The opening match in the Asian Cup was tonight. Qatar, the host nation, played Uzbekistan. And as I watched Qatar play — and, mind, they’re not very good — I was favorably impressed by about four guys. Two of them were born in South America and another was born in Africa.

Which brings us to the concept of “national” teams, and how the term is becoming increasingly vague as more and more countries hand out passports to almost anyone who strays across their borders and is willing to take out citizenship.

Like the three “Qatari” guys.

Qatar’s best players are forward Sebastian Soria, who was born in Uruguay, Fabio Cesar, a midfielder from Brazil, and Lawrence Quaye, a midfielder from Ghana. They are as native to Qatar as icebergs. Yet now they are citizens, and the focus of a whole team.

Qatar lost to Uzbekistan 2-0, by the way, and immediately is at risk at not advancing in its own tournament, with China and Kuwait still to go in group play.

So how will Qatar’s football association react? Almost certainly by going out and finding more new citizens from South America and Africa, because their native population of about 300,000 may not be capable of producing a competitive side. Not even close, if this team is any indication. They would like to actually qualify for a World Cup before hosting one, in 2022.

And that begs the question of where national teams are going.

I have no problem with athletes moving to the country where they can earn the most money. I have no problem with them becoming naturalized (though it gets a bit ethically slippery when a footballer can get a passport but a long-term guest worker cannot). Open borders enable people to find the best opportunities for them and their families.

But we may just have to accept that the concept of a “national” team is becoming increasingly vague. And it’s not just countries of immigrants like the United States (which did some serious passport-finagling back in the 1990s with the likes of Thomas Dooley and David Regis) and Australia who are discovering countrymen all over the world. It’s the “nation states” of Europe, too.

In theory, it’s grand and progressive that Germany has players of Turkish and Ghanaian heritage, and that France has Frenchmen from all over Africa. But at some point doesn’t this become less about a “nation” and more about the political entity that has the most effective recruitment tools? (Generally, a professional league that pays lots of money, but a history as a colonial power helps, too.)

Even countries like Mexico, which made it a point of pride to play only Mexican-Mexicans in the past decade has taken the field with players who are at least as much Brazilian (Zague, Giovani dos Santos) as Mexican. Portugal has taken to bringing over guys from Brazil. Switzerland, a country famously stingy with passports, fielded a World Cup team with players born in the Congo, the former Yugoslavia and Portugal.

The point being, as we go along, the expression “national” team will have less and less meaning. Not like 20 or 30 years ago when teams overwhelmingly were made up of home-born players.

So, the 2030 World Cup? It may have almost nothing to do with the nation-state as it was known in the first 70 or so years of FIFA’s existence. Instead, it may look very much like club teams organized under various national flags. It will be about recruiting the best players you can find/afford, naturalizing them, and then running them out there. It may be club football on the state level.

It’s an interesting dynamic. And it’s picking up speed.

By 2022, when Qatar is the host for the World Cup, look for those three insta-Qataris to have grown to about 10, and by no means will Qatar be the only side with that sort of “national” team.

FIFA can just let it happen … or it can attempt to slow it, at least a little, with one simple rule: Players may play only for the nations in which they were born. If that rule isn’t instituted, “national” teams in the World Cup will be a misnomer.