When Toronto was awarded a handful of matches for the 2026 FIFA World Cup, most people understood it as a major sporting event. After the World Series and a Raptors championship years ago, it registered as another moment of athletic fandom. I think few realized just how the city would be completely transformed in the weeks leading up to it.
As the tournament approached, the excitement became impossible to ignore. There was a countdown clock at Nathan Phillips Square. Local news, radio stations, social media feeds and everyday conversations all revolved around one thing: the World Cup was finally coming to Toronto.
Then came June 12, 2026. It was a Friday, and more importantly, it was the day that Team Canada would play its first World Cup match on home soil. I earmarked the day off work well in advance. There was never any question about it. I wanted to be part of the atmosphere, to feel the energy of the crowd, even if I couldn’t afford a ticket, so instead, I watched Toronto become a part of it all. Some events are worth experiencing from the outside.
The morning began under a blanket of grey clouds, but by the afternoon the overcast had passed over. The sky opened into a brilliant blue, and the lakefront, vast with sailboats and planes flying from the island airport, shimmered under the summer sun. It was one of those Toronto days that feels perfect for a celebration; the likes of which attract visitors on its own but with more electricity in the air. The city was buzzing.
I hopped on my bicycle and headed west along the Martin Goodman Trail. The closer I got to Toronto Stadium, the more apparent it became that this was no ordinary game day. The city had effectively created a fortress around the venue; roads were closed, police blockades stood at major intersections, first responders and volunteers flanked every corner and transit officials directed waves of pedestrians while traffic controllers managed the chaos that came with tens of thousands of people converging on one place. The city is familiar with hosting large crowds but I had never seen anything like that.
Everywhere I looked, there was red and white. Canadian supporters filled the streets, parks, and sidewalks. Some wore jerseys, others draped themselves in scarves and waved flags, while everyone else donned some sort of FIFA apparel. The excitement was palpable. It felt less like a sporting event and more like a national holiday.
I continued toward the Fan Fest, where an enormous lineup stretched far beyond the entrance gates toward Bathurst Street. Along the way, I noticed an eclectic mix of people drawn to the spectacle, mostly on foot however many were also riding bicycles to their destinations. There were no public vehicles and it was just a sea of bodies coming and going. Curiously, there were more Jehovah’s Witnesses offering literature than illicit street vendors. Some were hocking head bands and cold drinks. Brands handed out free samples, eager to attach themselves to the energy of the moment. A tourism booth gave out stickers and postcards. Everyone wanted to be part of the story unfolding around the city. It was infectious.
Then, by pure chance, I stumbled into my first true World Cup moment. Heading northbound over the Strahan bridge, I noticed a massive crowd moving toward me with onlookers capturing footage. Everything around me came to a halt. At first, it looked like a traffic jam until seconds later, when I realized the crowd of blue shirts weren’t simply walking, they were marching. They were the Bosnian supporters.
Thousands of them moved as one body, singing, chanting and filling the air with a passion that seemed impossible to contain. Their voices echoed off the surrounding buildings. Drums pounded. Banners were raised high above their heads. The entire march possessed a rhythm and unity that transformed a city street into something resembling a festival parade.
Before I knew it, I was caught in the middle of it. For several minutes, I stopped being an observer and became part of the experience itself. I was swept along by the movement, surrounded by joy, pride, and patriotic fanaticism. The enthusiasm was incredible. Strangers sang, laughed, and celebrated together as if they had known one another their entire lives.
Canadian supporters had certainly gathered in impressive numbers, but most were dispersed throughout the stadium grounds and surrounding neighbourhoods. What I witnessed from the Bosnian contingent felt different. It was organized, unified and impossible to ignore. Standing there among them, bicycle in hand, I finally understood what the World Cup meant to people around the world.
It isn’t just about the match. It isn’t even about the beautiful game. It’s about identity, belonging, and the rare opportunity to celebrate in public with thousands of others who feel exactly the same way. That march toward the stadium became my first true World Cup experience, and it was phenomenal.
After the crowd passed, I made one final lap around the perimeter, soaking in the atmosphere before heading home to watch the match on television. Everywhere I looked, the city was completely captivated. Streets and patios had become gathering places and for a few hours Toronto felt like the centre of the sporting world.
The game already started by that point, but it didn’t matter. What I witnessed on the streets was something far bigger than a ticket could buy. I saw a city united by the anticipation of history that was unfolding in real time. The match itself was only part of the story, a draw to earn Canada’s first point in the tournament, however being there to experience the buildup to one of the most significant moments in Canadian sports history was something no credit card could ever buy.
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