When the email arrived that I’d won the FIFA lottery, I felt like I’d beaten the system.
I had scored tickets to the 2026 World Cup, which were widely predicted to cost a fortune. My plan was simple: I’d pay a reasonable price for two tickets to the first group stage match in Miami, invite a lifelong friend, and scratch the ultimate milestone off my sports bucket list.
Then, the siren song of late capitalism got in the way. After explaining my plan to a buddy, he sounded skeptical. “You know, I heard Juanes sold his tickets,” he said. “Made like three grand.”
Really? I waited a week before checking StubHub. Sure enough, my $300 apiece tickets were selling for over $1,000. As a writer and adjunct professor, I’m not exactly swimming in liquid cash. Stadium parking starts at $175. God knows what a beer will cost once you’re inside. It’s probably smarter to flip them for a mortgage payment, groceries, and peace of mind. Right?
The temptation to cash out is real. But I’m holding firm.
Ticket prices are unhinged
FIFA entered the tournament armed with dynamic pricing, which allows prices to surge based on demand. (Because nothing says “the beautiful game” like yield management software.) The results were predictable — the secondary ticket market went completely unhinged.
Early group stage tickets have been averaging between $380 and $4,000. There’s a $2,500 cover charge for Colombia vs. Portugal in Miami, and it’s $2,700 to watch Messi’s Argentina. If a fan from Argentina wants to see all three group stage games, the cost is around $10,000 for tickets and travel. And one ticket to the final will set you back between $11,000 and $33,000.
Cue the public outrage. Headlines were peppered with terms like “price gouging” and “sticker shock.” The backlash grew so fierce that the attorneys general of New York and New Jersey launched an investigation, subpoenaing FIFA for transforming the ticket-buying process into a “gauntlet of confusion, fake scarcity and impossibly high prices.” Investigators said FIFA inflated ticket prices for over 90 of the tournament’s 104 matches, spiking costs by an average of 34%.
Everything feels transactional now
Through all this tumult, my plan hasn’t changed. They announced the match schedule; I drew Uruguay vs. Saudi Arabia. No clash of the titans, but it’s got sleeper-hit potential. Uruguay punches above its weight, and Saudi Arabia famously upset Argentina in the last World Cup. Ultimately, I just want to go to the World Cup without getting fleeced. Is that so much to ask?
Maybe I’m just old-fashioned. I played college soccer and have chased pickup games for decades in New York, Berlin, and Miami. I set alarms for 7 a.m. on Saturdays to watch the Premier League and have flown across the pond to watch my beloved Tottenham Hotspur. But these never felt like cold financial decisions.
Now, everything about the game feels transactional. Hundred-million-dollar transfers. Algorithmic pricing. Clubs defined by their oligarchs. I can remember going to Cincinnati Reds games with my dad, premium seats for $8. I’m not sure when just buying a ticket and going to a ball game became the contrarian position.
I’m standing firm
This all brings me to the man who started my whole dilemma.
My buddy Juanes — no, not the Colombian pop star — is an Ecuadorian-American who’s deeply into football. He’s the kind of guy who quantifies his relationships by ticket-price tolerance.
“My wife isn’t that big of a fan. She’s a $150 ticket type of fan, not a $450 ticket type of fan. That’s me.”
I was on Miami Beach with Juanes, juggling a football while talking football. Juanes had won a marquee draw: Brazil vs. Scotland in Miami. So he did what even die-hard fans do in 2026: he hedged. While mentally auditioning family members as his plus-one, he listed the tickets at a reserve price that would yield a healthy profit. They sat unsold for weeks.
Eventually, he zeroed in on the obvious choice: his father. One afternoon, after a long sauna session, Juanes broke the good news. His dad was touched. They hugged, and Juanes went to sleep envisioning classic father-son bonding over World Cup glory.
The next morning, an email arrived. His $900 pair of tickets had automatically sold to a high bidder for around $4,000. Even though he netted a cool $2,500 profit after FIFA’s double-dipping 15% transaction fee, the financial win came with a heavy dose of seller’s remorse. In retrospect, he confesses that his main regret is not investing more in lottery tickets to scale the profit.
But his experience was my ultimate cautionary tale, proof that some experiences are worth protecting from market distractions.
So, I’m keeping my tickets. I’ll be there on June 15th at Miami Stadium, temporarily renamed to avoid conflicts with FIFA’s corporate sponsors, because of course it is. I’ll be wearing a borrowed jersey from my Uruguayan neighbor, seated up in the nosebleeds between fans of two countries that aren’t my own, watching a match I paid too much not to flip.
I can’t wait.
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