Just when you think you've seen something rare, it creeps up on you and happens again when you least expect it.

Though, this time I was watching the guy puke on the tracks of the Yamanotesen from inside the train, whereas last year I was standing on the platform next to him. Either way it's somewhat disgusting, and though there's nothing remarkable about vomiting in a train station, it tends to stick out in one's mind--especially when the doors open directly in front of a body keeled over a puddle of puke.

Needless to say the alighting passengers chose a different exit.

He lifted his head and toward the train as we pulled away, his eyes desperately trying to focus on what were surely blurry green streaks whizzing by at an alarming rate.

I looked back, reminded of the first time I left Shinjuku station by myself--Kyohei, Takayuki and Hiro standing there, waving, staring at my train car as it roared off to the West. So concerned, they were, with my well being, that they bought the ticket for me, escorted me to the platform, and repeated my destination perhaps 15 times to be sure no mistakes would be made.

Oh, how far we've come.

Now, it's a rare moment when they will repeat misunderstood words one time, let alone 15, but such is the curse of improving at a language--as one gets better, leeway disappears, expectations rise, conversation speed accelerates, and explanations are few and far in between.

Besides that, though, when a foreigner improves enough at Japanese, he becomes a tool for his Japanese friends.

"Here, I'm too embarrassed to ask them where the bar is, you ask."

Me?

"Yeah, just ask and see. We'll pretend we're Chinese."

And why can't you just ask yourself?

"It's fucking awkward."

No problem, really. It's good practice to ask your local policeman where the best bar to watch the Japan vs. North Korea soccer match in Shibuya is, while your blatantly Japanese friends stand nearby simultaneously pretending to be Chinese and eavesdropping because they were too nervous to ask themselves--though I somewhat imagine their desire to have me do the asking was hedged more on the hilarity of hearing formal Japanese come out of my mouth rather than the "awkwardness" of the situation.

Either way, a sports "bar" was located, if it could even be called that.

One hundred or more people crammed into a dark 8th floor room, drinking Asahi and Zima, eating eddamame, sitting shoeless on a blue carpeted floor--jersey wearing superfans and slarymen alike--all there to enjoy winter's most important battle: Japan vs. North Korea.

And a battle it was.

If you think America has problems with North Korea, think again: the Japanese hatred for North Korea runs deeper than anything I've ever seen. American's have the Pacific Ocean to act as a 6000 mile buffer for any ICBM's that may be heading their way, but as for the Japanese, their only protection from the Korean peninsula is the flimsy Sea of Japan, which provides about as much protection from a bombing raid as a screen door.

This was more than a game, I had been told, this was politics.

Japan could not lose, literally and figuratively: a loss meant that the World Cup hopes of an entire nation would be dashed, but also that their national pride would be trodden on.

I cheered with them.

I chanted and clapped and stomped with them.

I sang along to the Japanese national anthem.

And when Oguro scored the winning goal with less than a minute left in the game-an incredibly astonishing finish for a soccer game--I jumped to my feet along with the rest of them, and joined in the indiscriminate hugging; Japan had won! Japan had won!!

How could I not be involved to that extent? As the only foreign representation in the entire place--and, on top of that, hailing from the home of the Huskers--I had to show them that we too know how to be boisterous, obnoxious, and devoted to our team when game day arrives; and on this game day, my team just happened to be Japan.

Ni-ppon *CLAP* *CLAP* *CLAP*

Ni-ppon *CLAP* *CLAP* *CLAP*

Ni-ppon *CLAP* *CLAP* *CLAP*

When it was all over and everyone had cleared out to the streets, their suits revealed once again beneath the blazing lights, I quickly translated one of my father's favorite post game comments for my Japanese friends as we strolled lazily down the road...

"They're going to have a fun plane ride home, aren't they?"

They laughed and replied, "Yeah, Kim Jong-Il is definitely going to kill them."