Iker Casillas reacts to Marcelo’s goal in the 118th minute of extra time with a cartwheel and tears of joy. Marcelo said that before the match, Iker had told him that he would be important in the final. Marcelo’s goal was the goal that killed the match.
Heres José Mourinho and Rui Faria going through customs. My connecting-in flight from Quebec was an hour late, my flight was leaving in two minutes, and I was in literal TEARS of frustration getting stuck behind all these guys in their fucking Chelsea kits. I was like WHAT IS THIS, THE GODDAMN YOUTH TEAM? IS THIS, FUCKIN, BALONCESTO??? Then I saw Rui and was like….I know this man. From college? Was he my teacher? No, I know him from something else. From sports? From….screaming…..at my laptop……..for two years???? Then, slowly, I realized that the dude next to him was actual IRL Jose Mourinho. And the guy up there with both of them whose head u can see was John Terry. Then I finally registered the voice directly behind me, the one who had been joshing with one of the quieter guys. “No Spaness?” the voice was saying jocularly. “No Englees? Only Franch?” I turned my head so so so slowly, like I was in Jurassic Park and all the birds had gone abruptly silent.
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.
“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.
If you don’t, it goes something like this: Leicester City Football Club, the unfancied, fearless Foxes—hailing from a city known less for winning football trophies and more for curry, Kasabian, and King Richard III—began the season as 5000-1 underdogs to win the Premier League.
Tonight, they were crowned champions. With two matches to spare.
Attempting to find an equivalent in the history of professional sport is futile; there is nothing remotely ripe for comparison.
Seriously, there’s nothing.
It’s impossible not to sound platitudinous about this, particularly after a season’s worth of “Do You Believe in Miracles?” think pieces, but the fact is that what Leicester have done is truly a singular, stupefying, utterly ridiculous story.
Ask anyone how they did it, though, and you’ll get plenty of answers.
They might point to the fact that this was a season typified by turmoil, underperformance, and distraction for each of the league’s favourites—from Chelsea, to Arsenal, to the red and blue halves of Manchester.
Or that Leicester rode their fortune, outperforming almost all statistical indicators during their run, and built a title-winning campaign from seemingly unsustainable performances that would be unlikely to even secure them fourth place and Champions League football in another simulation of our reality.
Or they might tell you that this was a team masterfully moulded from a motley crew of ragtag castoffs, brilliant role players, and diamonds in the rough. That this title was the product of refined research, impeccable recruitment, and intelligent coaching, which gave rise to a squad that played to its strengths, took its chances, and clinically diagnosed tactical advantages and systemic inefficiencies in opponents. That this was a success story built upon seamless, almost providential pivots from attacking particle accelerator to defensive fortress, in a season that contained fewer matches and fewer injuries than opponents had to endure.
They might say that it was Riyad Mahrez’s grace in the box, or his magic wands for feet that led to a PFA Player of the Year Award after being bought for only £400,000 the year prior.
Perhaps they’ll tell you it was Jamie Vardy’s unsparing breakaway speed, or his ruthless near-post lashes, which saw the man—who, yes, half a decade ago was playing in the seventh division for £30 a week while working in a carbon-fibre factory—break the Premier League record for consecutive goalscoring appearances.
Some will assure you it was N’Golo Kante’s tireless running, incredible transitional ability, and outrageous intuition, which have now catapulted him from the French second division to the French national team in a few years.
Or maybe it was Danny Drinkwater’s inch-perfect tackles, or inch-perfect through-balls, that have seen him transformed from “Midfielder with a Funny Name” into “Midfielder with a Funny Name in the England Squad.”
Or the aerial commitment, rugged marking, and run-tracking of a defence that beats with one heart, that unabashedly tussles, that like an accordion, squeezes the air out of an opponent’s attack before expanding into the counter.
Or Kasper Schmeichel, the son of a goalkeeping legend—unrelentingly treated as though he bears “The Lesser” as an epithet trailing his surname—who has now written his own legacy, with a host of highlight-reel saves and a consistently diligent command of his eighteen-yard kingdom.
Or Claudio Ranieri, the manager once mockingly known as “The Tinkerman” for his ceaseless rotational policy, who has uncharacteristically settled on a first-choice lineup, whose motivational tactics over the course of the season have included rewarding his players with pizzas and beers for shutouts, and whose easy-going charm and modesty in front of the cameras have given us a second impression of a man eminently capable of keeping feet on the ground and morale sky high.
Or, perhaps, they might just tell you this was all meant to be.
*players who’ve never interacted before take a picture*
some of you guys: wow omg my faves!! they’re so cute!! 😍😍😍💘💘💓
me: ……. what language are they communicating in
326 Miles 