"American Flags" by braveheartsports is licensed under CC BY 2.0.

Edited by Amelia Cantwell and Rishi Chandra

Just outside the U.S. Capitol, two celebrations of America unfolded side by side.

One was the Great American State Fair, a White House-backed event commemorating the nation's 250th anniversary. The other was FIFA's fan festival, where thousands gathered to watch the United States men's national team. I spent the afternoon surrounded by people in American jerseys, waving American flags and celebrating every U.S. possession. What surprised me was not the patriotism: it was how ordinary it felt.

Outside one of the country's most political buildings, national pride seemed almost completely detached from politics. No one asked who anyone had voted for. No one treated the American flag as a partisan statement. For ninety minutes, everyone was simply rooting for the same team.

That afternoon captured something the 2026 FIFA World Cup demonstrated throughout the tournament: nationalism inside a stadium looks remarkably different from nationalism in American politics.

Every four years, the World Cup transforms nationalism into something surprisingly inclusive. Millions of supporters wrap themselves in national flags, sing anthems with strangers, and celebrate their countries with extraordinary enthusiasm. Yet unlike the nationalism that often dominates political discourse, the tournament depends upon openness. Fans cross borders, host cities welcome visitors from around the world, and every nation is invited to celebrate itself while making room for every other nation to do the same. Patriotism becomes meaningful not because it excludes others, but because everyone is allowed to belong somewhere.

That version of patriotism has become increasingly unfamiliar in the United States.

Over the past decade, national symbols that once represented a shared civic identity have increasingly become political markers. The American flag still represents constitutional ideals, democratic institutions, and a nation continuously shaped through immigration, but many Americans now interpret it through a partisan lens. Displays of patriotism are routinely assumed to signal allegiance to a specific political campaign rather than affection for the country itself. As Donald Trump's "Make America Great Again" movement became closely associated with patriotic imagery, many Americans began to read national symbols less as civic expressions than as ideological ones.

The World Cup briefly disrupted that assumption.

For ninety minutes, an American jersey did not function like a campaign slogan. It represented a team rather than an administration. Supporters from different political parties, racial backgrounds, religions, and immigration histories celebrated the same goals and lamented the same missed chances. The crowd at the Capitol fan festival was remarkably diverse, yet everyone shared the same identity for those ninety minutes: supporters of the United States.

The ease with which that identity emerged raises an uncomfortable question. If Americans are capable of embracing an inclusive patriotism during the World Cup, why does that same patriotism become so difficult outside the stadium?

The tournament repeatedly suggested that the obstacle is not patriotism itself. It is how patriotism is defined.

No player illustrated this more clearly than Folarin Balogun.

Born in Brooklyn to Nigerian parents before returning to England as an infant, Balogun ultimately chose to represent the United States over England and Nigeria. Throughout the tournament, he became one of the defining faces of the American team, and few supporters questioned whether he belonged in an American jersey. Once the whistle blew, his birthplace, upbringing, and family history mattered far less than the crest on his chest.

Yet at nearly the same moment, the constitutional principle that made Balogun an American citizen remained at the center of national political debate. President Trump sought to restrict birthright citizenship, arguing that children born to certain noncitizen parents should not automatically receive citizenship under the Fourteenth Amendment. As the Supreme Court reaffirmed that constitutional guarantee, Americans were enthusiastically embracing a player whose citizenship rested on that very principle.

Balogun's story does not prove the merits of birthright citizenship; citizenship should never depend upon athletic success. But it does expose something important about American identity. During the World Cup, Americans instinctively accepted someone with an international background as unquestionably American. On the field, belonging was defined by participation rather than ancestry.

The same pattern appeared elsewhere throughout the tournament.

Somali referee Omar Abdulkadir Artan, selected by FIFA after years of international evaluation, was denied entry into the United States after arriving in Miami. Federal officials cited national security concerns but released little public explanation. Whether those concerns ultimately justified the decision is difficult for outside observers to evaluate. Yet the symbolism remained difficult to ignore. One of the officials entrusted with ensuring the fairness of the tournament was never permitted to participate in it.

Iran's national team encountered another version of that tension. Because of ongoing conflict between the United States and Iran, the squad was required to base itself in Mexico, entering the United States only around its matches before immediately departing afterward. American officials defended the arrangement as a matter of national security, and governments unquestionably retain the responsibility to protect their borders. Nevertheless, the policy illustrated a broader contradiction. The United States invited the world to celebrate international exchange while reminding one delegation that its participation would occur only on American terms.

None of these examples demands the same political conclusion. Governments have legitimate security obligations, and hosting the World Cup does not require abandoning immigration law or border enforcement. But together, these cases reveal the same underlying tension: Throughout the tournament, the United States projected an image of confidence, diversity, and openness while simultaneously debating the meaning of citizenship and limiting aspects of international participation.

The World Cup ultimately demonstrated that patriotism and exclusion are not inseparable. For one month, Americans celebrated their country alongside people carrying every other flag in the world. The tournament did not erase political disagreement or resolve debates over immigration. Instead, it revealed that millions of Americans are still capable of practicing a version of patriotism rooted in shared civic identity rather than ideological conformity.

That is why the World Cup mattered.

It suggested that the problem facing American patriotism is not that citizens no longer want to celebrate their country. The crowds in stadiums and fan festivals demonstrated otherwise. The problem is that patriotism has become so politically coded that many Americans no longer feel they can express it without also signaling partisan allegiance.

The American flag has never belonged to a president or a political movement, even if politicians have tried to claim it. It represents a constitutional tradition continually reshaped by immigrants, native-born citizens, and generations of people whose stories rarely fit into a single, neat definition of what it means to be American. For one month during the summer of 2026, Americans experienced that broader understanding again. They wore the flag without the hat.

The tournament has ended, but the question it raised remains. If Americans can rediscover an inclusive civic patriotism while watching a soccer match, what prevents them from carrying that same understanding into public life once the final whistle blows?