Gianni Infantino scored an incredible own goal at the Fifa congress in Vancouver last week. After summoning an Israeli and Palestinian delegate to the stage, his attempt at orchestrating a handshake between them failed spectacularly.
The real world is not that simple. Nor does it care for the “together” platitudes with which the Fifa president preceded the debacle. The shallowness was reminiscent of Sacha Baron Cohen, in character as Bruno, claiming to bring peace to the Middle East when he got both sides to concede that “hummus” was actually delicious.
Infantino ― who at that same congress announced that he is seeking a fourth term ― is clearly failing in his attempt to earn statesman bonafides. In December he awarded US President Donald Trump a manufactured “peace prize” ― a truly prescient manoeuvre. (Though in fairness, Ethiopian Prime Minister Abiy Ahmed received the Nobel Peace Prize shortly before entering into one of the deadliest conflicts of the 21st century).
We’re now left facing the improbable prospect that Infantino might not be a clear upgrade on his kleptocratic, disgraced predecessor. And yet behind the saccharine speeches and corporate cliches there is truth that lurks in the attempt to brand the sport as the world’s great unifier.
Football is a global language. It is shrouded in a mythology that is unequalled by any other human activity. It’s the reason we resonate with the Christmas Truce of 1914 ― the day German and English troops emerged from their trenches and spent the holiday kicking a ball together.
The world is in need of a shared experience. As naively new age as it sounds, we should never underestimate the power narratives and heroes ― all developing in real time ― can have on our collective psyche.
Lionel Messi’s long-awaited 2022 World Cup win touched every corner of the globe. There was an inexplicable sense of justice to it; a timely sign to any long-term fan that despite all the chaos in our lives we haven’t strayed from our divine path after all.
Messi gave us that moment despite the noise that surrounded that event in Qatar ― murmurings of corruption, stadiums allegedly built with slave labour and, most egregiously for Fifa, a prohibition on Budweiser sales.
But that was then. As indefatigable as the powers of football are, the circumstances around this year’s World Cup are so grubby that even the beautiful game could be sullied. There’s the big one: no nation in an active war has hosted the event before. If the conflict in Iran is not solved in the next month, the US will welcome the world with one hand while the other is throttling its economy.
“Welcome” is also an inelegant word here. When he opened the Fifa congress Infantino was at great pains to insist Iran will still be participating. Trump gave an ambivalent nod when it was put to him shortly afterwards: “Well if Gianni said it, I’m OK. You know what? Let them play.”
Yet Iran’s top football official was held up at the airport while those words were being spoken. Both the US and co-host Canada classify the Islamic Revolutionary Guard Corps as a terrorist organisation, meaning any member of staff who has served in the military is likely to face complications.
Haiti, Ivory Coast and Senegal are other participants that face some level of travel restrictions. Ultimately, if the continued Fifa promises are anything to go by, players of each nation should make it to the field. The fates of extended coaching staff and officials are less certain ― to say nothing of their fans.
To whom, of course, this whole spectacle supposedly belongs. But even the average American is starting to question that idea, with pricing announcements reaching the preposterous. The absolute cheapest ticket category available at the time of writing is $380, in which you can expect to find such illustrious matches as the DRC vs Uzbekistan or Cape Verde vs Saudi Arabia. Budget $10,990 if you want the top seat in the final. Official transport costs to and from games are similarly fiendish.
Football draws its intangible powers from its inclusivity. In its rawest form it requires only two sticks and a makeshift ball to play ― growing up in poverty, Pele is said to have learnt his supreme control from kicking grapefruit. Neither the excesses of the modern game nor decades of geopolitical machinations have been able to erase that rudimentary truth.
Make no mistake, the show will go on this year. It may well be thrilling. But whether we can expect it to be anything more than that is looking increasingly doubtful. Ironically, the harder characters such as Infantino try to sharpen sport as a political tool, the blunter it becomes.
• Feltham is Business Day editor-in-chief.
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