Три Страны, Один Стол и Беспрецедентная Вечеринка

The 2026 World Cup is the first in history to be jointly hosted by three countries: the United States, Canada, and Mexico. When FIFA announced this decision in 2018, the global reaction broadly fell into three categories: Americans said, "Of course it’s us," Canadians said, "We’ll help too," and Mexicans said, "The Azteca Stadium has hosted two World Cup finals—what have your stadiums hosted?"

A tri-nation co-hosting has never happened in the World Cup’s ninety-plus-year history. Not because no one had thought of it—in fact, the 2002 Japan-South Korea World Cup had already proven co-hosting was feasible—but because integrating the visa policies, customs procedures, aviation networks, and infrastructure of three different countries requires an administrative workload that no normal human can comprehend.

I once interviewed a man who had worked on FIFA’s organizing committee for fifteen years. He told me: "Co-hosting isn’t three countries throwing one party together. It’s three countries each throwing their own party, and then we build a corridor in between." He was referring to that corridor—a "World Cup corridor" stretching from Mexico City, through Texas, all the way to Toronto—the longest sports event route in human history.

Imagine this: You’re a fan. You watch the opening match in Mexico City, fly to Dallas for a group stage game, then to Vancouver for the round of 16, and finally to New York for the final. Your passport will have entry stamps from three countries. Your phone will hold visas for three nations—if Canada’s fast-track works, if the U.S. doesn’t flag your application, if Mexico still grants visa-free entry for your passport. In thirty-nine days, you cross three countries, four time zones, three climates, and countless security checks. By the time you get home, you might need another thirty-nine days to recover.

But ask any fan who’s been through that journey—they’ll all tell you the same thing: "Worth it." Not because of the matches. Because of these three countries—neighbors who never saw themselves as one family—for those thirty-nine days in the summer of 2026, they truly felt like the same place.

In a bar in Vancouver, a Canadian told me: "You know, we share a border with the U.S., but we’ve never felt like we’re the same country. The World Cup made us feel for the first time—well, maybe we could be." He took a sip of his beer. "At least for those thirty-nine days."