Summers of 2026. North America. 48 teams. 104 matches. Millions of spectators on the stadiums and billions in front of screens. The World Cup is not just a tournament. It is a time machine that makes adults become boys again and children believe in miracles. Dreams. Everyone has their own. Some want to see Messi live, others want to play on the field themselves, and the third one just wants to hug his son after the final whistle. The 2026 World Cup is a kaleidoscope of hopes where generations intertwine. Dreams of boys from the 90s who have become fathers The one who is now 35-40 years old remembers football before the era of endless money and VAR. He remembers watching the 1998 World Cup in a Pioneer camp. How he cheered for the Brazil team with Ronaldo. How he cut out photos of Zidane and glued them to notebooks. Now he has his own children, a mortgage, and a job from 9 to 18. But when the World Cup starts, he turns back into that boy in a faded jersey. His dream is simple: to show his son or daughter what he felt himself. To explain what offside is and why a penalty is a lottery. To sit next to him on the couch, pour juice into a cup with the World Cup logo, and watch match after match. And if he's lucky — to go to the tournament. To buy tickets for two matches, even if he has to save for half a year. Because this is not just football. This is the transfer of the baton. For many adults, the 2026 World Cup is their last chance to see the stars of their youth. Does Messi still play? Ronaldo? Or maybe this is their last championship. And this nostalgia makes every kick of the ball an event of a lifetime. Dreams of boys and girls who play ball in the courtyard For a child who is just learning to score, the World Cup is a magical door. He sees on TV how Kylian Mbappé dribbles past three players and thinks: "I can do that too." He sticks stickers with players in his album, asks his parents to buy boots like Vinicius, and draws goals on the asphalt. His dream is s ... Read more