Before we talk about the end of the World Cup, we have to talk about the actual end of the World Cup, which featured Spain beating Argentina 1-0 thanks to an extra-time goal from Ferran Torres in the 106th minute. The final, it has to be said, was a mess. It featured a dog’s breakfast of a halftime show that went on twice as long as it was supposed to and made you feel, to paraphrase Matt Damon’s Odysseus, like it had been ten years on this fucking pitch. Spain earned its second World Cup and first since 2010, but the game was a completely one-sided affair in which Argentina not only posted 0.09 Expected Goals (as opposed to 1.72 for Spain) but didn’t even muster a single shot until the 120th minute. They were the first team with that unfortunate distinction in a World Cup game — not a final, just any game — since Costa Rica in 2022. (Costa Rica lost that one 7-0.)
Argentina ended the game a man down thanks to a red card, though considering how invisible Lionel Messi was the whole game, you could say they were down two. Also, it took fans hours to get into “New York New Jersey Stadium” after sitting in traffic even longer. And it all ended with the president of the United States — who had been rightly and enjoyably roasted by some German broadcasters earlier in the game — congratulating the winning team through boos and looking, it must be said, decidedly low energy: One suspects it’s the first time he’s sat through 105 minutes of goalless soccer in this life. In a perfect touch, after he gave all the refs and everyone else medals, Trump (as he did at the end of the Club World Cup last year) insisted on being included in the team celebration photo, which led to Gianni Infantino sprinting over to try and fail to yank Trump away. This will surely result in some creative cropping by our finest photography professionals in the decades to come.
It was a pretty long, dry, even dull final. But in the end, who cares? Now that the final is out of the way, let’s talk about the World Cup itself, because it was an unequivocal success. Those of us old enough to remember the 1994 edition have spent 30 years telling everyone we could find that it was one of the most fun sporting experiences imaginable and that it would blow your mind whenever it returned to America. Then it happened, and it was even better the second time. I miss it already. Don’t you?
To be clear: As silly as all those “the World Cup is going to be a disaster!” arguments from six weeks ago look now — and there were so many — it should be said that almost all the things we thought would be bad about this World Cup were, in fact, bad. The tickets were cartoonishly expensive. FIFA drained every host city for every penny it could get and then barnstormed out of town like it had just sold it on a monorail. The Iranian team was treated like shit. The president couldn’t leave well enough alone and launched a whole scandal. There was an awful halftime show. Alexi Lalas was inescapable. All that stuff was terrible!
But none of it made a difference, because, as I argued heading into the tournament, no matter how hard FIFA might try, the World Cup is impossible to screw up. It’s just too wonderful an event, too much of a celebration not just of the beautiful game but the billions of people who love it. It’s one of the few universal things this planet has left. The joyousness of the crowds gathering in the streets and pubs and family rooms all across the country and the world was undeniable and unstoppable. Crucially, this World Cup also showcased the United States and its people not the way its government wants them to be but for what they actually are — welcoming, diverse, and really, really into their hydration breaks. It all made for a feel-good summer that was desperately, almost existentially needed. The tournament was a joy even with its subpar ending.
Argentina was a polarizing team this World Cup, one that FIFA seemed to side with (Messi’s marketability had something to do with that, presumably) and one that kept finding wild ways to win. But I’ll remember their fans the most. They were everywhere. One of the joys of covering this World Cup has been getting to be in the building for Argentina’s absolutely absurd comebacks: the three goals they scored from the 79th minute on in the Round of 16 match against Egypt and the even more face-melting two goals they scored in the final ten minutes in the semifinal against England, culminating in Lionel Messi’s transcendent cross to Lautaro Martínez in extra time. Both of those games took place in Atlanta, near my home base in Athens, Georgia. I, and everyone else around me, was attacked by joyous Argentina fans after each goal; I have been scraped with so much Argentine stubble. They took over East Rutherford like they took over Atlanta and Miami and, for that matter, Qatar, but they were outmatched from the start on Sunday. Spain actually gave up only one goal all tournament — to Belgium, the team that smoked the United States — and only had one draw, beloved World Cup underdogs Cape Verde. They might not go down as one of the most exciting World Cup champs ever, but they will go down as one of the best. (And they’ll probably be favored in 2030 too.)
That tournament, for what it’s worth, will actually take place in Spain (as well as Morocco and Portugal, but mostly Spain), which means most games will happen, for an American audience, in the mornings and early afternoons. But I have no doubt the tournament will draw a massive audience here. Again, as someone who was there in 1994 and saw how that tournament minted two whole generations of American soccer fans, and then saw this tournament, which was so much bigger and, frankly, so much more needed at this particular American moment — this feels more like a beginning than an end. And for what it’s worth, Trump — on this lone thing — may be onto something: The United States may well be likely to be chosen to host again in 2038. At 92, he may not be around to see it. But most of the rest of us, hopefully, will be. I cannot wait.
Tags:
- games
- sports
- fifa world cup
- 2026 world cup
- spain
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Source: New York Magazine
