Nine minutes. That was all it took for the World Cup to serve up its first lesson in the difference between theory and reality.
Sphephelo Sithole, caught in possession like a man trying to hide a stolen pie, watched Julián Quiñones race through and lash the ball through Ronwen Williams's legs. 1-0. The Azteca erupted. The narrative was set: Mexico, the co-host, were off and running.
Except they weren't. Not really.
The shambles beneath the surface
Let's be clear about what this game actually was: a disjointed, error-strewn mess that somehow produced three goals and two red cards without ever feeling like a proper football match.
South Africa, reduced to nine men by the 67th minute, still managed to create the better chances. That's not a compliment to South Africa. That's an indictment of Mexico.
Percy Tau, the Al Ahly forward, should have scored before half-time. He didn't, because his finishing is about as reliable as the Azteca's WiFi — which is to say, non-existent. Teboho Mokoena hit the post from a free-kick that looked destined for the top corner. Mexico's defenders parted like the Red Sea, except Moses was nowhere to be seen.
And then there was the organisation. The traffic outside the stadium was a crime against humanity. The signage was a joke that nobody was laughing at. The WiFi was a rumour. Gianni Infantino, in his infinite wisdom, decided to run this tournament without a local organising committee. It showed.
The moment that actually decided it
For all the chaos, the match turned on one specific, avoidable action.
63rd minute. South Africa, already a man down after Mothobi Mvala's second yellow for a tackle that was late and stupid in equal measure, decided to go full kamikaze. Substitute Kgaogelo Sekgota, on the pitch for exactly 11 minutes, slid into Edson Álvarez with his studs showing. Referee Iván Barton didn't hesitate. Red card. Nine men.
From that moment, the game was effectively over as a contest. Mexico had the numerical advantage and the ball. They also had a strange inability to do anything useful with it.
Raúl Jiménez, introduced as a substitute in the 71st minute, provided the moment of quality that the game had been crying out for. A clever run, a composed finish, and a 2-0 lead that finally — finally — allowed the 87,523 crammed into the Azteca to breathe.
But even then, South Africa pulled one back. Lyle Foster, who had been a nuisance all night, bundled in from a corner after Mexico's marking went AWOL. The final 10 minutes were nervy, frantic, and utterly unnecessary. Mexico held on. Just about.
What this actually means
Mexico got the win. That's the headline. But the performance was a case study in how not to manage a major tournament opener.
Jaime Lozano's decision to start with a midfield of Luis Chávez and Erick Sánchez, neither of whom seemed interested in actually controlling the game, was baffling. They were overrun by a South African side that, for all its discipline issues, at least knew what it was trying to do.
The irony is that Mexico's best player was a 35-year-old Andrés Guardado, who came on in the second half and immediately started doing the simple things nobody else had bothered with: keeping the ball, finding a teammate, not panicking. It's 2026. Guardado should not be the solution.
For South Africa, this is a missed opportunity. They were the better side for long stretches. They created more than a nine-man team had any right to. But they shot themselves in the foot with two red cards that were entirely self-inflicted. Hugo Broos has work to do, and not much time to do it.
The World Cup is supposed to be a celebration of humanity, a brief respite from the horrors of the real world. Donald Trump's war with Iran rumbles on. The immigration police continue their outrages. Football was meant to be the escape.
Instead, we got a shambolic opener in a shambolic stadium, with a shambolic performance from the co-hosts, saved only by a moment of quality from a substitute and the sheer, glorious stupidity of their opponents.
If this is the standard, the tournament is going to be a beautiful disaster. And honestly, I'm here for it.