Welcome back to the blog, fellow Hivers, football fanatics, and casual observers of grown men dramatically rolling around on the grass! We need to have a serious talk about the upcoming 2026 World Cup, because the footballing gods and the executives in Zurich have collectively proven that they have an absolutely wicked sense of humor. This week, the final participating countries were officially locked in. The last remaining tickets to the biggest sporting carnival on earth were handed out to Sweden, Bosnia, Czechia, and Turkey from Europe, alongside Congo and Iraq representing the rest of the world. The roster is officially complete. And then... there was the other team battling for a spot. A small, unknown, underdog nation with absolutely no footballing pedigree. Just kidding. I’m talking about Italy.

The Great Italian Disappearing Act

Yes, folks, you read that correctly. Mamma Mia. Once again, it is going to be a World Cup without the Azzurri. Italy missing the World Cup is no longer a fluke; it’s practically a certified global tradition at this point. They have now missed three World Cups in a row. Let that sink in. Three! To put this catastrophic failure into perspective, there are currently Italian citizens who are old enough to legally drive, vote, and complain about pineapple on pizza, who have never actually seen Italy shine at a World Cup. Now, you could argue that the shame is even bigger this time around because the 2026 World Cup features a whopping 48 teams. Forty-eight! You could blindly throw a dart at a spinning globe and probably hit a country that qualified. But in fairness to the Italians, UEFA didn't get a massive share of those extra tickets, so the European qualifiers remained an absolute bloodbath. The most hilarious paradox in all of this? During this historic, desert-like World Cup drought, Italy somehow managed to win a European Championship. It is the most Italian thing ever: they cannot figure out how to beat a squad of part-time plumbers in a World Cup qualifier, but put them in a Euro final at Wembley, and suddenly they are tactical demigods.

Flashback to 2002: The TV vs. Tokyo Dilemma

Watching the Italians weep over their espresso this week sent me tumbling down memory lane, right back to my early twenties. The year was 2002. The World Cup was being co-hosted by Japan and South Korea, and my home country, Belgium, had qualified. For us, at the time, this wasn't breaking news. It was our fifth (or maybe sixth?) consecutive World Cup appearance. I was so incredibly used to the Red Devils playing on the world stage that I practically took it for granted. Funnily enough, back then, we were the exact opposite of Italy: we were always at the World Cup, but we rarely ever managed to qualify for the Euros. When Belgium booked their ticket to Japan, I faced a massive dilemma. I really, really wanted to go. But looking at my bank account, a trip to Japan felt like I’d be funding a small space program. It was a faraway, exotic, and incredibly expensive journey. So, being a highly rational young adult, I made a choice. I decided to skip the trip of a lifetime and buy a new TV instead. My logic was flawless: “A trip to Japan lasts two weeks, but a glorious, heavy, square television set? That will bring me joy for years!” I bought the TV, sat on my couch, and watched the tournament from the comfort of my living room. The Dark Ages and the "Golden" Generation Little did I know, as I sat staring at my brand new, state-of-the-art 2002 television, that it would be the last time I’d see Belgium at a World Cup for a very long time. We entered what we politely called a "rejuvenation phase." That is essentially football-speak for: we were absolutely terrible and fielded a team that couldn't pass a ball in a straight line. Eventually, the clouds parted, and the footballing gods gifted us what everyone dubbed the "Golden Generation." Hazard, De Bruyne, Courtois, Lukaku—a team of absolute superstars. And what did we get for all that hype? A bronze medal at the 2018 World Cup. Don't get me wrong, bronze is nice. But when you have a "Golden" generation, bringing home bronze feels a bit like getting a really shiny participation trophy. I still sit awake at night wondering if there was more in the tank with a different manager. But I digress. As we gear up for 2026, I’m ready to see how Belgium inevitably breaks my heart again.

The 48-Team Circus and the Death of the Host Nation

Before we get to the actual rules of the game, we need to address the elephant in the room: 48 teams is just too many. Look, it is genuinely fantastic for the smaller nations who rarely or never get to experience the magic of a World Cup. Giving them an extra chance to participate is a beautiful sentiment. But let’s be brutally honest—the average, neutral football fan is not exactly clearing their schedule to watch Uzbekistan take on Congo on a Tuesday afternoon. Nice for their hardcore fans? Absolutely. Added value for the global spectacle? Minimal. And then you have the inevitable group stage bloodbaths. Nobody is holding their breath for a highly competitive nail-biter when a juggernaut like Brazil squares off against Haiti. It is just another glaring proof that expanding the tournament isn't about growing the beautiful game; it is purely about cramming in more broadcast hours to appease advertisers. But here is the most depressing side effect of this supersized tournament: it has made hosting a World Cup practically impossible for a normal country. The sheer infrastructure required—dozens of training camps, hundreds of hotels, and massive stadiums—is a logistical nightmare. Who can actually afford to host a 48-team circus? You either need an entire continent teaming up like the Americas, or you just hand the keys over to the mega-rich oil states. The days of a single, reasonably-sized nation hosting a charming, localized tournament are officially dead.

The "Daylight" Delusion and the Death of the Amateur Ref

But my impending heartbreak and the bloated format aside, let’s look at the actual pitch, where the powers that be are currently testing the so-called "daylight rule" for offsides. The sheer delusion behind this is staggering. The suits genuinely believe that changing the criteria from "a toe across the line" to "a microscopic sliver of visible light" will somehow stop the endless bickering. Spoiler alert: it won't. Instead of arguing about a millimeter of a kneecap, we are now going to be arguing about the refraction of photons on a VAR monitor. This rule change is a massive shift that heavily favors attacking powerhouses and entirely strips the offside trap away from weaker, tactically defensive teams. It’s a systemic penalty against the underdog. And here is the most glaring oversight: how on earth is this supposed to trickle down to the amateur level? 99% of football is played on muddy Sunday League pitches without VAR, and sometimes without even a dedicated linesman. You are taking the life of a stressed-out, unpaid amateur referee—a guy just trying to survive 90 minutes without getting yelled at by a local plumber—and making his job infinitely more complex. But the executives in Zurich don't watch Sunday League, so why would they care?

Infantino’s Hubris: The 2026 Billionaire’s Club

Speaking of Zurich, let us turn our gaze to Gianni Infantino, arguably the most arrogant and disconnected president FIFA has ever endured. Say what you want about the old, scandal-ridden regimes of the past. Yes, they were wildly corrupt, but at least they still fundamentally liked football. They still had a shred of understanding for the "common man" who built the sport. Under the current regime, the 2026 World Cup in the Americas has been transformed into an exclusive billionaire's club. Take the commercial "hydration breaks." Does anyone honestly believe this blatantly obvious cash-grab would have been instituted if this tournament were hosted in Europe or Asia? Of course not. But once that Pandora's box of ad revenue is opened, there is no going back. And then there is the ticketing. Looking back, my idea of "expensive" in 2002 was adorably naive. Welcome to the era of "dynamic ticket pricing"—a purely corporate invention designed to financially bleed fans dry. Securing a nosebleed seat now requires taking out a second mortgage. The common man is officially priced out of the beautiful game.

The Iranian Delusion

But the absolute peak of FIFA's detachment from reality is the geopolitical farce regarding Iran. We are looking at a World Cup hosted primarily in the United States amidst an incredibly volatile political climate. There are active conflicts, deeply conflicting reports, and a very real possibility that the Iranian national team might not even be legally allowed to set foot on American soil. So, what is Infantino’s brilliant, nuanced strategy to navigate this diplomatic minefield? Absolutely nothing. He just smugly declares that Iran will play. That's it. There are no backup plans. No Plan B if visas are denied by the US government. No Plan C if the team refuses to show up. No Plan D for a sudden diplomatic meltdown. The arrogance practically drips off the man. Infantino genuinely seems to believe he can just ignore international warfare, summon the leaders of rival nations into his office like misbehaving school children, and order them to play nice because FIFA needs its broadcast revenue. He thinks a football tournament magically suspends global geopolitics. It is a masterclass in sheer, unadulterated hubris. So buckle up, football fans. Between the 48-team chaos, the tactical photon-measuring, and the geopolitical tightrope walking, 2026 is going to be one wild ride. At least the Italians will have plenty of time to enjoy their summer vacation. What do you guys think? Will the 48-team, dynamically-priced World Cup be a chaotic masterpiece or a corporate disaster? Let me know in the comments below! Cheers, Peter