ICE in the Stands: Fear and Loathing at the FIFA Club World Cup

The presence of immigration agents cratered ticket prices at the opener this weekend in Miami, a foreboding sign of things to come.

WASHINGTON — It used to be that all a soccer fan had to worry about was the price of beer or maybe the striker with two left feet. Now, in Donald Trump's America, the new game day accessory is proof of legal status—and maybe a lawyer on speed dial.

The World Cup is coming. The Club World Cup is already here. The greatest show on Earth. A rolling, roaring festival of flags, chants, and sweat-soaked euphoria that brings every kind of person together, from Qatari oil heirs to Honduran dishwashers. But here in the land of the free and the home of the mass deportations, it’s not just goals fans are afraid of missing. They're afraid of getting disappeared.

“I really, really didn’t want to let it go,” one fan told Yahoo! Sports, referring to his Club World Cup ticket. He sold it anyway—"out of fear of apprehension or persecution." Welcome to the kickoff.

At the heart of it is a Facebook post—now scrubbed, but never forgotten—by Customs and Border Protection. It read like a warning shot: “CBP will be suited and booted and ready to provide security.” They even tagged it with #FootballUnitesTheWorld, a charming sentiment from an agency best known for tearing families apart in airport terminals.

Sen. James Lankford of Oklahoma shrugged when asked about it. “I’m not concerned… There are lots of World Cup fans [who aren’t undocumented].” Thanks, Senator. Tell that to the guy whose cousin overstayed a visa and now won't show up because the whole stadium feels like a trap.

Sen. Mark Warner of Virginia was more direct. “Yes, I’m concerned,” he told Migrant Insider. “We’ve presented an unfriendly face.”

This isn't about politics. It's about people. Soccer people. Barbers in Queens. Street vendors in East L.A. Fathers with sons who love Messi in pink, not the mess ICE leaves behind. They're not fugitives. They're fans. And yet they're being told: You want to cheer? Show your papers.

Even the games themselves aren’t safe. The Miami opener saw 60,927 fans pack Hard Rock Stadium to see Inter Miami face Al Ahly, an Egyptian club; but the week before, ICE’s announced presence cratered ticket prices. Five for $20, like a clearance bin at TJ Maxx. Some resold out of fear. Others just stayed home.

Sen. Mazie Hirono of Hawaii didn't mince words: “Of course! The ramifications of what Trump’s doing in relation to tourism… it’s impacting everything and it’s really saddening.” In her tone, a kind of exhausted clarity. How did we get to a place where a Coast Guard boat full of armed men boards a yacht full of Telemundo execs because they dared to throw a party called One Year to Go?

And what does Trump say? Nothing. What does FIFA say? Less than nothing. “Security is our priority,” mumbled FIFA boss Gianni Infantino, whose job now includes pretending that militarized agencies at fan fests are part of the charm.

Sen. Ben Ray Luján of New Mexico put it best: “Who knows [if ICE could set a trap at the World Cup]? I tell my constituents, ‘Don’t fall for the traps.’” A senator, warning his own people not to show up.

This is America’s pitch to the world in 2025 and 2026. A land of stadiums and subpoenas. Of halftime shows and handheld scanners. Where the “beautiful game” gets played under the shadow of a wall that’s not even built yet.

Sen. Shelley Moore Capito from West Virginia tried, bless her: “I wanna be a good soccer nation so we gotta do something about that.” But it’s not about being good. It’s about being trusted. And right now, the U.S. government is asking migrants to trust the same people kicking their doors in before dawn to handle game day logistics.

Sen. Chris Murphy of Connecticut declined to comment—“I generally don’t comment on stuff that I haven’t really studied.” Sen. Michael Bennet of Colorado simply said: “I didn’t see it.” That about sums it up.

Maybe this is what happens when you give the keys to the tournament to a country that confuses security with suspicion. Eleven host cities—Atlanta, L.A., Philly, Seattle—each asking themselves one question: Who’s welcome here?

Because the flags are waving and the whistles are blowing, but somewhere outside the stadium gates, a father checks his phone one more time, looks at his kid in a knockoff Neymar jersey, and decides: Not today.

Not in this country.

Not under these lights.

Let the games begin? They already did. And ICE just showed up with a whistle.

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DIG DEEPER