The World Cup badly needs an American face. The USMNT must give it one (original) (raw)

IRVINE, Calif. — The 2026 World Cup arrives in North America as a faceless behemoth.

It will, by many measures, be the grandest sporting event ever: a six-week-long spectacle of soccer, culture and nationalism that will captivate the planet. It won’t be ubiquitous in the United States, because nothing ever is, but it will seize mainstream American attention. In some ways, it already has.

Its problem, though, for years and still today, is that it doesn’t have an American face.

It has superstars such as Lionel Messi — but so did past World Cups and so do domestic soccer leagues. It has thousands of people organizing it, but only one, FIFA president Gianni Infantino, who wanted the spotlight. Infantino positioned himself as the spokesman and star salesman, but the American public quickly saw through his wildly exaggerated claims and self-interest. Millions of sports fans here are excited for the World Cup, but many have struggled to pinpoint the source, or the place into which they’ll pour their excitement.

And that, beginning Friday, is where the U.S. men’s national team comes in. The USMNT, as it’s often known, can fill the void.

Any player who scores a decisive goal against Paraguay in Friday’s opener could instantly become the American face of this tournament, and inject it with a breath of fresh, patriotic air.

Until then, the story of this World Cup will continue to be prices and politics. Its American face has been unvarnished capitalism. The two things your grocer or Uber driver know are that tickets were absurdly expensive and that Infantino gave a ‘Peace Prize’ to U.S. President Donald Trump two months before the U.S. and Israel launched an attack on Iran.

U.S. President Donald Trump receiving his peace prize from Gianni Infantino (Jim WATSON / AFP via Getty Images)

Infantino, at times throughout 2025, seemingly tried to make Trump a face of the World Cup. The Italian-Swiss FIFA leader would regularly appear in the Oval Office, and together they’d promote the “biggest, safest and most extraordinary soccer tournament in history.”

But Trump’s public alignment with the tournament has ebbed in recent months. Perhaps FIFA realized that a divisive and unpopular president was not an ideal salesman. Perhaps the war with Iran, a FIFA member and World Cup participant, changed things. Or, perhaps Trump realized that FIFA was similarly unpopular. Even he, in an interview with the New York Post last month, criticized the ticket prices.

Transit prices and hotels became controversial. In the absence of a coherent national narrative, of a trustworthy voice pumping up the tournament in a positive light, cynicism took hold. American warts filled the void. Even with kickoff three days away, tickets and visa denials — and water bottle bans — feel like the biggest stories.

Once the games begin, though, soccer will become the focus; the narrative will inevitably change. And the USMNT’s task is to make it an American narrative.

Previous host nations have had that. Brazil in 2014 had Neymar and the Seleção. Russia 2018 and Qatar 2022 had local organizing committees who tapped into national pride and convinced citizens that the World Cup would lift their countries. Those committees were key, because they worked on behalf of FIFA but also on behalf of the nation.

Back in 1994, when the men’s World Cup last came stateside, the man in charge was a charismatic California lawyer named Alan Rothenberg. He and his American deputies controlled the messaging and the ticket sales. They made themselves visible and made sure the tournament was accessible and profitable, so that it would boost soccer in America sustainably.

The 2026 edition has none of that. FIFA, via a new operating model and via one-sided contracts with the U.S. Soccer Federation and host cities, has taken control of nearly everything.

The cities have formed host committees, but U.S. Soccer is largely not involved. FIFA will extract billions of dollars and funnel much of the money back into football globally. Only the U.S. federal government and its World Cup task force, whose role is mostly operational, are looking out for American interests. There is nobody to ensure that the 2026 event betters American soccer — or, at least, nobody working in an office or wearing a suit.

The people with the power to do that, instead, are the players. They’re Christian Pulisic, Tyler Adams and Weston McKennie, three American boys who rose through the soccer system and now have a chance to leave their indelible mark on their sport.

They’re a team with real potential, and one that back in 2023 adopted a mission: “Change soccer in America forever.”

Christian Pulisic, left, and Antonee Robinson have the chance to become household names (Jamie Squire/Getty Images)

When they adopted it, then-coach Gregg Berhalter said: “For me, it’s both on the field and off the field. We have a fantastic group of guys. The world got to see that in the last World Cup. I’m excited for America to get to know the group better.”

Three years later, for a variety of reasons, that hasn’t quite happened yet. Pulisic is a semi-recognizable face in American sporting circles. He’s the one on billboards or murals, in Fox promos and advertisements. But he’s an introvert with a cautious, understated personality; the average Uber driver or grocer still doesn’t know who he is.

So, the slate is blank. The pedestal is unoccupied. Much of America will meet the team for the first time this month, and the name, face or voice they remember will be the one that introduces himself on this kingmaking stage.

It could be Pulisic, the team’s catalyst.

It could be Adams, the feisty, fearless former captain.

It could be McKennie, the charismatic midfielder who seemingly always rises to big occasions.

Or it could be Folarin Balogun, the star recruit and starting striker. It could be Sergiño Dest or Antonee ‘Jedi’ Robinson. It could be Ricardo Pepi, Chris Richards or Matt Freese. It could be anybody with a winning personality or a likable story, or anyone who becomes a meme.

It could be a star who scripts an unforgettable moment, like Landon Donovan in 2010. Or, it could be a fringe player who becomes an overnight sensation, like John Brooks in 2014.

That is the beauty of the World Cup. This one has not been beautiful, but it hasn’t yet begun. And when it does, any American player can put their face on it.