‘La Pelota Vuelve A Casa’. The streets outside Mexico City’s Azteca Stadium are lined with flags carrying this slogan, which translates to ‘The ball has come home.’ Forty years after the Azteca was immortalised in football lore by Diego Maradona’s raised hands, the World Cup has returned to Mexico, alongside Canada and the United States.

But home?

Home is where the heart rests at ease, where the warm glow of the sun illuminates the air inside. Home is where friends become family. Home is where you stumble towards late at night and, the moment the door opens, know that you are safe. Home is where you want to return every day.

Coming home, if the posters are insistent about their message, has rarely felt so hostile.

Holding 80 per cent of the world’s biggest sporting event in the world’s richest economy should have guaranteed a few things: ease of movement, abundant infrastructure, a first-world stadium experience, and a chance to experience life on the other side of the Statue of Liberty, even if only briefly.

Instead, even getting to the World Cup has become difficult.

The Trump administration’s visa blacklist spans more than 75 countries, including several participating in the tournament. Fans from these nations face bonds ranging from $5,000 to $15,000 simply to enter the United States.

That, however, is only the beginning.

At airports, rifle-carrying immigration officers in Kevlar vests make it clear that entry is a privilege, not a right. Omar Abdulkadir Artan, a Somali referee accredited by FIFA for the World Cup, was reportedly interrogated at Miami airport for eleven hours before being placed in a holding cell and deported after being questioned about alleged links to terror groups.

Iranian fans were informed that their ticket allocations had been revoked. Members of the Senegal and Uzbekistan teams were subjected to searches and treatment many described as disrespectful and dehumanising.

While all this unfolded, FIFA president Gianni Infantino was busy launching cryptocurrency partnerships and appearing alongside celebrity streamers.

This week, the United States hosted its first men’s home World Cup match in 32 years.

The cheapest ticket for the game, located high in the upper tiers of Los Angeles Stadium, cost nearly $2,000—more than the most expensive ticket for the previous World Cup final.

Currently, the average lowest-priced group-stage ticket across the 11 US host cities exceeds the most expensive knockout-stage tickets from every previous World Cup. Tickets for the final are already selling for five-figure sums. It is probably best not to ask how much the most expensive seats cost.

FIFA attributes these prices to “dynamic pricing”, a system that adjusts costs based on demand. Its argument is that overwhelming demand justifies the surge.

Yet, three days before the opening ceremony, FIFA quietly released nearly 180,000 unsold group-stage tickets onto its official resale platform.

The contradictions do not end there.

In many host cities, public transport fares have risen sharply for the tournament. Parking near stadiums costs hundreds of dollars per game. Despite repeated warnings from scientists about extreme summer heat in several host locations, FIFA only relented after public backlash and allowed spectators to carry water bottles into stadiums.

Even then, the fine print remained restrictive: one filled bottle per person. Additional water would have to be purchased from the tournament’s official beverage partner at premium prices.

Who, then, is this World Cup really for?

The World Cup has always been more than football. It is supposed to be a global festival—a place where supporters from tiny nations can share space with CEOs from New York, where budget travellers can forge friendships with strangers from distant continents, and where people from every corner of the world gather inside concrete bowls of steel and plastic and breathe life into them.

The tournament’s magic is perhaps best illustrated by the story of Pannalal and Chaitali Chatterjee, a couple of modest means from Kidderpore in Kolkata. Between 1982 and 2018, they travelled to ten consecutive World Cups despite India never qualifying for a single one.

How many fans from outside the developed world can realistically hope to follow their teams across this summer of excess?

In Leo Tolstoy’s short story How Much Land Does a Man Need?, Pahom’s relentless pursuit of more land ultimately destroys him.

If the quarter-million unsold tickets and vacant hotel rooms are any indication, FIFA may be approaching a similar moment—one where it discovers that even the most passionate supporters have limits to how much exploitation they will tolerate.

Twenty-five years ago, on the day of his retirement, Diego Maradona said:

“La pelota no se mancha.”

The ball should never be stained.

Sorry, Diego.

The ball has become filthy.

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