Drake has lost $1,5 5 million on a bet that Argentina would win the FIFA World Cup. The South American country lost 1-0 to Spain.

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The Canadian rapper – who is believed to have a “curse” when it comes to sports bets – was in attendance at the New Jersey Stadium, where the heated finale took place.

DRAKE LOSES MILLIONS IN FIFA WORLD CUP FINAL BET

As the final whistle blew, signalling Spain’s defeat of Argentina, news quickly spread about Drake’s high-stakes loss…

Drake just lost 1.5 million dollar on a bet 🤔 pic.twitter.com/XTV497QBu0

— Snackzzz🇯🇲🐉 (@papisnackzz) July 19, 2026

THAT 2022 BET AGAINST ARGENTINA

It’s not the first time Drake has lost millions, and the hands of Argentina’s national team.

In 2022, the rapper bet $1 million on Argentina to win the 2022 FIFA World Cup in the final against France, 

And while Argentina won, he lost every cent as it did not take place within 90 minutes.

Argentina and France were tied 2-2 at 90 minutes and 3-3 after extra time.

Drake had bet on the 1×2 market; only the score after 90 minutes plus stoppage time counted. Since the match was tied after regulation, the official betting result was a draw, meaning his wager was a loss.

Ultimately, the country that boasts Lionel Messi has their superstar player,  won 4-2 on penalties to become world champions.

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Kelly Benthall retired early and has been slow traveling; she realized she'd been doing it wrong.

Provided by Kelly Benthall

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• After retiring at 53, Kelly Benthall and her husband, Nigel, have been slow traveling the world.
• An invite to a coming-of-age celebration from their Balinese neighbor changed her view on slow travel.
• She thought staying longer would create connection. Instead, belonging came from participation.

I retired at 53 and have been slow traveling around the world with my husband for almost 2 years.

Last month, while we'd been renting a villa in Bali, everything next door would usually grow quiet by sunset. That's when we got a knock on the door.

"There will be a party tomorrow night," Kadek told us with his usual easy smile. "It might go a little late."

Kadek, our Balinese neighbor, wanted to make sure we knew his family's celebration might continue past 10 p.m. "Don't worry about us," my husband, Nigel, said.

In the days leading up to it, we'd watched preparations unfold over the wall: women carrying offerings, relatives arriving, and a miniature boat being built for the ceremony. Kadek couldn't stop smiling whenever he talked about his son's coming-of-age milestone. His excitement was contagious.

The following afternoon, he returned carrying a plate of roast pork.

"We're celebrating," he said. "Please come."

I thanked him, accepted the food, and thought we'd fulfilled our neighborly obligations. Nigel had other ideas.

"We should at least stop by," he said. "Just to show our faces."

In Bali, the couple got invited to a party at their Balinese neighbor's house.

Provided by Kelly Benthall

Finding community

We'd only lived next door for a few weeks, and walking into someone else's family ceremony felt like showing up uninvited for Thanksgiving. I didn't want anyone to feel obliged to entertain two retired foreigners who happened to be living next door.

Still, I followed Nigel through the gate.

Only then did I realize we'd been living next door to an ornate Balinese temple. We were staying in the beachside town of Sanur, about 20 minutes southeast of the airport.

The smell of roast pork lingered in the courtyard as children darted between chatting relatives. Koko, the neighborhood rescue dog, stationed himself hopefully near the food.

Somewhere behind us came enthusiastic singing. It wasn't a band; it was karaoke. In hindsight, the occasional missed note should have given it away.

With glasses of fresh homemade tuak, a lightly fermented palm wine we'd been served at the party, in hand, we wandered over. When the men noticed us, they switched from Indonesian songs to familiar sing-alongs like "Sweet Caroline" and "Wonderwall." We insisted they keep singing in Indonesian. They politely ignored us.

Benthall singing karaoke with Balinese neighbors.

Provided by Kelly Benthall

Before long, I was sharing a microphone with one of Kadek's brothers as we sang The Cranberries' "Zombie." Nigel, being British, inevitably chose "Let It Be."

Walking back to the villa later that evening, Nigel smiled.

"I can't believe you finally did karaoke."

"It wasn't karaoke," I said. "It was community."

I'd gone next door expecting to be a guest. Somewhere between Oasis and roast pork, I forgot I was one.

A new view of slow travel

Until then, I'd assumed slow travel simply meant staying somewhere long enough for connection to happen naturally. I'd been waiting until I felt comfortable instead of finding ways to participate.

That night finally helped me make sense of the six months we'd spent traveling through Australia, New Zealand, and Bali. We'd visited breathtaking destinations, but approached all of them the same way.

When Nigel and I retired early, we embraced slow travel: renting apartments, staying for weeks instead of days, and living more like residents than tourists. I assumed time would naturally create connection.

Instead, we often remained spectators.

In Sydney, we spent a day weaving through the crowds around Circular Quay, taking the ferry across the harbor, and sharing a bottle of wine as we listened to music coming from the amphitheater.

In Sydney, Benthall and her husband were slow traveling, but not yet finding connection.

Provided by Kelly Benthall

It was exactly the kind of day I'd planned before we retired. Beautiful, efficient, and memorable. We caught the ferry back to Double Bay with frame-worthy photos — but not a single meaningful interaction beyond ordering coffee and paying for lunch.

Christchurch, down in New Zealand, offered the first hint that something different was possible. Our host suggested we volunteer for an afternoon, helping to remove protective sleeves from native saplings so they could continue growing.

We barely exchanged more than a few words with the strangers, yet I left feeling more connected to that city than after days of sightseeing.

We became regulars at the neighborhood café until our oat milk flat whites were already being made by the time we walked through the door. We walked the trails through Cashmere often enough to recognize the dogs.

One morning, a man walking his dog called out, "Hi, neighbor."

I looked at Nigel.

"Did he mean us?"

I was absurdly pleased that he did.

Time to take charge

Looking back, I realized I'd been asking places to do something only I could do. I thought staying longer would eventually create that feeling. What actually made the difference was joining in.

After that evening in Bali, everything became easier. Our housekeeper beamed every morning when I greeted her with another local phrase. The neighborhood children waved us down to chat. Even the rescue dog that used to bark every time I walked past eventually trotted beside me.

Benthall in a courtyard hanging out with Balinese kids.

Provided by Kelly Benthall

The ceremony hadn't changed Bali; it changed how I moved through it.

As Nigel and I plan a five-month trip to South America later this year, our spreadsheet still includes rent, walkability, air conditioning, and laundry. But we're also looking for local cafés where we might become regulars, volunteer opportunities, communities where it's easy to participate, and neighborhoods where life spills out into the open rather than hiding behind resort walls.

The morning after my karaoke debut, we sat by the pool drinking tea as conversation drifted over the temple wall. The scooters still buzzed down the alley, the children were still riding their bikes, and nothing about Bali itself was different.

Except this time, the language sounded familiar. I still couldn't understand most of the words, but I recognized the voices. For the first time since we'd arrived, they sounded like home.

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