In dystopian fiction, the narrative takes place after the event. Some kind of seismic, cataclysmic event that changes life on earth. An event such as nuclear war, a natural disaster or an orgy of late-stage capitalism that takes place against the backdrop of a football tournament.
It’s appropriate then, two weeks after ‘the event’, to look back at the good, the bad, and the uncomfortable of the 2026 World Cup. How do you begin to summarise the 23rd edition of the world’s biggest football tournament? 48 teams make it a tougher task than usual to give a holistic view, apportioning a fair enough amount of coverage to each story, but leaving enough words to verbally slaughter (but not defame) the men in white shoes with orange skin, omnipresent throughout.
Let’s begin before a ball was kicked. The 2026 edition spanned three nations and thousands of miles. On paper, FIFA claimed to welcome more fans than ever, from 48 competing nations and beyond. The reality was far less welcoming. Prohibitive pricing, profiteering on transportation and refused visas meant that this tournament was always at odds with FIFA’s principles of openness and freedom.
The cynicism was palpable before a ball was even kicked. So many football writers, broadcasters and academics declared that they’d be boycotting the tournament. They claimed this was one to miss.
Then the first ball was kicked in the Azteca stadium and so much changed. We watched. Of course we watched, it’s the World Cup. Had FIFA hoodwinked us? Showcasing Shakira, in her umpteenth World Cup; a siren, singing us to soccer shipwreck. Was it the romance of the Azteca - The stadium synonymous with the tournament? It definitely wasn’t South Africa. They were a terrible opening opponent for Mexico.
Whatever the gateway drug, we were hooked. Relapsing four years post-Qatar, eight since Russia. Sure, we allowed ourselves to be hoodwinked. Complicit in the sleight of hand. Looking the other way as FIFA so often do themselves. But isn’t that football, and modern life? Parking your principles for a brief period, in order to suspend disbelief that everything might actually be okay.
It helped that many of the tournament’s protagonists began so strongly. Two goals from Mbappe were swiftly matched by a Haaland brace, before Messi began with a hat-trick. In fact, it seemed poignant that a (mostly) American World Cup featured so many brilliant individual performances. The nation that promotes individualism and obsesses over sports MVPs created a perfect platform for an epic golden boot race.
England’s man of the hour was undoubtedly Jude Bellingham. Two goals in the round of 16 epic vs Mexico cemented his place in English football folklore. Prior to the tournament, England’s star player was seemingly on a collision course with the manager, yet who could deny such brilliance?
Well, the manager of course. Following an arduous and excruciating extra-time win in the quarter-final versus much-fancied Norway - conquerors of Brazil - Tuchel claimed to be unimpressed with England’s lack of organisation. ‘Yeah, well, whatever’ came the reply from Bellingham.
On the other side of the draw, the men from across the Channel were the ones turning heads. Who could stop France? Who could possibly stifle the threats of Mbappe, Doue, Barcola and Dembele? Sweden were crushed under the wheels of the French juggernaut while Paraguay opted to harass, upset and assault them, before succumbing to a 1-0 loss.
European champions Spain were growing into the tournament. Having underwhelmed in their opener, facing an inspired Cabo Verde - led by ‘breakthrough’ 40-year old star Vozinha - they chugged along, impressing few, scoring fewer but crucially conceding none.
Mexico and Canada vanquished, it was left to USA to fly the flag for the host nations. An impressive group stage led to a showdown with Belgium. The problem was the suspension of their best player, the inspired Folarin Balogun. The solution? A phone call from President Trump to his old friend and FIFA President Gianni Infantino to smooth things over and suspend the suspension. Infantino launched a denial, he had to, as FIFA had suspended associations for political interference in the past. However, Trump promptly threw his friend under the bus confirming the phone call (once he had it explained to him what a red card was, and what it meant.)
Four years ago I wrote about the Argentinian military junta’s influence on the 1978 World Cup, but at least they had the decency to stage a cover up when they assassinated the original organiser.
Balogun was in, but the USA were promptly out. Turns out, they actually aren’t as good as Belgium, even with Trump selecting the side.
Eventually, we made it to the semi-finals. And as things got more serious, the good vibes came to a screeching halt. The fatalistic football fan can’t help but find it distasteful that due to FIFA’s seeding system, the semi finals seemed pre-determined before a ball was kicked. 48 teams, all that football and in the end we were left with the four top-ranked teams facing off. Couple that with the swell of feeling online that Messi’s Argentina were receiving preferential treatment to everyone else and things were beginning to sour.
Spain’s immovable object resisted France’s irresistible force in the first semi-final. A perfect performance from Spain, but not one that was particularly pleasing on the eye. In contrast to Spain’s 2010 vintage, the 2026 team - equally enamoured with keeping the football - seemed to use possession as a form of defence rather than attack. Starving their opponents into submission.
In the other semi-final in Atlanta, we saw a remarkable clash between eternal enemies England and Argentina. England’s complete capitulation after taking a 1-0 lead will live in the memory for generations. Outplayed, outfought and outthought they were mercilessly dispatched by a ravenous Argentina team. And how they celebrated! The image of the Argentinian players with a bedsheet declaring ‘Las Malvinas son Argentinas’, written in marker pen, will be burned into national consciousness like Ali stood over Sonny Liston. Something the players would have been totally aware of.
And so to the final, the most spiteful of games in modern times. Argentina took 120 minutes of play to register two shots, and Spain barely seemed to get out of second gear. Enzo Fernandez took an early bath and Paredes would have been sent off three times in the ‘70s for his performance. A stark contrast to the rollercoaster final four years prior in Qatar. It was a barely watchable two hours of football stretched across three hours, with the bloated half-time show.
Three host nations, 104 games, 120 unwatchable minutes. We had reached a saturation point. Exhaustion had set in for all of us.
Finally, with delirium setting in, the Spanish players received their medals from Trump and infantino. Following the recent announcement that FIFA is exploring the option of selling off pieces of football to investors, you’d forgive the Spanish players for checking they still had their wallets and watches as they shook hands with the Presidents.
Rodri was handed the trophy and hesitated before lifting, shifting a glance to Infantino, pleading with him and Trump to get off the stage and to step back from the limelight. Could FIFA possibly audit itself for political interference if Trump refused to let go of the trophy?
It’s tough not to end this on a negative note. For so many, international football is a sanctuary. A reprieve from the depressing commercialism of club football. And that’s how I felt for so much of this tournament. I set my alarm to wake up in the early hours to watch Messi play. I seethed with jealousy watching Scotland fans in Boston, wishing Cymru had qualified this time. This tournament made me feel young again, I felt hopeful, excited. Until the final, which felt like being run over repeatedly by the Coca Cola Truck!
Roll on 2030.
You can find more from Rhys on Substack at Rhys Richards