Journal

The flags are up in Dallas, the turf is freshly rolled in Vancouver, and somewhere beneath the ancient concrete bowl of the Estadio Azteca, a groundskeeper is putting the final touches on a pitch that will host the tournament's opening match in two days' time. Forty-eight nations. Three host countries. One hundred and four matches. FIFA's expanded World Cup has been debated, derided and defended for years — and now, at last, it is almost real. The anticipation hanging over this continent feels less like excitement and more like pressure, the kind that builds before a thunderstorm.

France arrive as the model's clear favourites, carrying a 16% chance of lifting the trophy — a weight that has historically been as much curse as blessing. Their squad blends the ferocity of a new generation with the hard scar tissue of tournament experience, and if their attack fires in unison they may simply be too much for anyone. Argentina, the defending champions, sit at 10%, Lionel Scaloni's side quietly confident that the muscle memory of winning does not fade in four years. Brazil at 7% feel like a team with a point to prove after years of near-misses, while Spain, also at 7%, carry the philosophical purity of a style that either mesmerises or frustrates depending on which side of it you stand.

The numbers that will fuel the most conversation, however, belong further down the list. Morocco at 4% are no longer anyone's surprise — they are a genuine structural force, organised and ferocious, and their run to the 2022 semi-finals was no fluke. Turkey at 4% have a generation of players who have matured in Europe's elite club football and arrive with ambition that exceeds their seeding. Portugal, also at 4%, remain a tournament where the question of whether a squad can transcend the sum of its star parts will be asked loudly and answered slowly. England, too at 4%, travel with the familiar cocktail of public hope and private anxiety that has defined their tournament summers for six decades.

The new 12-group format means the early rounds will be relentless — three matches per group, 48 teams producing a cascade of results that will reshape the bracket daily. Smaller nations have more rope, more margin, more chance to build momentum before the knockout rounds arrive. It is entirely possible that the first genuine shock of the tournament lands on Day One, when Mexico face South Africa under the lights of the Azteca in a match loaded with home-crowd electricity and continental pride. The Azteca has hosted World Cup moments that live forever in football's memory. It is ready to make another.

Forty-eight hours. The simulations have run, the probabilities are set, and somewhere in the numbers a champion is already written — we just cannot read it yet. That is the beautiful, maddening truth of a World Cup: the favourite is a guess dressed in confidence, and the tournament itself is the only argument that settles anything. Kick-off cannot come soon enough.

The bags are packed, the anthems rehearsed, the dressing rooms allocated. From Vancouver to Guadalajara, from Kansas City to Monterrey, stadiums that have spent months draped in scaffolding and anticipation are finally ready to receive the world. Tomorrow evening, beneath the vast concrete bowl of the Estadio Azteca — a ground that has witnessed Pelé, Maradona, and every shade of heartbreak the sport can produce — Mexico and South Africa will kick off the most ambitious World Cup in history: 48 teams, 12 groups, 104 matches, and a finish line that feels almost impossibly far away tonight.

The model gives France the clearest path to glory, a 16% title probability that reflects a squad of almost uncomfortable depth — pace in behind, craft in midfield, and a goalkeeping situation that most nations would trade their entire backroom staff for. Argentina, the defending champions, sit second at 10%, carrying the weight of expectation that comes with a number 10 shirt the whole planet still watches. Brazil and Spain share 7% apiece: one side built on samba pragmatism, the other on a tiki-taka revival that their fans insist is back, properly back, this time.

The stories that tend to define a World Cup, though, rarely belong to the favourites alone. Morocco arrive at 4% — the same odds as England, Turkey and Portugal — and they will remind anyone who needs reminding that they reached the semi-finals last time out and have spent four years building on it. Turkey, meanwhile, are the side that neutrals will quietly circle: talented, volatile, capable of a performance that makes the highlights package for years. England carry, as ever, the particular burden of a nation that has convinced itself this is finally the one.

Three host nations add their own subplot. The United States, Canada and Mexico each enter the group stage with partisan home crowds that can turn an ordinary afternoon into something atmospheric and strange. The Azteca opener sets the tone: Mexico under the lights, South Africa looking to announce themselves, and a global audience of hundreds of millions tuning in for the first time. That match alone — before a single group table is meaningful — will feel like an event.

So here we are, on the eve of it all. The models have run their simulations, the probabilities are set, and tomorrow the beautiful, chaotic, entirely unpredictable process of proving them right or wrong begins. Forty-eight teams believe they have a chance. Statistically, most of them are wrong. But football has never cared much for statistics after the whistle blows. The Azteca awaits.