A golden trophy sat on the Resolute Desk. FIFA’s president stood next to Donald Trump, who cycled through visa policy and military strikes in the same photo-op. This was supposed to be a World Cup planning session. It looked more like a hostage negotiation.

Trump did offer FIFA one tangible win. Fans with match tickets can now book priority visa appointments at U.S. consulates overseas—something officials have been quietly pushing for months. With over six million tickets potentially going out, that kind of access actually matters when the lottery opens and consulates get swamped.

Then it got weird. Seattle and Los Angeles might lose their matches, Trump said, if he doesn’t like their security plans. Both cities have been prepping for years. Stadium upgrades. Transport overhauls. Policing strategies. All of it now conditional, announced from behind the Resolute Desk, as if he were evaluating quarterly performance.

He also brought up Mexico, a co-host, as a potential military strike target if drug trafficking doesn’t slow down. For a tournament built on three countries sharing the spotlight, threatening one of them with military action is a hell of a note. People observing the meeting couldn’t tell if this was about football or foreign policy.

Access versus anxiety at World Cup 2026

The whole thing felt off because access has been the big story for 2026. The tournament promises scale—48 teams, NFL-sized stadiums, and tickets for fans from every continent. But then there’s the other side: who can actually get into the United States, how hard it is, and what happens when security talk slides into threats.

This tension isn’t new. Iranian fans have been watching Trump’s travel restrictions with a mix of anger and resignation, knowing political decisions in Washington can block them from following their team. Iran’s World Cup qualification turned into a case study in how fast access narrows when geopolitics takes over.

The visa concession looks less like generosity and more like damage control. It helps some fans navigate consulate backlogs. It doesn’t answer who still gets shut out or why. Federal rules can shift. Political priorities can override FIFA’s neutral language about “welcoming the world.”

Host cities remain stuck in the middle. They spent years planning this—tourism projections, infrastructure, the whole pitch about what the World Cup would do for their image. Then fans started asking the obvious question: Los Angeles and Seattle pack stadiums every week for NFL games and concerts. What makes the World Cup different?

Online, responses ranged from worry to jokes—Apache helicopters at the quarterfinals. Infantino reduced to a prop. The usual line about sports and politics not mixing—dead on arrival. Some fans had a blunt suggestion: center the tournament in Canada and Mexico. Make the U.S. matches optional.

Nobody thinks FIFA will actually move matches out of the United States. The contracts are signed, sponsors remain committed, and the logistics of shifting dozens of games across borders at this late stage are impossible. But rhetoric matters. When a sitting president turns World Cup security into MAGA material, fans deciding whether to drop thousands on travel and tickets start questioning the trip.

FIFA’s caught in the same trap again. They claim neutrality, but the World Cup doesn’t happen in a vacuum. Travel bans shut out entire countries. Host nations threaten each other. Every cycle, FIFA has to pick: say something or keep quiet and hope it blows over.

The Oval Office photo tells you where 2026 portends. This was supposed to be North America’s moment—three countries sharing the biggest tournament, finally making the U.S. care about football. Instead, it’s turned into a test case for how immigration policy and security theater play out on a global stage. Next summer, fans want to watch football. Whether that happens depends on how much politics they’re willing to wade through first.