I tried it. I must now formally apologize to the biscuits, the gravy, the waitress, the kitchen, and the entire breakfast tradition of the American South. It was magnificent. Warm. Peppered. The biscuit drank the gravy the way a field drinks rain — THAT is why it is shaped like that, you fool — and every mound I had insulted was a soft fold of comfort that my homeland, in eight hundred years, never once thought to invent. "Well?" the waitress asked. "I judged it," I confessed. "By its appearance. I am ashamed." "Everybody does, hon." Everybody does. A national dish that forgives you for doubting it. It expects the doubt. It waits for you on the other side of it. Do not judge the gravy by its face. Judge yourself, for hesitating. I order it every Saturday now. I no longer see the construction site. I see only the garden. It was a garden the whole time. The eye must be trained.

USA. A restaurant on my birthday week. The waiter set down a dessert I had not ordered and said four words that stopped my chopsticks. "It's on the house." On the house. I asked him: WHICH house? He smiled like I had made a joke. I had not made a joke. Someone was paying for this dessert and I needed to know whom to honor. He gestured vaguely at the walls. "The house. The restaurant. It's free, man." Nothing is free. Someone always pays. Tonight, the BUILDING itself was paying. So I stood. I bowed to the restaurant. To the beams. To the kitchen door. To the neon sign of a cactus wearing a hat. The waiter watched me complete the full circuit, holding his tray, and said: "...I'll tell the owner." TELL HIM. Tell the lord of this house his hospitality has been received and recorded by the house of Nobunaga. The dessert was fried ice cream. Fried. Ice cream. You people fried the one thing fire should not defeat, and the house gave it to me FREE, on a day that was not even my birthday, because I had mentioned my birthday was Saturday. In Japan, a gift this miscalculated would require three apologies and a committee. Here it required only a spoon. A man does not ask a building why it gives. He bows to the beams, and he eats what burns. There is no other protocol. I checked. I left a review of five stars, addressed directly: "To the House: you honored a stranger with defeated fire. The cactus stands guard over a generous hall. — NOBUNAGA." The owner replied: "Thanks Nobunaga!! Come back soon!!" Two exclamation points. Twice. That house and I are bound now, America. The dessert was free. My loyalty was not. It was purchased with ice cream they set on fire, and it has no expiration date.