In the immortal words of Fabrizio Romano, “Here we go!!”
THE 2026 FIFA World Cup officially kicks off early tomorrow morning at 3am. All around the world, at least five billion people are supposedly experiencing a shared, transcendental moment of human connection.
Even in Malaysia, the sports pages are rolling out their copy pasted, AI-generated tactical previews about high pressing total blocks and Neymar’s arrival at “the largest tournament in history!”. Forty eight teams. 104 matches. Three host nations. Largest in number, yes.
READ MORE: Ronaldo’s final bid for World Cup glory
But if you look through a microscopic lens, the 2026 edition is an absolute circus. And to be perfectly honest, nobody on the ground here gives a toss. Even Krusty the Clown wanted nothing to do with this show.
If you walk into many mamak stalls, or even sports bars in Kuala Lumpur right now, the excitement simply isn’t there, unless you happen to be an expat whose team actually qualified.
For as long as I can remember, a World Cup opener meant plastic chairs spilling onto the pavement, projectors blasting a 100-inch screen and an atmosphere thick with nervous sweat.
I wonder if it has anything to do with Astro completely losing the broadcasting rights.
I am not in the business of analysing a profit and loss statement or corporate finance, but with the astronomical increase in broadcasting fees, FIFA has fundamentally misjudged how people actually consume the game. Or rather, who else consumes the game.
The 2026 tournament was meticulously scripted by FIFA’s PR and marketing drones to be the ultimate final showdown. Messi versus Ronaldo, one last time, localised entirely within the land of commercial capitalism.
Instead, the actual football has been completely overshadowed by a bureaucratic comedy at the border.
From Aymen Hussein, the star striker who single-handedly scored the goals to get Iraq into this tournament, being detained at Chicago’s O’Hare airport, to the tragic fate of referee Omar Abdulkadir Artan.
Omar was set to make history as the first Somali referee to ever officiate at a World Cup.
He arrived at Miami International Airport with a valid, FIFA-vetted visa, only for US Customs and Border Protection to label him inadmissible and put Africa’s top referee straight back on a flight to Istanbul.
FIFA President Gianni Infantino spent years apple-polishing to the American elite to secure this tournament, promising seamless global cooperation. Yet, hours before kickoff, teams are missing support staff, referees are being de-facto deported like illegal luggage and the Swiss national team had to file emergency legal appeals just to get Breel Embolo across the border. How on earth is this a festival of sport?
If the tournament actually manages to take place between US Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) interceptions and visa hearings, the sport itself presents grand illusions of grandeur.
England arrives with their usual insufferable media parade, convinced that football is coming home, yet again. On paper, they look terrifying. They have a squad worth billions, packed with systemic, rigid perfection under Thomas Tuchel.
Then there’s Portugal. A squad brimming with generational, fluid attacking talent in Rafael Leão, Bruno Fernandes and Bernardo Silva. However, they remain completely shackled to the gravity of a 41-year-old Cristiano Ronaldo. They could win the whole thing if they played like an actual team, rather than dedicating themselves entirely to servicing one man’s existential crisis against ageing.
And then we have the Netherlands. I’ve been a Dutch fan since 1998. For nearly three decades, my relationship with this team has been pure masochism (yes, I only learned the word today). It is a predictable cycle: they turn up, play some of the most breathtaking, aesthetically arrogant football on the planet, make you believe they are going to win it all, and then spectacularly self destruct in the most heartbreaking way imaginable.
This year, the international press is quietly labelling Ronald Koeman’s men the ultimate dark horse. They aren’t the favourites, which is exactly the territory where they will thrive.
The squad is balanced, gritty, and completely lacks that suffocating media pressure. They have the defensive spine and the tactical fluidity to quietly march across the finishing line while the media focuses entirely on Lamine Yamal’s security detail or Messi’s road to another corrupted World Cup triumph.
Winning an entirely manageable Group F against Japan, Sweden, and Tunisia buys them a favourable knockout trajectory that completely bypasses the tournament favourites early on. The real crucible will begin in the quarterfinals, where they are projected to collide with a heavyweight like England or a structurally flawed Portugal.
If Virgil van Dijk’s defensive unit can choke out those corporate accountants or exploit Ronaldo’s ego, a semifinal berth awaits, likely a brutal 2022 rematch against Argentina. If we do get that rematch, it won’t just be about football, it will be an absolute exorcism.
This World Cup is going to hit differently. It will be the very first tournament I watch without my dad.
He was a lifelong, unapologetic Brazil supporter. To him, football wasn’t a tactical spreadsheet. It was Samba. It was joy, and it was flair.
We spent decades on opposite sides of the living room. On paper, Brazil and the Netherlands are even across 13 historical meetings with 4 wins apiece and 5 draws. But the World Cup encounters are where our living room trauma truly lived.
I look at the Seleção this year under Carlo Ancelotti and out of pure habit and respect for my dad, and also because my former sports Editor, Navjeet Singh, looks exactly like him and because I was the only journalist who snagged a one hour interview with Ronaldinho, I find myself wishing for Brazil to do okay.
I want them to look respectable. I don’t want them crashing out in shame. But, crucially, I don’t want them doing too well. I certainly don’t want Ancelotti’s structured machine playing a dominant brand of football that completely overshadows my Dutch dark horses. A quiet, dignified exit for Brazil in the round of 16 while the Netherlands quietly slips into the semifinals would be the absolute perfect tribute.
So, here’s to the 2026 World Cup. Cross your fingers that your favourite player doesn’t get detained by Homeland Security, or that the referees don’t just side with Argentina for no earthly reason, and prepare yourselves for the inevitable Dutch disappointment.
Somewhere out there, my dad is probably wearing a yellow jersey, laughing at the complete chaos of it all.
Here we go!!
