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.

Because deep down, I didn’t want an answer.

I didn’t need one.

It’s called life experience, the kind that shatters walls, the kind that relegates boxes to the landfill.

The story began some time in the 1970s, up around Lake Michigan.

That’s when a barrier should have been constructed—let’s just say the foundation was flimsy.

I suppose that’s what happens when the parents are from India and the progeny show up in Milwaukee.

The project was doomed before it started.

There was Ganesh versus Jesus—I chose neither.

There was Marathi versus English—I chose Spanish.

I developed two favorite words: ignore and unlearn.

And that landed me on June 17, 2026.

I was still in the US—except on that day.

My son and I stared at CN Tower, uttered a few words about Drake, and then strolled toward the stadium.

The French signs were expected, of course. I put my six years of study to use, cross checking with the English just above.

Then I focused on the Spanish—it was all around us. And the flags were familiar—after all, we had recently been to Panama ourselves.

Beyond textiles and linguistics, I felt an odd connection to the place. You can call it a canal thing, the Erie in my case.

My son’s band had even covered the Van Halen song (which may have had vehicular and not geographic inspiration).

Heck, any country that uses the US dollar is worthy of a look, i.e. my soccer support.

But then I heard English. Or was it Akan?

The sounds of West Africa are always close—they are, after all, a part of us.

Blues.

Jazz.

We all know the grand places music went from there.

Without Ghana and its neighbors, would I still be listening to the concert band garbage?

Would there be no fufu? Or Gullah Geechee?

Out of my thoughts and into the the stadium, I admired the massive flags of both countries displayed on the field.

Then I absorbed the two national anthems.

Who the hell should I root for? I asked again.

I sat back, smiled at my son, and bathed in the human spirit.

And I watched.*

—

*On June 17, 2026, in Toronto, Ghana beat Panama in the group stage of the FIFA World Cup, leaving me elated and heartbroken.

The post Who the Hell Should I Root For?! appeared first on ComposeMD.

Te estoy hablando a ti

Toi, qui penses que nous sommes stupides

Here in North America

Hablamos tres idiomas

Combien de langues parles-tu?

By three I refer to the most common ones

Porque hay muchos más

Comme tu le sais

Anyway, this is about the World Cup

El torneo debería jugarse aqui

C’est logique

Because the world already lives here

Italianos, Alemanes, los de Irlanda

La moitié de l’Asie vit ici

There are way more Chinese restaurants than McDonald’s

Prefiero comer sopa agridulce que una Big Mac

Et n’oublie pas les samoussas

If you think you understand this place based on the news

No tienes ni idea de lo que hablas

C’est la vérité

No one even knows what American means

Aparte de vivir aqui

Et c’est le meilleur aspect

There are no rules

Excepto las que hay que romper

La tradition n’est qu’une façade

Sure we’re full of idiots

¿Pero no es cierto en todas partes?

Je viens de visiter Paris—je sais

Our leader is a lunatic

¿No son todos?

Justin Trudeau et Katy Perry?!

Yeah we eat too much and die young

¿Quien quiere vivir para siempre?

Je vais chez Buc-ee’s

So quit reading the damn headlines

Experimenta el país po ti mismo

Dis-moi ce que tu en penses

If you hate the place

No estarás solo

C’est une passion nationale

Just remember—the US is worldly as hell

Y el mundo es un lugar feo

Oú est-il beau?

English Translation

The US is worldly as hell

I’m talking to you

You, who thinks we’re stupid

Here in North America

We speak three languages

How many languages do you speak?

And by three, I mean the most common ones

Because there are many more

As you know

Anyway, this is about the World Cup

The tournament should be played here

It makes sense

Because the world already lives here

Italians, Germans, the Irish

Half of Asia lives here

There are more Chinese restaurants than McDonald’s

I’d rather eat hot and sour soup than a Big Mac

And don’t forget the samosas

If you think you understand this place based on the news

You have no idea what you’re talking about

That’s the truth

No one even knows what American means

Other than living here

And that’s the best part

There are no rules

Except the ones meant to be broken

Tradition is just a façade

Sure, we’re full of idiots

But isn’t that true everywhere?

I just visited Paris—I know

Our leader is a lunatic

Aren’t they all?

Justin Trudeau and Katy Perry?!

Yeah, we eat too much and die young

Who wants to live forever?

I’m going to Buc-ee’s

So quit reading the damn headlines

Experience the country for yourself

Tell me what you think

If you hate the place

You won’t be alone

It’s a national pastime

Just remember—the US is worldly as hell

And the world is an ugly place

Or is it beautiful?

The post The US Is Worldly As Hell appeared first on ComposeMD.

First, it didn’t.

And second, it didn’t.

Let’s start with the first one.

The World Cup—as in the 2026 version—boasts 16 host cities scattered across a trio of countries.

Three are in Mexico, eleven in the US, and two in Canada.

Located at 43°39’09″N 79°22’54″W, along the northwestern shore of Lake Ontario, is a place called Toronto.

Six games will be played there.

So like I said above, it didn’t.

And now for the second one, the American one, if you will.

To arrive at a conclusion, we have no choice but to access a list of US metro areas by population.

Ten of the 11 US host metros—New York, Los Angeles, Dallas, Houston, Atlanta, Miami, Philadelphia, Boston, San Francisco, and Seattle—are among the top 15 American metros by population. (The outlier, at number 31, is Kansas City.)

The five metros in the top 15 that didn’t make the cut include Chicago (at number three) and Detroit (at number 14).

Anti-Great Lakes bias?

The answer, among other places, can be found in Chapter 14 of Soccernomics—the 2026 World Cup Edition, of course.

There, authors Simon Kuper and Stefan Szymanski expose the myth that hosting a mega-event is a sound financial investment. In most cases, the expenditure involved in preparing for the party far exceeds any economic return.

In the case of the World Cup, things are even worse, what with FIFA’s lack of transparency and its unreasonable demands, whether they pertain to playing surface, seating capacity, public transit, or whatever.

Sure, there might be a “feel-good” factor, though we can call it what it is—a line of cocaine.

American cities, particularly those that have been around the block, are quite aware of this reality. Short-term gains, which might not even exist, can translate into long-term losses.

Great Lakes cities, the likes of Chicago and Detroit, have seen a thing or two. In other words, they ain’t drinking the Kool-Aid.

That’s why in 2017, Detroit opted out of consideration to be a 2026 World Cup host.

In 2018, Chicago did the same.

As such, the real question—if anyone is still asking—is why the Great Lakes gave the World Cup the shaft.

And the answer key, as you know, lies with FIFA.

The post Why the World Cup Gave the Great Lakes the Shaft appeared first on ComposeMD.