Donald Trump has not managed it. Nor his peace prize patsy Gianni Infantino. Not (quite) their shameful treatment of Iran and Belgium, not the avaricious seat pricing or the £73 subway tickets or the £14 pints, not hydration breaks, ball sensors, VARgentina or spider-cam wires.
Not ICE outside the grounds or imbecilic influencers in the stands, not the selfishness of Ronaldo and the sneering of Neymar as they faded out gracelessly, not even the grinding monotony of Sam Matterface and Lee Dixon. The 2026 World Cup has resisted all attempts at spoiling it.
Lots of what has happened on the pitch has been very good; much has been great and some decidedly not so. But what’s been exceptional throughout has been the ordinary people in the stands – the ones who were bilked by the corporate greed of the “Fifa family”, but turned up and enjoyed themselves regardless.
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The “yellow fever” of the Colombians, the Baccarat-loving Scots, the rowing Norwegians, the left-right jumping Dutch. And the Mexico supporters who waited in the concourses and outside the Estadio Azteca to meet England fans after that 3-2 nailbiter in the round of 16, not to seek retribution but to form a guard of honour, to applaud and shake hands as men and women in Three Lions shirts chanted “Mexico, Mexico”. And talking of England chants, whether you love Wonderwall or hate it, it’s a definite improvement on Ten German Bombers.
And this is where Infantino was right: the expansion to 48 teams worked not because of more football, but because of more fans. And the 2026 World Cup has worked because, despite efforts to the contrary, the joy of football remains bigger than ego, bigger than money – bigger, even, than Donald J Trump.
