If there were no sports calendar to honor, the 2026 World Cup wouldn’t be happening. Not now, with world leaders crushing eggshells all over the planet. Not here, with the United States serving as a contentious co-host. But the calendar doesn’t consult the moment. It just flips with indifference.
So we’re doing this. We’re really doing this. Hide your wallets and freeze your credit cards. Here comes the largest, priciest World Cup ever, right on schedule, forging into a volatile world unprepared to receive it. The scale of this event is astounding: 48 nations, 104 matches, 16 cities, three countries, one continent that made an eager promise of unity eight years ago. Put it all together, and it makes a stunning, poster-worthy graphic. The inclusion looks magnificent on paper.
Yet the great paradox of this historic, expansive World Cup is that it threatens to be the least accessible edition so far. There will be more countries on the pitch, but fewer ordinary fans can afford tickets to watch them. For many potential visitors, an obstacle greater than price gouging will be simply arriving without incident, not to mention feeling safe if they do.
The three neighbors hosting the tournament — the U.S., Canada and Mexico — once sold their continental cohesion, but now America is entangled in trade disputes with both of them. Seldom has the red, white and blue welcome mat been more conditional. The numbers suggest this is the biggest global soccer spectacle ever, but in reality, it keeps shrinking. And look at who gets squeezed out: the people who make it matter.
So who, exactly, is this World Cup for?
