I told my wife I was boycotting this World Cup. She laughed and said I’d last ten minutes. She was right, as usual. I watched every single game for the 11th straight tournament, and honestly, I’m glad I did.
The soccer was genuinely good. England-Mexico was an instant classic. Argentina-Cape Verde had drama that felt scripted. Argentina-Egypt delivered, too. France’s demolition of Sweden was a masterclass. And Spain’s semifinal win over France wasn’t a barnburner in the traditional sense, but it might have been the most complete performance I’ve seen in years.
Some serious star power showed up. Erling Haaland’s second goal against Brazil was pure arrogance in the best way. But the goal of the tournament belonged to Sidny Lopes Cabral — the timing and quality were Puskas-worthy.
The 48-team format was clunky. I’ll say that upfront. But it worked better than a lot of us expected. Even the teams that got blown out had moments. The head-to-head tiebreaker was awful, sure, but 10 of 12 groups still had real tension in the final round. Egypt-Iran and Algeria-Austria were unforgettable finishes.
Knockout rounds are always cagey. That’s just how it goes. The round of 32 was surprisingly good. The round of 16 was mostly blah except for a couple genuine classics. Quarters and semis delivered on drama and quality. The third-place game was absolutely bonkers in the best way. The Final? It was a crapshoot. We got lucky in 2018 and 2022. This time, not so much. But Spain was a worthy winner.
The Refereeing Problem Nobody Wants to Solve
VAR is unpopular. VAR’s parents won’t return its calls. VAR’s spouse left with the kids and joined a Buddhist retreat. But here’s the thing: soccer has so few scoring plays that every call feels massive. Players cheat. Referees are human, even with screens. You pay your money and take your choice.
Infantino and Trump Were Background Noise
This tournament was about more than soccer from the start. It was about two names: Gianni Infantino and Donald Trump. And the World Cup beat them both.
Infantino is a dime-a-dozen suit. He was at every game, not because he cared but because he had to pretend. He got booed constantly. But here’s the thing: he became wallpaper. Unattractive wallpaper, sure, but wallpaper. The real VIPs were Ronaldo, Jorge Campos, Hristo Stoichkov, Diego Simeone — even Philippe Senderos and Jozy Altidore got more cheers.
Trump stayed away for a long time. The World Cup was too big and too diverse for him. He couldn’t figure out how to make it about himself. When he finally showed up, he did what he always does: he shat on it. He tried to help the USMNT. Instead, the team got slaughtered by a team that used his interference as fuel. Then he golfed with Harry Kane, called him a great player, and Kane promptly stopped playing like one. There’s a saying here: everything Trump touches dies.
But the World Cup didn’t die. That’s what matters. It lived because soccer is about love and joy. The Norwegian rowers. The Scottish bagpipers. Merlín the duck. The face of this tournament wasn’t Infantino or Trump. It was us, having a blast.
Infantino and Trump can’t experience love or joy. They can’t conquer it either. The world is run by bad people a lot of the time. That’s inescapable. But the lesson of 2026 isn’t that a better world is possible. It’s that the better world is already here, one game at a time.
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