Frogs, football, and dead rice farmers

The morning comes, and, for once a dream I remember.

We are at a wake. The dead man is a local rice farmer. His son is motioning to the distant hills - to the boundaries of prime rice land that he now owns. I am the only foreigner in a Japanese sea of wizened, sun-dried farming faces. The congregation are barefoot in the slimy mud of the paddies. We raise One Cup Ozeki sake pots in a salute to the dead man. A massive frog sits and watches. It craps a miniature football. This surprises nobody. Then its jaw distends astoundingly, like a trap door opening, and an official World Cup football is belched into the paddy. This gets everyone's attention. Not wanting his father's solemn occasion to be usurped by a frog, albeit an unusually talented one, the son starts to read out the old man's last will and testament. I am bequeathed the contents of his wine cellar - the finest collection of reds to be found outside of Europe.

Mmmmm. What can it all mean?