The opening days of the 2026 World Cup have delivered a paradox that cuts to the heart of modern football. Television images from several group-stage matches, including Canada’s draw with Bosnia and Herzegovina, revealed swathes of empty seats, even as FIFA issued statements insisting that official attendance figures—based on scanned tickets, not visual occupancy—showed venues near full capacity. At the same time, resale ticket prices surged dramatically after the first matches, with some high-profile fixtures recording increases of more than 100 per cent, according to data aggregators. The tension between these two realities has sharpened a debate that began long before kick-off: whether the world’s most popular sporting event has been priced beyond the reach of the very supporters who give it meaning.

Viewed from Mexico City, the financial strain is acute. Moody’s Local México projects a modest economic windfall of just over one billion dollars from 768,000 visitors, a fraction of the 5.5 million tourists once touted by the tourism ministry. President Claudia Sheinbaum publicly urged FIFA to “reflect” on ticket costs, declaring that football must be “something else” than pure business. Consumer protection authorities have already handled more than 200 complaints related to ticketing, app downloads, and suspected fraud, while legislators warn of a sharp rise in cyber scams exploiting tournament fever. These concerns are echoed far beyond North America: a report from global insurer Atradius notes that most host cities ultimately lose money, despite FIFA’s claim that this edition could contribute over $40 billion to global GDP.

For the fans who do make it inside, the experience is a study in contrasts. European visitors have gone viral with videos celebrating the warmth of American communities, the wonders of free refills and ranch dressing, and the sheer scale of eight-lane freeways. Yet US media coverage has been accused of breathless hyperbole, proclaiming a “best World Cup ever” that does not quite match the mood on the ground. Meanwhile, the tournament’s technological ambitions are vast: artificial intelligence is being deployed to predict stadium maintenance needs in Mexican venues and to reshape global broadcasting. But the digital layer also brings risk, with a 64 per cent annual increase in fraud attempts within the online betting industry, according to one monitoring firm.

The broader question, articulated poignantly by observers in South Asia, is whether the “beautiful game” is abandoning its universal soul. When a single Category 3 ticket for the final costs nearly four months’ salary for an American fan, and when dynamic pricing models imported from US sports push even parking fees into the hundreds of dollars, the World Cup risks becoming a spectacle for the privileged. FIFA’s president has urged critics to “relax”, promising solutions. But as the group stage unfolds, the empty seats and the frantic resale market tell a story of a tournament caught between record-breaking commercial ambition and a growing disconnect from the ordinary supporter who once made it the people’s game.