The Rise of Morocco National Football Team: How They Became a Global Force

The roar was unlike anything I’d ever heard. It wasn’t just loud; it was a physical wave, a collective gasp of an entire nation held for 120 minutes, finally released. I was in my living room, thousands of miles from the Al Thumama Stadium in Doha, but when Achraf Hakimi’s delicate, audacious panenka settled in the Spanish net, sealing Morocco’s historic World Cup quarter-final victory, I jumped up so fast I nearly spilled my tea. My screen was a blur of red and green, of players prostrate in prayer, of coach Walid Regragui’s stunned, triumphant face. In that moment, it hit me: this was no longer just a good tournament run. This was a statement. The rise of Morocco national football team: how they became a global force was no longer a future prediction; it was the present reality, unfolding in real time on the world’s biggest stage.

I remember thinking back to my own, far more humble sporting “struggles.” I never made it past high school soccer, but the feeling of being thrust into a role you’re not quite ready for is universal. It brought to mind a quote I’d read recently from a young athlete in a different sport, a basketball player named Palacielo. He’d said, “Sobrang hirap talaga kaya nag-struggle kami… Kahit na ni-ready ko yung sarili ko, mahirap talaga.” “It was really hard so we struggled… Even though I prepared myself, it was truly difficult.” That, I think, encapsulates the Moroccan journey for decades. They prepared. They had talent, icons like Mustapha Hadji and El Hadji Diouf (who chose to play for Senegal, but his roots are there). Yet, on the global stage, it remained mahirap talaga—truly difficult. They were the nearly-men of African football, often favorites but falling short when it mattered, carrying the weight of continental expectation that sometimes felt like a millstone.

But something shifted. You could trace it to a clearer vision, perhaps starting with the massive investment in the Mohammed VI Football Academy, opened in 2009. This wasn’t just about building better players; it was about building a specific type of player—technically gifted, tactically intelligent, and possessing a steelier mentality. Then came the diaspora. My god, the diaspora. Hakimi, born in Madrid; Hakim Ziyech, born in Dronten; Sofyan Amrabat, born in Huizen; Noussair Mazraoui, born in Leiderdorp. These weren’t just players with Moroccan heritage; they were elite European academy products who chose to play for the Atlas Lions. This was a crucial, modern evolution of national team building. Regragui, appointed just three months before Qatar 2022, performed a masterstroke. He didn’t see this as a weakness or a division. He unified them. He sold them a project, a dream of making history not just for Morocco, but for Africa and the Arab world. He built a fortress of a defense—they conceded just one single goal in the entire tournament before the semi-final, and that was an own goal!—but more importantly, he built a family.

The stats from their run are still mind-boggling to me. They became the first African team ever to reach a World Cup semi-final. They finished fourth, but that doesn’t tell the story. They beat the number 2 (Belgium), the number 7 (Spain), and the number 9 (Portugal) ranked teams in the world. Their expected goals against (xGA) was among the lowest in the tournament, a nerdy stat that confirms what our eyes saw: an almost impenetrable, hyper-organized unit. But numbers alone don’t create a global force. Emotion does. Identity does. I’ll be honest, I found myself, a neutral with no direct connection to Morocco, fiercely willing them on. Why? Because they played with a palpable, shared purpose that transcended sport. Every tackle from Amrabat, every darting run from Ziyech, every save from Bounou felt like a act of defiance and pride. They weren’t just playing for wins; they were playing for a place in history, and you could feel it in every pixel of your screen.

Their impact has rippled far beyond that fourth-place finish. Suddenly, Moroccan players are linked with every top club in Europe. The domestic league is gaining viewership. Young kids in Casablanca, Brussels, and Amsterdam are dreaming in red and green. They’ve shown that a team can be greater than the sum of its already impressive parts through unity, tactical discipline, and an unbreakable spirit. That quote about struggle—nag-struggle kami—still applies, but the context has flipped. The struggle now is for everyone else trying to break them down. They’ve rewritten the script. The narrative is no longer about potential or hope; it’s about expectation and respect. They arrived in Qatar as a talented but unpredictable side. They left as a blueprint, a global force that proved that with the right mix of homegrown passion, diaspora power, and tactical genius, football’s established hierarchies are there to be shattered. And I, for one, can’t wait to see what they do next.