The quadrennial heist known as the FIFA World Cup is approaching once again, and with it comes the ritualistic gaslighting of the global working class. We are told, with a straight face by the high priests of sports journalism, that the 'true legacy' of this bloated corpse of a tournament isn’t found within the billion-dollar air-conditioned monuments to graft, but rather in the muddy parking lots and crowded town squares where the unwashed masses are permitted to watch a digital representation of the action. It is a spectacular lie, a participation trophy for the economically disenfranchised, and humanity is, as always, more than happy to swallow the bait.

Take the nostalgic pining for the 2006 World Cup in Germany. We are expected to find it 'charming' that fans were forced to huddle on the banks of rivers like displaced refugees, peering at floating screens on barges. The roar of the crowd careening off ancient buildings wasn’t a symphony of passion; it was the sound of thousands of people realizing they had been priced out of their own culture. There is something uniquely pathetic about the sight of a man standing in a German drizzle, staring at a barge, convinced he is part of a global community, while inside the stadium, a corporate executive from a mid-tier logistics firm is choking on shrimp cocktail paid for by the fan’s licensing fees.

Then there is the romanticization of the Global South’s struggle. In South Africa, the 'magic' was apparently found in makeshift bars in people’s garages and unlicensed parks. In Brazil, it was the Copacabana—where the roar of the fans supposedly drowned out the sound of the state-mandated clearance of the surrounding favelas. We are told these 'spontaneous' gatherings are the heartbeat of the sport. In reality, they are the only option for people who live in a country that spent billions on stadiums they will never be allowed to enter. It is the ultimate expression of the modern economy: the poor get the 'vibe' and the 'atmosphere,' while the elite get the actual seats and the revenue. If you are watching a game in your neighbor’s garage, you aren’t experiencing the World Cup; you are experiencing the failure of late-stage capitalism to provide you with anything but a screen and a sense of false belonging.

Even Russia 2018 is viewed through this lens of delusional optimism. The world was 'surprised' by the friendliness of the locals and the spontaneous parties. One must admire the efficiency of a PR machine that can turn a surveillance state’s temporary suspension of its usual gloom into a 'global celebration of unity.' Those spontaneous parties were less an eruption of joy and more a state-sanctioned hallucination, a brief window where the grim reality of geopolitics was paved over with cheap beer and FIFA-branded bunting. The locals weren’t friendly; they were merely relieved to have a temporary reprieve from being the world's pariah, facilitated by a sport that doesn't care whose hands are shaking the trophy as long as those hands are holding a check.

Qatar 2022, we are told, was a 'Potemkin' World Cup because it lacked these organic swarms of people milling about. This is perhaps the most honest thing about the Qatari event. By stripping away the facade of the 'fan fest' and the 'community gathering,' Qatar revealed the World Cup for what it has truly become: a sterile, gated community for the ultra-wealthy and the strategically placed. It didn't feel 'real' because it didn't bother to lie to the poor. There were no barges, no garage bars, no Copacabana crowds to hide the fact that this is an elite product for an elite audience. It was a sterile, soulless transaction, which is exactly what international soccer is.

As we look toward the 2026 iteration in North America, the rhetoric of 'accessibility' is already being polished. We will be told that the fan zones in Dallas or the public squares in New Jersey will be the 'heart' of the tournament. The media will show us heartwarming b-roll of fans from different nations sharing a hot dog in a parking lot, pretending this is the pinnacle of human connection. It is not. It is a digital breadline. The World Cup is now a luxury good, no different than a yacht or a private island, yet it relies on the emotional labor of the people it excludes to maintain its brand value. We are the fuel for a machine that doesn't want us in the driver's seat, or even in the passenger's seat. We are just the people standing on the side of the road, cheering as the car drives over us.