Prophesied Outcomes for the United States Men's National Team at the 2026 World Cup
I Believe That These Things Are Bound To Happen
I have convened with the ethereal council that gives me all of my prophesies, or at least I have convened with whomever it is that speaks to me in my dreams after the customary cocktail of warm blue gatorade, witch hazel, a dollop of Barbasol from a limited edition can released to celebrate the Columbus Crew’s 2008 MLS Cup win, cold red gatorade, and a handful of berries from behind my house, and they have delivered me these prophecies about the potential outcomes for the United States Men’s National Team at this summer’s World Cup.
Prophecy 1: General Anxiety
This team is set up to play a brand of soccer that should speak to the casual American fan, or at least the casual American fan as determined by the braintrust behind the indoor soccer boom of the 1980s. We seem pretty set, genuinely high class in attack, and we seem incapable of defending, or at least our best central defensive midfielder and our best center back are both hurt at the moment. This is the exact opposite of how we normally are in the World Cup. We haven’t scored two goals in a World Cup match since Portugal in 2014, haven’t scored three in a World Cup match since Portugal in 2002, and haven’t scored four in a World Cup match ever. We make up for this, at least in the years in which we do well, by holding opponents to between 0-2 goals per match.
Prophecy #1 states that the United States wins the group with two wins, a draw, and a +2 goal with something like 9 goals for and 8 goals against: Let’s say 4-3 over Paraguay, 3-2 over Australia, 2-2 draw with Turkiye. We have a good mix of the sort of beautifully built-up Champagne Football goals, a couple of those Spirit of ‘76 Donovan versus Algeria counterattacking fast break goals, a couple of those Caligiurian long-range bangers, and at least one corner where one of our tall guys just soars over the defense to head it in. Each of these matches ends up decided after the 85th minute. We play like one of those upstart underdog MLS teams comprised of scrappy strivers that has a dream season off of clutch finishing only to get bounced in the playoffs like the 2012 Earthquakes or 2024 Inter Miami.
This is perfect for FOX, enthralling for the casual fan, a boon for the cardiology industry, and ultimately unsustainable. We hit the Round of 32, scrape by… let’s say Austria, and then meet our old foes from Belgium in Seattle in the Round of 16, which we lose 4-1.
The American public, those of us who did not suffer cardiac episodes in the summer heat, ends up endeared to the team despite the fact that they technically underperformed expectations. The self-styled experts among us, though disappointed, at least appreciate that we’ve added something like 5-6 minutes to the next “Every US World Cup Goal Since 1990” highlight compilation video. The American public, now convinced that great soccer requires a lot of scoring over overmatched center backs wilting under the heat of late-summer, finally embraces Major League Soccer, just in time for half of the season to be played in the winter.
Prophecy 2: The Garberic Culmination
We begin with a shocking 2-0 loss to Paraguay, goals given up to Braian Ojeda and Miguel Almiron with the US midfield completely dominated by Andres Cubas. We go down 2-0 to Australia in the second match on two goals by the Socceroo’s Twin Pigeon Engine of Kai Trewin and Aiden O’Neill. At halftime in Seattle, a befuddled Mauricio Pochettino subs on Sounders lifer Cristian Roldan, who wills the team back to life and a 2-2 draw with a goal and an assist. In the third match, needing a win, we manage to hold Turkiye goalless into stoppage time, with the deadlock finally broken in the 96th minute on a direct free-kick by Sebastian Berhalter.
We just barely limp into the Round of 32, drawing Canada in Vancouver, which provokes the same sort of off-pitch social media rhetoric that accompanied the olympic hockey gold medal games. We lose, getting absolutely Shaffelburg’d to death, 3-0. This becomes the biggest match in the history of Canadian soccer, maybe the biggest moment in the history of Canadian athletics outside of the 1993 World Series and 2000 NBA Slam Dunk contest, converting Canada into a true soccer nation. Instantly, some wealthy Canadian buys and saves the Whitecaps, keeps them in BC Place because the site becomes like a protected soccer fortress, the Whitecaps go on to breeze through to an MLS Cup win, everybody lives happily ever after, even the USMNT, as their disappointing performance leaves MLS owners disinterested in paying large sums of money to any USMNT players on Designated Player contracts, thus avoiding a repeat of the regression that happened following 2014.
Prophecy 3: I!
You’re attending one of those big outdoor watch parties in a park or in my city’s case in a gravel parking lot next to what used to be an Einstein Bros Bagels. Somebody turns around and shouts a vowel. You know the one. It’s the vowel that starts the call-response chant that you as a savvy soccer fan know to cringe at. A smattering of people shout it back at him.
“I Believe!” he continues.
Your face turns red, squicked to hell and back with secondhand embarrassment. More people shout back at him this time.
“I Believe That!” he continues.
Nearly the whole crowd around you has picked up on it, save for you. It is you, and only you, who stands as a true nonbeliever - The others just haven’t recognized what’s happening yet. You must decide to either stand on your principles of being embarrassed by your countrymen’s participation in a clunky overzealous chant or fall in line, joining in with the clapping hordes.
“I Believe That We!”
Fear sweat begins to intermingle with the normal swelter that leaks down your back. Do I give in? Do I become one of them, give way to a chant that hasn’t been novel since 2012? Do I? Do I Believe? Do I Believe That? Do I Believe That We? Do I Believe That We Will Win?
You join in with the rhythmic part, your eyes rolling back in your head and a guttural howl spilling from the pit of your very being. Tears roll down your cheeks, your neck, coalescing with the sweat on your chest. You begin to get that vibratory feeling in your extremities that normally follows an orgasm or a spate of projectile vomiting. A little urine comes out. For a moment, you do. You believe. You believe that. You believe that we. You believe that we will win.
Arda Guler shoots, Matt Freese spills it, Turkiye scores, it’s 2-0, and the United States is out of the World Cup.
Prophecy 4: The Dream
You find yourself outside of the Boston Stadium. It is the quarterfinals and we are to play Japan. Mauricio Pochettino finds you and thanks you - You were supposed to be preparing for years for this moment, thank god you are here. It strikes you that you were supposed to be preparing for years for this moment, but you spent no time in the past years preparing for this moment. You are also nude. You say this to Pochettino. It angers him. He pulls back his fist. It comes dead-on to your nose. It is about to make contact with your nose. Mauricio Pochettino is about to leave you nude with a broken nose on the tarmac outside of Gillette Stadium.
You awaken, sweaty, on the same couch you passed out on after drinking the customary cocktail of warm blue gatorade, witch hazel, a dollop of Barbasol from a limited edition can released to celebrate the Columbus Crew’s 2008 MLS Cup win, cold red gatorade, and a handful of berries from behind your house at 9:24pm. You look to the clock. It is 11:00pm. You have the worst headache you’ve ever had, you’re nauseated, and you left the TV on Comedy Central, which is showing American Dad reruns. You try to breathe in some fresh air through your nose, but are met with sharp pain. A bit of blood trickles over your upper lip and into your mouth.