The following thread has been abridged for the sake of brevity.*

Me: Congrats, LeBron, on having chosen Syracuse.

LeBron: Yeah, it’s always great to come back to the Rust Belt.

Me: Rumors were swirling about you going to Golden State, Cleveland, Miami, and Syracuse. What made you finally choose the Salt City?

LeBron: Honestly, man, it came down to ComposeMD and The Essence of Syracuse, New York.

Me: What specifically in that book stood out?

LeBron: I mean, 127 inches of snow a year. All the sunshine in LA can really get to you. And then the empty buildings. I’m a real estate guy, and the decrepit strip malls really spoke to me.

Me: And there’s a great basketball history there.

LeBron: Absolutely. All you gotta say is the 24-second shot clock.

Me: What makes you think Syracuse is ready to help you win that fifth championship?

LeBron: Just look around—the place is loaded with talent. You start with Mike Tirico, then Bob Costas, Marv Albert, Ian Eagle—the list goes on. And anywhere that gave us Post Malone is obviously legit.

Me: A lot of people might particularly be wondering why Syracuse over Miami. What would you say to that?

LeBron: A lot of those people have never tried Wegmans, salt potatoes, or Pastabilities. And if they ever make it to Dinosaur Bar-B-Que, they’ll definitely understand. Plus, I prefer canals to oceans.

Me: What about Syracuse are you most excited about?

LeBron: IKEA.

Me: Where do you see yourself in a few years?

LeBron: Well, let’s hope the highway removal goes as planned, because I’m all about reconnecting neighborhoods. And then I hope to spend a lot of time on the new Micron campus talking chips.

Me: Did you make this move with Bronny in mind?

LeBron: I think anyone who knows me knows I make all my decisions with family in mind. And Bronny, that kid loves sledding. So yeah, because what a thrill it would be for father and son to sled together.

Me: Well, LeBron, I think I speak for everyone in the wasteland that is Upstate New York when I say, Thank you for choosing Syracuse.**

LeBron: You bet.

—

*It’s possible some or all of this conversation with LeBron James was completely fabricated.

**The Syracuse Nationals were founded in 1946, joining the NBA in 1949 and winning the NBA Championship in 1955. In 1963, the franchise moved to Philadelphia and became known as the 76ers.

The post Why LeBron James Chose Syracuse appeared first on ComposeMD.

But I have learned a few things.

When you have a kid who shoots hoops like this, it might be time to look for other talents.

View this post on Instagram

And if you stumble upon this, buy a piano.

View this post on Instagram

Then, rather than harp upon the fact that you ain’t watching varsity sports, embrace the fact that they serve beer at those School of Rock concerts.

We’ll call it Parenting 101.

Yet in the case of the Rust Belt, the parents have been emotionally abusive.

Let’s take a look at Ohio.

From the mid-1900s to 2020, the city of Cleveland lost 542,184 residents.

Over the same time span, Cincinnati went down by 194,681.

Dayton shed 124,688; Toledo bled 112,947; and Akron said bye to 99,882.

Envision that kid playing basketball.

Now envision talking about that shot, over and over.

Call The New York Times and have them write an article on it—followed by another.

Go ahead and make a documentary—followed by another.

Finally, call the kid stupid—again.

To repeat, I’m no expert, but there could be a plan B.

Let’s go back to Ohio.

From 1950 to today, the state’s population has increased from 7.9 million to 11.9 million.

That makes it the nation’s seventh most-populated state (with the seventh-largest state GDP).

The capital, Columbus, has added 562,495 residents over the past 75 years, its metro area growing by 1.7 million.

Picture that piano.

Add some drums and a bass guitar.

Find a School of Rock—ask your wife to drive to the shows.

Have the kid start an Instagram account and dabble in TikTok.

Finally, send him to Tennessee.

Meanwhile, start a blog about this sh*t.

Write a few indie books.

You might still suck at parenting, but at least no one will notice.

The post What Parenting Taught Me About the Rust Belt appeared first on ComposeMD.

(Or, if you’re reading this after July 19, 2026, I hope you didn’t succumb to the false advertising.)

Does 60 percent mean anything to you?

This story begins in the 1800s, when the Argentine government actively sought immigrants to populate the country and utilize the abundant agricultural land.

An obvious supply was found in Italy.

Fast forward to the next century, and the wave continued, this time also filling industrial jobs in cities like Buenos Aires.

After WWII, as Europe struggled to regain its footing, a final surge occurred, officially giving the South American country a healthy dose of Italians.

How healthy?

In modern times, as alluded to above, over 60 percent of all Argentines have Italian ancestry.

The marriage, it could be said, has been a happy one.

It has never been a struggle for Italians to learn the closely related Spanish. Along the way, the Spanish spoken in Argentina has been “Italianized”, both in terms of pronunciation and loanwords.

Religion, as you might imagine, has blended just fine, as Roman Catholics tend to have few issues with Roman Catholics.

And the food—has anyone ever complained about pizza, pasta, gelato, and Fernet?

Spain—as in the country that funded Christopher Columbus—of course knows a thing or two about Italy.

And the Spanish know that on the soccer pitch, their Mediterranean neighbor can be found disguised in sky blue and white.

The post Why Spain Is Actually Playing Italy appeared first on ComposeMD.

By that, I mean it’s a nightmare, something that technically falls under the umbrella term of dream.

But you may want to ask ChatGPT, as I’m not much for terminology.

In any event, back in 2021, I started planning for the day, five years later, when being a writer would pay dividends.

The day would be July 7, 2026, and it would go something like this:

Argentina would be playing Egypt in the World Cup—let’s say at noon.

I would wake up late, smiling at how in my pre-2021 life, I would have been at work for several hours already.

I would revel in the genius of having outsmarted the system, trading the dialysis unit for creative work, living off passive income—the American way.

And then I would meet my British friend at the bar, finally being the person whose income stream no one could understand, nor could anyone deny.

I’d start with something light—like a double IPA (DIPA). I’d tilt my neck upward, take a sip, and focus on the big-screen.

The game would feature some studs, guys like Mohamed Salah and Lionel Messi.

And just for kicks, the underdog Egyptians would net the first goal. Heck, midway through the second half, the African squad would notch another, putting the defending champions on the ropes down 2-0.

But in the 79th minute, Messi would assist on Argentina’s first goal, breathing life into the stretch run.

Then, in the 83rd minute, he would take matters into his own hands (feet), scoring the equalizer and giving the stadium the literal shakes.

Expecting extra time, I would order another DIPA, sipping slowly while waiting for the inevitable.

In stoppage time, however, the inevitable would be avoided, putting Argentina ahead 3-2 and cementing the comeback victory as the best of the tournament.

I would text all my friends, partly from frank bewilderment and partly just to show off my enviable life.

Finally, I would head home, and my wife and children would shower me with compliments regarding the fabulous existence I had gifted them.

That was the dream.

But being a writer, as I mentioned, is not that type of dream.

It’s the kind with visions, ones that come with night sweats.

It’s the kind that makes you see your reflection in the face of the beggar.

In other words, it’s the kind that on July 7, 2026, had me up at 6 am, showered, dressed, and on the way to the dialysis unit.*

—

*Note: I watched highlights of the Argentina-Egypt match at night.

The post How Being a Writer Ruined the World Cup appeared first on ComposeMD.

I know you’re smarter than me.

How do I know?

Because you tell me.

Anyway, I’ve come across a problem I can’t seem to solve. Of course, this roadblock has everything to do with my intellectual inferiority.

It revolves around soccer (your word, not mine).

FIFA—the acronym for Corrupt Monopoly—is based in Zürich, which in turn is based in Switzerland, the watch capital of the world.

In other words, when it comes to keeping time, you, European, know what you’re doing.

I mean Rolex, Patek Philippe, Vacheron Constantin—c’mon now.

As such, the following formula must be rooted in that same precision.

When the game starts, the clock starts.

It counts up.

When the ball goes out of bounds, the clock continues.

When play is stopped for a hydration break, the upward countdown rolls on.

If a player is injured, tick tock, tick tock.

During a video review, it’s more of the same.

But a referee is always keeping absolutely precise time.

All the stoppages are accounted for by one person on an elite European watch that no one else can see.

And that’s where the miracle begins.

Because in each and every game, when the “stoppage time” is added on at the end of a half, it is always miraculously an integer.

One might expect on some occasions that fractions, aka decimals, could enter the mix. But clearly my understanding of time is limited, as without fail, the additional time is a whole number.

And I’m even more embarrassed to admit some degree of perplexity at the fact that when four minutes are added, the teams continue to play for beyond four minutes.

Occasionally, fans express discontent at this phenomenon, but who do they think they are questioning the exactness of time? American?

In any event, I look forward to your intellectually superior response.

Sincerely,

Your pupil

The post Thank You, European, for Being So Damn Smart appeared first on ComposeMD.

Without formally committing to either category, I’ve created this sortable table of the 32 nations that qualified for the knockout round in the 2026 FIFA World Cup.

Pay special attention to the comparison column—after all, this tournament is all about perspective. The comparisons are, of course, not exact, but they’re reasonably close.

The post These World Cup Population Numbers Will Blow Your Mind appeared first on ComposeMD.

I’d like to thank my fellow human beings—without you, I would never have known.

It all started with a simple soccer match.

Iran was playing Egypt—in Seattle.

The Pacific Northwest city happened to be celebrating its annual Pride Weekend in support of its LGBTQ+ community.

Iran and Egypt objected. Seeing that the religious nations have a tendency to criminalize same-sex relations, their football federations requested (unsuccessfully) that FIFA prohibit any support of homosexuality in the stadium, including rainbow flags.

That’s the first hint I received regarding my idiocy. My impression had been that human rights should be revered. I learned, instead, that as long as we call discriminatory beliefs religion, they’re perfectly fine. Had I known, I would have started discriminating against God—in the name of religion—years ago.

Then there was the whole war thing, as in the one between Iran and the US. Clearly, the above circumstance would provide an ideal opportunity to display the moral superiority of the US, contrasting our freedom with the repression that defines our mortal enemy.

I flipped to Fox News—nothing. I waited for words of wisdom from the President—silence.

There was only one possible conclusion: I’m an idiot. After all, I had already forgotten that discrimination is kosher in the name of religion—any religion.

But I knew I could look to one final place for what I was seeking—logic.

I’ve been told this holy grail is more likely to be found left of center, usually by those left of center. And this one-of-a-kind occasion would be the perfect chance to back both a cause and a country.

But in my naïveté, I came to understand that some would be supporting Iran as a rebuke against the President. In other words, I came to understand that domestic politics Trump everything.

Consider me educated.

The post I’m Officially an Idiot appeared first on ComposeMD.

Shall we call it the (Asian) elephant in the room?

No, I’m not being harsh.

When a country accounts for one of every six people on the globe yet exhibits incompetence at the most global sport, we need to talk.

As of this writing, among 211 entities ranked by FIFA, India stands at 138.

That’s behind Haiti, Palestine, and…the freaking Faroe Islands.

The country declined an opportunity to play in the 1950 World Cup in Brazil, meaning it has participated in the event a grand total of zero times.

And don’t talk to me about poverty—the place has the sixth largest nominal GDP in the world.

In fact, in the 2026 World Cup Edition of Soccernomics, the authors recognized India for being the relatively worst soccer team on the planet. In their exact words:

Our model says that India, given its population, soccer experience, and national income, ought to have had a positive goal difference in the 2010s. But it scored 1.3 goals a game less than it should have. Admittedly that’s not as bad as its neighbor Myanmar, but then Myanmar has the excuse of being stuck in a civil war. India gets our Soccernomics award for the relatively worst soccer team on Earth.

All this leads to one question: Wtf—why does India suck at soccer?

The answers, of course, make sense.

• A national obsession with cricket—infrastructural, financial, and emotional—leaves little oxygen for anything else.
• Grassroots player development is lacking.
• In keeping with the above, infrastructure for player development is lacking.
• Standard Indian corruption has infected the All India Football Federation, resulting in anemic growth of the sport.
• Indian kids would rather study.

But two and a half decades into the 21st century, India is well aware that branding matters.

Look at South Korea—its global prominence has skyrocketed ever since the country forced us to listen to sh*t music, nicknamed K-Pop.

Stated another way, if all it takes to earn a little respect is kicking a damn ball, India is on board.

And there’s hope.

The Indian Super League, the highest level of Indian soccer, began play in 2014 and now boasts 14 teams (though financial viability remains a concern).

In 2017, India hosted the FIFA U-17 World Cup.

Local leagues and pitches are multiplying, at least in large metro areas.

This interest has been fueled in part by television, which regularly broadcasts English Premier League games.

Finally, in the Asian qualifying rounds for the 2026 FIFA World Cup, India fell victim to a horrendous call in Doha against eventual qualifier Qatar.

In other words, decades from now, Why does India suck at soccer? could have the same answer as Why do Rochester and Buffalo suck at life?:

They don’t.

The post Why Does India Suck at Soccer? appeared first on ComposeMD.

Allow me to explain.

Experience, they say, comes in all shapes and sizes—mine just happens to be rotund and extra-large.

The seeds of that expertise were planted in August 1995 in St. Louis, where as a freshman in college I learned firsthand about the Freshman 15. (I also learned there was no need to stop after freshman year or at 15.)

Fast forward to June 2026, the moment when Europeans visiting the US for the World Cup are discovering their own version of personal growth.

It’s called the FIFA 15, as in the 15-pound weight gain that comes with a brief jaunt to the States.

The key ingredients are myriad, including but not limited to:

• Ranch dressing
• The Big Gulp
• Free refills
• Free chips and salsa
• Deep-fried Oreos
• Waffle House
• Buc-ee’s
• A rental car

Blogging, of course, comes with the option to embrace the role of contrarian. And when the blog claims to demystify the Rust Belt, that option becomes a mandate.

So last week, rather than tap the paper airplane on Instagram and share the FIFA 15 meme, I set out to poke holes in the stereotype.

I started an hour west, exploring the culinary traditions a majestic city on Lake Erie had gifted the world.

The first involved thinly-sliced, rare roast beef loaded on a kummelweck roll, itself coated with coarse salt and caraway seeds and dipped in the jus from the roast. The condiment of choice was creamy horseradish sauce.*

I’m no nutritionist, but I had a hunch this delicacy couldn’t be found in the health foods aisle.

To further explore the hypothesis, I moved on to another dish.

Item number two revolved around deep-fried chicken wings tossed in a cayenne pepper hot sauce…and butter. The condiment in this case was blue cheese dressing.**

Dejected, but not defeated, I returned home.

Rochester, after all, had always been the classier city, the one defined by intellect and sophistication. Surely, the FIFA 15 wouldn’t hold up to the gastronomic offerings of the Flower City.

That assumption landed me on this recipe: Two hot dogs (or cheeseburgers), macaroni salad, home fries, and baked beans, all topped with chopped onions, mustard, and spicy meat sauce.***

I stared at my phone and slowly opened Instagram.

I located the heart, comments, repost button, and paper airplane.

And one by one, I pressed them all.

Because while I might have issues with pushing a stereotype, I have no concerns about spreading the truth.

—

*Beef on weck

**Buffalo wings

***The Garbage Plate

The post Why I Love the FIFA 15 appeared first on ComposeMD.