Opinion

With not long to go now until the 2026 World Cup, a quieter question is already hanging over it: not who will win, but who will get in.

FIFA continues to sell the tournament as a celebration that “welcomes the world”. On paper, that is true. In practice, entry to the United States — which will host 78 of the tournament’s 104 matches — is governed by immigration systems that are discretionary, unevenly applied and increasingly shaped by politics. For millions of fans, attending the World Cup is no longer a matter of enthusiasm or money, but of risk.

A World Cup ticket does not guarantee entry to the United States. FIFA states this plainly, and the US government is even clearer. Most fans will require a visitor visa, and approval is never automatic. Entry decisions are made by consular officials and border agents, not by football authorities. The gap between buying a ticket and being allowed through the door is where uncertainty lives.

That uncertainty has widened in recent months. The Trump administration’s renewed focus on border control, immigration enforcement and visa scrutiny has hardened the environment in which applications are assessed. In January, the administration announced an indefinite suspension of immigrant visa processing for citizens of 75 countries. While the policy does not formally apply to tourist visas, it sends a clear signal about priorities and risk tolerance. In immigration systems, signals matter.

The effect is not a blanket ban on fans. It is something more subtle and more disruptive: longer waits, higher refusal rates, inconsistent decisions and a growing sense that applicants from certain regions are starting several steps behind. For supporters from visa-waiver countries, attendance may still feel routine. For fans from large parts of Africa, South Asia, the Middle East and Latin America, it increasingly does not.

FIFA knows this. It has quietly acknowledged the strain by working with US authorities on a priority appointment system for ticket holders, an implicit admission that normal consular capacity would not cope with World Cup demand. That system may help some. It will not eliminate the underlying imbalance.

What this creates is not a moral crisis first, but a practical one. Fans are being asked to commit significant sums on travel, accommodation and tickets before they know whether a visa will be granted. Families with mixed immigration histories, previous overstays, rejected applications or the “wrong” passport face the prospect of being priced out not by cost, but by uncertainty. Many will simply decide not to try.

This is the point at which politics enters the picture — not as ideology, but as consequence.

, president of St. Pauli and vice-president of the German Football Association, who has argued publicly that the possibility of a boycott should at least be discussed. The trigger is not abstract hostility to the United States, but discomfort with a tournament whose access conditions appear increasingly selective.

France has been quicker to shut the conversation down, insisting that sport and politics should remain separate. Other federations, including the Netherlands, have acknowledged unease while stopping well short of any commitment. The pattern is consistent: nobody wants to boycott a World Cup, but fewer are willing to pretend the conditions around participation are normal.

Outside official circles, the shift is already happening. Some supporters’ groups have already said they will not attend at all. In England, the LGBTQ+ supporters’ group Three Lions Pride has announced it will 

boycott the 2026 World Cup as an organised presence

, citing concerns over safety, rights and the political climate in the United States. This is not coordinated protest. It is withdrawal — quieter, less dramatic, and harder to measure.

FIFA’s response has been to repeat its favourite word: neutrality. The organisation insists it does not take political positions, does not judge host governments, and does not intervene in domestic policy — a claim that rang hollow weeks ago when FIFA President, Gianni Infantino, presented Donald Trump with a hastily invented “peace prize”, widely interpreted as an act of appeasement designed to flatter the ego of a man who had just failed to secure the Nobel Peace Prize.

Neutrality, in this context, functions less as principle than as alibi. FIFA cannot control borders, but it chose a tournament structure that makes one country’s immigration policy the gatekeeper of the global game. It continues to market universality while disclaiming responsibility for who is excluded.

Boycotts, when they are raised, are often dismissed as ineffective or self-defeating. History offers plenty of evidence for that scepticism. Players lose out. Fans are punished. Governments rarely change course. But boycott talk does not emerge in a vacuum. It surfaces when participation itself starts to look conditional.

The more immediate reality is simpler and more corrosive. Attendance is becoming uneven. Access is becoming politicised. And the burden of navigating that reality is being pushed onto individuals, quietly and without ceremony.

The 2026 World Cup will almost certainly go ahead. The stadiums will fill. The broadcasts will be global. What will not be equal is access. A tournament sold as universal is quietly becoming selective, filtered through borders, visas and discretion — and FIFA is asking fans to pretend that this is just how global football works now.

The World Cup That Might Not Let You In

The 2026 World Cup is being marketed as a global festival, but entry to its primary host country is becoming more uncertain, more selective and more politicised. With tighter immigration scrutiny, volatile visa rules and growing unease among allies, fans are quietly beginning to question whether attending is realistic at all. Against that backdrop, talk of boycotts — once unthinkable — is no longer abstract. This article examines how access, not ideology, is driving the debate, and why FIFA’s insistence on neutrality now looks like evasion.

As the United States prepares to host the majority of matches at the 2026 World Cup, growing immigration barriers are forcing fans, federations and governments to confront an uncomfortable question: who is actually welcome to attend?

The World Cup That Might Not Let You In

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