The World Cup is over for America. So naturally, someone invited me to a barbecue. I thought there would be mourning. Instead, there were burgers the size of hubcaps, a cooler full of beer, and three kids arguing over who got to wave the biggest American flag. Charlene handed me the same face paint from game day. "You still wearing it?" "The tournament ended." "So?" That was apparently the wrong answer. Five minutes later I was red, white, and blue again. Cody flipped burgers wearing an eagle apron that looked legally required to own a pickup truck. Kyle raised a paper cup. "To next time." Not revenge. Not excuses. Just... next time. America lost 4-1. The barbecue won by a thousand. Neighbors wandered over without invitations. Someone brought pie. Someone brought fireworks. Someone brought a dog wearing a tiny USA bandana, and somehow he became the emotional support animal for thirty grown adults. Nobody spent the night explaining why they lost. Nobody demanded everyone be miserable. They just kept feeding each other. That's when I finally understood. In America, hope has a shorter halftime than soccer. The scoreboard ends the match. It does not end the party. Next World Cup? I'll already have the face paint.