World Cup 2026. Literally every national team is banned, even parts of the US national team. Cristiano Ronaldo is being held up by the TSA because he’s too tan. Özil is being interviewed. “You’re Muslim?” “Yes. And German.” “No but you’re Muslim.” “Yes… and German.” “But… you’re Muslim…” Messi is being detained because, sure he’s white enough, but why can’t he speak English?
Trump thought it was going to be a lot easier since Syria never qualifies….
The World Cup final is what’s left of USA vs Russia. They both lose.
‘the english and the french will be able to come’ thinks trump paul pogba arrives at the tsa gate ‘bonjour’ he says politely the tsa agent drops her coffee on her foot ‘YOU CANT BE FRENCH???’ she screams ‘IN EUROPE…. THERE ARE ONLY WHITE PEOPLE’ ‘Ah oui mais l'immigration’ says Pogba politely. ‘please let me in. it is Ramadan and i would like to eat promptly when the sun goes down’ the tsa agent screams in horror‘JESUS CHRIST!’ she turns into ash. she cannot handle a black muslim who claims to be from france (x)
“That’s right!!! This is the United States of America! We speak English not Spanish! So get out of our country and take your Mexican hombres with you!!!” Neymar looks around at his Brazilian teammates in confusion.
2026, L.A. Spain comes prepared to win their second star, to snatch the WC yet again while under the scrutinizing yet unsuspecting scope of the entire world. The travel ban is no match for La Furia Roja, they think. Sergio Ramos and Gerard Piqué are stopped by TSA after arguing on an airplane for ten hours.
“Passports, please.”
The Spaniard and the Catalan pull out their respective documentation. The TSA agent frowns and then looks up at them.
“You gentlemen can’t enter the United States of America. It would be violating the travel ban.”
Ramos and Piqué exchange a glance.
“But we’re Spanish–” Ramos starts in his heavily accented English.
“CATALAN–” Piqué interrupts him in his also heavily accented English.
“From Spain.” Ramos finishes. “The ban does not apply to us.”
“Hmm, yes,” The TSA agent pauses, surveying both men languidly, impassive to Pique’s brooding, threatening brow, and Ramos’ quickly festering agitation. “But in America we speak English, not Spanish. Sorry. No Mexicans allowed.”
The men look at the TSA agent with blank expressions; their previous frustration fades into disappointment, anguish, confusion. Behind them, the rest of their team gasps in shock. In America they speak English, they said, in America there is no Spanish. Or Catalan. Only English. Héctor Bellerín takes a snap. Stopped by TSA, it says, can’t get into the States. Thiago Alcantara tries telling TSA he is actually Brazilian, but to no avail. There will be no second star for Spain, there will be no World Cup, they will be forced to leave before even arriving. Iker Casillas sheds a tear from wherever he is. Olé.
the year is 2026, Switzerland is ready to beat the odds and prove their worth,maybe even win the world cup..they land in the united states ready to take the world of sports by storm .
the TSA agent spots them and comes running,he first lays eyes on Granit Xhaka ..”exc-”,Xhaka knows what’s coming so he doesn’t even let him finish, he calls the TSA agent a “fucking white bitch” and they all head back .. they aim for 2030.
Dayyyyyuuuummmm
The year is 2026 and the USMNT thinks itself ready to win its first World Cup. After decades of poor coaching decisions, poor lineups, and overall poor quality, the Stars and Stripes have refined themselves into a somewhat formidable, if not still scrappy, football machine. Now, they are ready to win on home soil. But first they must all train together.
Michael Bradley checks his phone. He is the only one on the training pitch even though the rest of his teammates should be here. They’re just running late, he thinks, it’s reasonable to be over an hour late, right? He decides to call his teammates to check up on them. The first one he calls is Bobby Wood, their most competent striker.
“Bobby, hello? Where are you?
The sound of waves rhythmically slapping against sand comes from the other line. Michael frowns. “Bobby?”
“Hey, yeah, I might not make training, Caillou.” The boy on the other end of the line finally says after too long a pause.
“What, why?”
“ICE sent me back to Hawaii without realizing that it’s still part of the US.”
Michael blinks. Then, he sighs. “Alright, well, I guess you need to get that sorted out first. Thanks for, y'know, letting me know.”
“No problem, cap.”
Bobby hangs up. Michael doubts he realized the sarcasm.
Next, he decides to call Deandre. He’s a good player, that one, a key piece to the USMNT.
“Yedlin,” He starts before the boy can even say hello. “There’s training today. Where are you?”
“Michael, my man!” Yeddy’s voice sounds muffled. “I’m doing great, how are you?”
“Fine, yeah, fine.” Michael sighs. “But where are you?”
“On my way to Somalia or some shit.”
“WHAT?”
“Ummm, yeah….” There’s a pause. “So ICE shows up at my house and tell me I’m getting sent back to where I’m from because I clearly can’t be American. I was like ‘aight, bet, I wanna know my roots’. Turns out I’m of Somali descent so they sent me back to Somalia.”
Michael doesn’t even know how to react. He wants to hang up on the boy and scream, but that would be rude. Rather, he counts to ten in his mind while exhaling deeply. “Okay. Sort that out and come back. Stay safe over there.”
“Will do, man.”
Michael desperately dials Christian Pulisic. He’s the wünderkid of the US, a playmaker, a genius on the midfield. And the best part? He’s all-American, the boy next door you want your daughter to date, Hershey, Pennsylvania born and raised, couldn’t possibly get any whiter. Michael says a hushed prayer as the phone rings.
“Hello?” The boy picks up. “Michael?”
“Oh my god, Christian,” Michael practically sighs in relief. “PLEASE tell me you’re on your way to training.”
“Umm… I would be… But, like, I’m at the airport.”
Michael’s heart sinks. “The… Airport?”
“Uh, yeah, TSA won’t let me in…”
“But… but… You’re as American as it gets…”
“I have dual citizenship… Apparently Croatia is exotic.”
Michael is so close to hyperventilating that he hardly notices that Christian seems to be on the verge of tears through the phone. That alone makes Michael want to fly out to whatever airport he’s being held up in and have a talk with TSA. No one makes American Messi cry.
“They said it’s back to Yugoslavia for me.” Christian says slowly, softly. “I don’t think I can make training, Michael. Or the first match. Oh my god.” He stops. “I don’t even speak Yugoslavian. Michael, what am I gonna do?”
Michael doesn’t even have the heart to tell him that Yugoslavia is not a country anymore, nor is Yugoslavian a language. He simply mutters a farewell and an apology and turns his phone off. The grass beneath him is glossy with dew. The sun is out. The birds are singing. But things are not beautiful. Donald Trump is in his third term as president due to WWIII with China and he has found yet another way to curse the USMNT. It was never meant to be.
