Cape Verde is going to the World Cup for the first time. Argentina fans are debating in cafés and parks whether their team can go back-to-back. In much of the world, the tournament feels alive already. In the United States, the host nation, it mostly doesn't.
That gap matters. Hosting a World Cup is supposed to generate a wave of national excitement — 1994 did it, and that tournament is credited with planting soccer's roots in American soil. But 2026 is arriving in a different political climate, and the energy is fractured before a ball has been kicked.
Who actually gets to show up
The access problem is real. Fans from Haiti, Iran, Senegal, and Ivory Coast face genuine difficulties traveling to the US right now — visa restrictions, border tensions, and the broader atmosphere around immigration all cut against the open-festival spirit a World Cup depends on. Layer sky-high ticket prices on top of that and you're left with a tournament that risks feeling like a private event wearing a global costume.
Soccer has grown in the US. Messi's arrival in MLS moved the needle. Youth participation is strong. But the sport still sits behind baseball, basketball, and American football in the national conversation, and no amount of FIFA marketing changes that cultural pecking order overnight. The World Cup odds for a US host nation bump in viewership and engagement look shakier than they did a year ago.
Where the real celebrations will happen
The most authentic World Cup atmosphere in the US probably won't come from the big stadiums. It'll come from places like St Louis, Missouri, where Bosnian families — many of whom fled war in the 1990s — are planning to back Bosnia and Herzegovina with everything they have. For those communities, this tournament is about memory and identity, not just football.
That's always been how immigrant communities in America have kept the game alive. The World Cup may end up proving exactly that — celebrated loudest by the people the current political moment seems least interested in welcoming.
