This year’s World Cup is the first to take place in three nations, but Mexico will only play a supporting role. Although we’ve hosted two of the greatest editions – 1970, which crowned Pelé, and 1986, which did the same for Maradona – this time we’ve shamefully accepted a minor part alongside the US. Out of 104 matches, Mexico will host a mere 13, the same as Canada.

Festivity and ceremony are an essential part of Mexican life. Public gatherings don’t need much justification: whether the reason is civic, religious or sporting, what matters is the miracle of being together. When Mexico hosted an unofficial Women’s World Cup in 1971, it attracted huge crowds, even though the tournament had little history and the players were unknown. The final match set a record that still stands for the highest attendance at a women’s sporting event: I was one of the 112,500 people who packed into Mexico’s cathedral of football, the Estadio Azteca, to watch our team lose to Denmark.

It’s a reminder that our greatest contribution to the sport is our spectators: if there was a World Cup for fans, Mexico would be perennial finalists. And yet the 2026 tournament has stirred little excitement so far, largely due to the extortionate price of tickets and the torturous process for getting them. People rightly feel robbed of what should be a great popular spectacle.

Days before kickoff, the Financial Times reported that 180,000 tickets were still unsold, mostly for games in the US, where initial prices were highest. Meanwhile, the final warmup matches have been overshadowed by the scandal of a Somali referee being denied entry to the US – with disgraceful silence from FIFA. Other teams have seen staff members denied entry; numerous players and officials have experienced delays and detentions. This is to say nothing of the thousands of fans facing travel bans, visa issues and last-minute entry troubles.

In Mexico, commercial greed has already sullied every aspect of the sport: television broadcasts are interrupted by commercials, jerseys are covered with corporate logos, and clubs are franchises that can be sold to the highest bidder and moved across the country. (Among others, Club Necaxa was relocated from Mexico City to Aguascalientes; Club Monarcas from Morelia to Mazatlán; and Atlante F.C. from Mexico City to Cancún, to Zacatepec, and back again.)

Our feelings of discontent have been compounded by the national team’s poor performance. For decades, the crowds have chanted “sí se puede!” (“yes we can!”), but most of the time, we cannot. Instead, we’ve been subjected to trials worthy of the most demanding religions. 

Mexico has traditionally been a regional power, qualifying against North American and Caribbean teams, rather than those in South America. We’ve been to the most World Cups without ever winning the trophy (17). We lost the first-ever World Cup match against France in 1930. We were banned from Italia 90 for falsifying documents for the youth squad, and received one of the biggest fines ever after two players were caught doping in 2005. We’ve surrendered 101 goals across 60 contests, setting a record for most defeats (28) and own goals (4). Even our accomplishments are slightly depressing: goalkeeper Antonio Carbajal played in five editions without making it beyond the first round.

The faith of the fans finally seems to be faltering. A few months ago, Mexico faced Portugal in a warmup match that marked the reopening of the Estadio Azteca, which had been closed for a long renovation to satisfy FIFA’s requirements. (It is now known as “Estadio Banorte”, after the major bank that funded the process.) Even though a 0-0 result was not unacceptable, there was a strange discontent in the stands. At first the crowd was behind the team. As the game wore on, however, they began to boo, cheering for the best Portuguese players instead.

What changed? It could be said that the social contract between the team and its supporters is beginning to crack. While not yet time for divorce, the romance has entered a critical phase, in which the lovers can see it will be equally difficult whether they stay together or break up. Mexican fans have departed from Saint Paul’s unconditional “way of love” and are now suffering from a neurosis worthy of psychoanalysis.

In this sense, what happens on the pitch may be less significant than the symptoms observable elsewhere, as the many political threats to football come under increased scrutiny. Mexico City’s Memory and Tolerance Museum has an exhibition about the problems facing the world’s most popular sport. The National Autonomous University’s law school, for its part, will organise a conference about “the legal framework of world football”, a decisive theme in a country where players are treated like golden slaves and denied rights guaranteed under federal labour laws.

For Mexican fans, disillusionment begins at home. In LigaMX, success depends more on buying and selling players than winning titles. Relegation to the second division has been eliminated. Our foreshortened seasons culminate in mini-league playoff tournaments in which even an eighth-place team can be crowned champion. The domestic cheapening of the game has contributed to our waning enthusiasm for international football.

When the FBI launched an investigation into FIFA in 2015 – resulting in the arrest of various executives during a dawn raid on a luxury hotel in Zurich – the location of the 2026 World Cup should have become clear. The US had lost their bid to host 2018 and 2022 years earlier, because Russia and Qatar payed millions in bribes. Now the Americans would have their revenge. The stitchup was so obvious that FIFA launched a hasty diplomatic effort, announcing that the tournament would actually be shared by three North American hosts. Of course, the latecomers (Mexico and Canada) would be given fewer matches.

The situation became even more brazen last December, when Gianni Infantino awarded the inaugural “FIFA Peace Prize” to President Donald Trump, who was about to invade Venezuela to kidnap Nicolás Maduro. The presidents of Mexico and Canada didn’t even receive honourable mentions, despite abstaining from foreign interventions. In Ancient Greece, the Olympic Games produced a “sacred truce” that put wars on hold. On the eve of this World Cup, there’s no better business than war.

Each day leading up to the tournament has offered up a new scene in this theatre of incoherence. In the past, World Cup logistics were handled by travel agencies; now they’re being determined by border guards. Although FIFA describes itself as a nonprofit organisation, there’s little doubt about its true motivations: why else would Infantino expand the tournament from 32 to 48 nations?

Finalists will have to survive eight matches this year, one more than in previous competitions. What consequences will this have on athletes who are already treated like racehorses? When they aren’t in the hospital or the operating room, elite footballers often play three times a week. In 2024, Rodri, the Spanish midfielder for Manchester City, collected the Ballon d’Or as the world’s best player on crutches. The next year, Ousmane Dembélé, of France and Paris Saint-Germain, was also sidelined by injury when he received the same honour.

Modern football destroys its stars. Some won’t make it to the tournament. Others will be worn out by the heavy schedule; the long flights across three vast countries; and the changes in temperature, humidity and altitude. Some will play in Mexico City at 7,200 feet, then fly to the US to suffer at sea level in 40-degree heat. Travel logistics will be as lethal as a kick to the shins. Consider the Iranian team, who were forced by visa restrictions to relocate their training camp to Tijuana, even though all of their group stage games will be played in the US.

Historically, FIFA has shown a fondness for tyrants who guarantee order. Their business partners have included Mussolini and Franco (who, in 1966, secured the rights for España 82) – as well as the Argentine military junta and Vladimir Putin. In 2026, the master of ceremonies will be the world’s most unpredictable leader, ready to unleash whatever crisis most suits his whims. Perhaps Infantino’s prize for Trump was not a recognition of his contributions to peace, but a vain attempt to pacify him with a gold-plated tranquiliser. 

In recognition of the fact that football causes heart attacks, the Estadio Azteca was built near Mexico City’s Institute of Cardiology. The first stone was laid in 1962, in rocky terrain formed by the lava of Xitle, the volcano that marks the city’s southern boundary. At the time, few people knew the name of the neighbourhood. When the stadium opened in 1966, Angel Fernández, the legendary Mexican radio and TV commentator, christened this new marvel “The Colossus of Santa Úrsula”.

The stadium’s architect was Pedro Ramírez Vázquez, who designed many other sites of power in Mexico City, among them the new Basilica of Our Lady of Guadalupe, the Legislative Palace of San Lázaro, the National Museum of Anthropology and the former Ministry of Foreign Affairs in Tlatelolco.

Aware that symbols can be more important than reality in Mexico, Ramírez Vázquez gave the stadium a brutalist exterior, supported by immense concrete pillars with a geometry that evoked the Aztec pyramids. It declared beyond all doubt that this extravagant structure was ours. Inside, there were other priorities. When I visited the architect’s archive at his home in the neighbourhood of El Pedregal, not far from the stadium, I was surprised to find numerous plans pertaining to the building’s isoptic curves. The stands were designed to accommodate nearly 100,000 seated spectators, providing all them a good view. When the Brazilian Arlindo scored the opening goal in the inaugural match between Club América and Torino, no one lost sight of the ball. 

The main impetus for building the stadium was Mexico hosting the 1968 Olympic Games and the 1970 World Cup. The country was embracing modernity and needed a coliseum to accommodate its growing crowds. As is so often the case, the dream outstripped its budget. To mitigate the problem, 99-year leases were offered for certain boxes and floor seats. The national euphoria was so intense that even my paternal grandmother took notice and purchased two seats. My father and I understood these as a guarantee of longevity, assuming we would attend games for the next century.

Not everyone shared our enthusiasm. The international press argued, with some justification, that playing at 7,200 feet under the midday sun would be an updated form of the human sacrifice practised by the Aztecs. The project seemed to be designed for local heroes accustomed to surviving on little oxygen. Amazingly, athletes rose to the occasion. From those seats my grandmother bought, my father and I witnessed “the game of the century” – the 1970 semifinal between Italy and West Germany, which Franz Beckenbauer saw out like a war hero, his arm in a sling. A few days later we watched Pelé’s Brazil triumph over the Squadra Azzurra in a match that Pier Paolo Pasolini described as a victory for poetry over prose. In 1986 we watched Maradona score the most famous legal and illegal goals in World Cup history against England. 

Fans normally direct their prayers to the heavens. On at least one occasion the stadium had direct contact with the firmament: on 22 May 1983, three skydivers fell onto the field of the Azteca, interrupting the Mexican league semifinal between Club América and Guadalajara. This spectacle was planned for halftime. Because the first period had been extended by a brawl of Homeric proportions, the skydivers landed while the ball was still in play. André Breton said that in Mexico surrealism is part of everyday life. Indeed so. Between substitutes and starters, 17 players were sent off. 

Over the years, some owners have sold off their seats and boxes, but the majority of us “founders” have stayed faithful to our 99-year promise. FIFA, whose sense of loyalty is akin to that of Shakespeare’s most traitorous kings, threatened to forbid us their use during the 2026 World Cup, hoping to resell the seats at exorbitant prices. The holders formed a new association to take legal action against the federation and the stadium operators, forcing them to respect the rights acquired 60 years ago. 

Players who make appearances in five World Cups are considered to hold the venerable status of elder statesmen. The Azteca is about to reach a similar geriatric milestone: the first stadium to host three editions. When I visited its dressing rooms many years ago, I was surprised to see a sign advising goalscorers to abstain from exaggerated displays of joy. With a sense of contradiction, the very place that fosters passion also asks for calm – even as the stadium’s acoustics concentrate the roar of the crowd onto the pitch. 

From the outset, the Estadio Azteca was conceived of as a home for ecstasy. In keeping with global trends, it has been renovated for profit. A place built for the masses is being repurposed for the elite. Another one of football’s cathedrals, the Stadio Giuseppe Meazza – better known as the San Siro, home to both Inter and AC Milan – was recently sold by the city to the clubs’ American owners, who will demolish it and build a new stadium next door. While the original San Siro once admitted 80,000 spectators, its successor will hold only 71,500. The idea is to sell more expensive tickets to a more exclusive audience. 

The world’s most popular sport is increasingly out of reach for the majority – not just in the stands, but even on television, where games are rarely available without paid subscriptions. In this regard, the 2026 World Cup is a perfect expression of our era’s economic segregation.

While Trump threatens the World Cup with his xenophobia and warmongering, in Mexico we are dealing with our own homegrown threats. Near the end of 2025, the nation’s attention turned to an auto repair shop frequented by more stray dogs than cars. The true nature of its business was discovered to be something else entirely: underneath the property was a mass grave.

The discovery made headlines because the shop, located in Arroyo Hondo, Jalisco, was just 10 miles from Estadio Akron, home to one of Mexico’s most beloved teams, Chivas de Guadalajara, and the chosen site for four of the country’s upcoming World Cup matches.

Mexico is an immense necropolis, where families are searching for more than 130,000 disappeared. According to an investigative report by Quinto Elemento Lab, close to 2,000 mass graves were discovered between 2006 and 2016 – one every two days. ​​

All told, more than 500 bags containing human remains have been found in the vicinity of Estadio Akron by Jalisco’s Searching Warriors collective (Guerreros Buscadores de Jalisco), one of many groups across the country who have taken on a task that should be carried out by the state. In an interview with Spanish newspaper El País, one of the searchers summed up the situation: “In Jalisco, the missing are made to vanish.”

The Jalisco New Generation Cartel (CJNG) has transformed itself into a state-within-a-state capable of intervening in diverse sectors of the economy and exerting control over wide swaths of territory. The fortune of cartel leader Nemesio Oseguera Cervantes, known as “El Mencho”, has been estimated at more than $1 billion. Although his primary business was the trafficking of fentanyl, he also participated in scams such as the tourist resort Kovay Gardens, which sold timeshares to thousands of retired Americans. He oversaw the distribution of black market fuel through almost 3,000 shipments to his US accomplice, oil tycoon James Jensen, who laundered more than $47 million in earnings through presumably legal businesses.

This criminal emporium was consolidated during the administration of President Andrés Manuel López Obrador, who battled criminals with the slogan “ew, gross!” (“fuchi, caca”), and proposed reaching out to them with “hugs, not bullets” (“abrazos, no balazos”). 

In a radical about-face, his successor Claudia Sheinbaum decided to take on a cartel capable of downing military helicopters, organising coordinated highway blockades, and orchestrating the attempted assassination of then-police chief Omar García Harfuch in the middle of one of Mexico City’s main thoroughfares. His car was riddled with bullets from around 25 hitmen during a shootout that lasted more than 20 minutes. He was shot three times, but survived thanks to a mysterious combination of armour and luck.

The firepower of the CJNG is beyond question. Its policy of territorial control also extends to football pitches. According to the newspaper Reforma, in the last six years, 56 footballers have been murdered on the community soccer fields that host amateur players. The majority of those killings were in Salamanca, Guanajuato, a city that is home to a major oil refinery whose control is contested by the Jalisco and Santa Rosa de Lima cartels. The deaths are attributed to the players’ association with the warring gangs.

Cartels have also infiltrated the barras bravas, the groups of ultras that follow football clubs. On 5 March 2022, they were involved in a violent riot at the Estadio Corregidora, where Quéretaro (with fans belonging to the Santa Rosa de Lima cartel) were playing against Atlas (supported by members of the CJNG). Despite the attempts by the state governors of Querétaro and Jalisco to downplay the damage and obscure the number of injuries, it was clear that the long arm of organised crime now reached into the stands.

On 22 February 2026, the Mexican military confronted the country’s most powerful capo in an unprecedented battle that left more than 70 dead, including El Mencho himself. The cartel retaliated swiftly, blockading 252 highways across 20 states, organising a prison break in Puerto Vallarta, setting vehicles ablaze and vandalising businesses. The sense of danger was heightened by the cartel spreading disinformation on social media that exaggerated the scope and threat of the violence. 

From a strategic standpoint, the CJNG avoided opening up a new frontline or launching a Vietcong-style counteroffensive. They simply demarcated their territory in an ominous manner: “We are here,” they warned, measuring an expanse of geography that evoked the title of a novel by Arturo Azuela: El Tamaño del Infierno (The Size of Hell).

One of the three stadiums that Mexico will lend to the World Cup rests in the eye of this storm. Aware of football’s importance, the Jalisco cartel exerts a heavy influence over the Estadio Akron. It’s impossible to know how it will act during the World Cup. 

The stadium holds 50,000 fans. According to Óscar Balderas, a security reporter for Mexican newspaper Milenio, the cartels have already reserved their tickets. El Mencho bought his seats long ago.

If Goethe’s Faust has a prologue set in heaven, the most recent World Cups have had theirs staged in purgatory. After the corruption that preceded Russia in 2018, the tournament moved to Qatar in 2022, a country with a dubious human rights record, scant football tradition, and temperatures so high that its stadiums require air conditioning.

Despite all that conspired against the sport, we witnessed some of the best contests in history. Lionel Messi won his most sought-after trophy. Morocco displayed the remarkable unity that defines their team of exiles. Kylian Mbappé gave a glimpse of what his boots would accomplish in the future. And the Iranian squad risked their lives to protest against state repression. 

What will happen in 2026? The forecast is even more dire than it was four years ago. The unequal division between the three hosts and mounting geopolitical conflicts do not bode well, as the public is well aware – they have maintained a cautious attitude. Their reservations are especially apparent in Mexico, where life revolves around festivities and the World Cup usually stirs great hopes. 

In 2007, the Catholic Church decided to abandon the concept of limbo. This liminal state, halfway between heaven and hell, was too difficult to administer and define. Football, a secular faith, seeks to produce its own miracles and bring together millions of devotees. It’s no wonder that all manner of superstitions and beliefs take root there. Things that have disappeared from institutionalised religion have reappeared on the field. Such is the case with limbo – a place where one becomes stuck between glory and failure. 

This is where we find ourselves. Ticket prices, border restrictions and other objective facts point to disaster. But the tournament’s freshly prepared grass will be graced by Harry Kane, Erling Haaland, Vinícius Júnior, Sadio Mané, Achraf Hakimi, Mbappé, Messi and other undisputedly gifted stars. 

The only thing we can say for sure about the matches to come is that they will defy our expectations. It’s worth remembering that the best predictions in recent years came from Paul the Octopus at South Africa 2010. Human beings frequently fall victim to the “sin of objectivity,” forgetting that football is not a science.

We journalists have resigned ourselves to making obvious predictions: France, Spain and Argentina have powerful squads at their disposal. It’s possible that Carlo Ancelotti, who excels at overseeing superstars, will manage to wrangle the Brazilians. 

Rarely has a World Cup featured so much talent. But in order to survive, the sport must develop antibodies against the political forces threatening to destroy it. The dangers that stalk the game are not found on the field, but in the executive boxes.

In a world of economic speculation and political depredation, for six weeks, starting on 11 June, players will have the opportunity to demonstrate that even now, football can still offer a glimpse of paradise.