I completely disagree with Martínez's 26 for the World Cup! (And I don't even know them yet)

It's Tuesday, and the clock hasn't even struck 1 PM, meaning Roberto Martínez hasn't yet unsealed the envelope at the Cidade do Futebol. But I already have one absolute certainty, the kind even VAR can't overturn: I completely disagree with the 26 players called up for the 2026 World Cup. It's official. You can print it, share it on social media, and get your keyboards ready, because my indignation is in warm-up and won't accept substitutions.

Our genetics are fascinating. A Portuguese person is born, undergoes the heel prick test, and immediately receives an invisible UEFA Pro license tattooed on their soul. As soon as the national coach—that brave man who traded the tranquility of a siesta in Wigan for managing the egos of millions of armchair coaches—utters the first name, the symphony of "But why?!" will begin.

I can already hear the chorus. "Cristiano? Again? At 41? He's past it, only chasing records!"—as if the man who defies biology every morning is merely a luxury extra in an action movie. Then will come the sentimentalists. "What about Paulinho? The man scores goals with his eyes closed and he's staying home?" Or: "And Ricardo Horta? That eternal underdog who always seems to be on destiny's waiting list."

Martínez will, with his increasingly polished Portuguese and a smile that disarms even the most skeptical commentators, explain the dynamics, the triangles, the width, and the depth. But we don't want triangles, dear Roberto! We want our player, the one from our team, the one who makes us jump off the sofa and who, by chance, plays for the club we pay membership fees to.

"Félix? Seriously? Is he playing or just posing for Instagram?" Or: "Cancelo? Too much attack, not enough defense!" "And Quenda?! Seriously?"

It doesn't matter who's in or who's out. If Roberto Martínez had called up 26 clones of Eusébio in 1966, there would still be someone saying that a winger was missing, someone who could make a better diagonal run on the district's dusty pitch.

And isn't this also the beauty (and the fate) of being Portuguese? We are a nation of eleven million coaches where the official coach is merely the only one who, by sheer contractual happenstance, has to bear the responsibility. We, in the comfort of our irony, have the sacred power to never make a wrong substitution—because we always make it after the game is over.

So, Roberto, brace yourself. You can bring artificial intelligence, the most advanced statistical data, and the blessing of all football gods. At the end of the day, for us, some of your 26 will always be the others.

Because our players, the true ones, the ones who would win the World Cup by a landslide without breaking a sweat, they all stayed here, sitting at the table, discussing whether the coach really knows his stuff or just has a good tailor.

So, good luck, dear Roberto! You'll need it, don't doubt it. Because my list is already made, and yours, whatever it may be, is already wrong (even without knowing it!).