The World Cup in the age of Trumpian transaction

No matter how intently we listen to FIFA President Gianni Infantino’s repetitive hymns extolling the “purity of the game” and its pristine detachment from politics, reality strikes back with a naked truth: football is no longer just a sport. It has morphed into a fierce breed of modern politics, serving simultaneously as an instrument of both soft and hard power. As the World Cup approaches, this reality takes on a more radical dimension. This time, the tournament unfolds within the domain of Donald Trump—a man who views the world strictly through a transactional prism, treating every political or ideological stance as a mere line item in a commercial contract, ripe for buying or selling.

When it comes to deep, self-defining concepts of nationhood, the press seldom hesitates to speak with a unified, resounding voice—a phenomenon that reflects genuine cultural resonance rather than mere media propaganda. This is precisely why the British press treats the England national team as a living expression of a unified England. As a collective, these athletes often appear far more representative of the public than British politicians, whom The Guardian once memorably likened to “rats fighting in a sack.”

Admittedly, football offers no ready-made solutions to deep-seated political crises or social malaise. Yet, the pitch remains the most vivid mirror of a nation. Politicians and pundits scrutinize players and their performances not for sheer technical prowess, but to decode the inner mechanics of society itself.

Historically, the media has blundered by fabricating idealized models of national unity where none exist in reality. Consider contemporary Belgium, a nation fractured along deep ethnic, political, and linguistic lines, where the national team stands as a solitary, stubborn bulwark against division.

Similarly in France, where racial tensions routinely threaten the social fabric, the multi-ethnic squad—composed of players of North African, Sub-Saharan, and French heritage—is viewed by the media and President Emmanuel Macron alike as an indispensable “antidote.” There is simply no other narrative available. In the United Kingdom, the British press has often embraced the England team as a progressive triumph against populists seeking to isolate Britain from its European neighbors. This unified diversity is framed as a refuge from the cynicism generated by politicians playing their own brand of “political football.”

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Yet, running parallel to this symbolic weaponization is the cautionary advice of author Simon Kuper. For an enjoyable viewing experience, Kuper reminds us that “luck rarely plays as large a role in any other sport as it does in football.” With dry pragmatism, he writes: “Enjoy the tournament, but do not take it too seriously. Do not imagine that World Cup matches affect real life. Despite the hyperbole, a successful tournament cannot keep a president in power, or create racial harmony… The World Cup vanishes like a dream. It often reflects social reality, but it does not shape it.”

While Kuper’s skepticism is well-founded, it overlooks the continuous political drama that transforms football into a vital investment arm and geopolitical lever for governments. Ignore the sugary diplomatic platitudes exchanged between world leaders when their teams lose—those clichéd assurances that “it’s only a game.” Such rhetoric is merely a diplomatic sedative designed to defuse the anger of rival fanbases.

At its core, football is a vehicle for deep political rivalry, whether it manifests violently—as it did in the 1985 Heysel Stadium disaster in Brussels, where deadly rioting between Liverpool and Juventus fans forced coaches to retreat and prompted Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher to denounce the perpetrators as a “mob”—or remains confined to xenophobic chants in the terraces.

When France won the 2018 World Cup, right-wing nativists balked at the idea of a non-white national symbol. The squad’s predominantly African heritage prompted American comedian Trevor Noah to joke that “Africa won the World Cup”—a heavy political satire that exposed the fragile nerves of Western multiculturalism.

Even the swift, ferocious political condemnation that crushed Europe’s elite clubs when they signed up for the European Super League project was driven by state protectionism, not a sudden love for the purity of the sport.

Today, we enter a World Cup governed by the logic of Donald Trump. Trump does not view ethnic diversity as a “progressive triumph” in the manner of the British press, nor does he see the World Cup as a democratic oasis. To him, football is an asset—the ultimate platform for brokering deals, projecting economic supremacy, and recalibrating American geopolitical leverage.

No head of state truly possesses the power to isolate politics from football, much as we, as purists, might wish otherwise. But in the arena of the ultimate dealmaker, the beautiful game will become the precise mirror of our contemporary world: an environment that disregards sportsmanship, fixates on the scoreboard, and defers entirely to whoever owns the right to buy the stadium.

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The views expressed in this article belong to the author and do not necessarily reflect the editorial policy of Middle East Monitor.