Sportswashing for Fun and Profit

 

As with most things having to do with soccer, the first-ever FIFA Club World Cup flew largely under the radar of American audiences, even though the month-long tournament was held entirely in the U.S.

Among other things, it served as a reminder that the real World Cup, in all its over-the-top spectacle, is happening next summer, also in the U.S., together with Canada and Mexico. Three amigos, hosting the world. What could go wrong?

But the final of this tournament, matching Chelsea, an English team, with Paris St. Germain, a French one, attracted real interest, even in this soccer-ambivalent country. A few million Americans were watching, me included.

It was a really good game, but I wouldn’t be writing this if it weren’t for the TV camera that was fixed on the luxury box containing Donald and Melania Trump, seated next to Gianni Infantino and his wife, Leena Al Ashquar.

Infantino, an Italian Swiss, is president — some say “emperor” — of FIFA, the dominant organizational engine of world soccer. It’s fair to say that this splashy but flawed tournament was his baby. Now that it’s over, he can focus on the main event, next year’s World Cup, a mammoth undertaking.

With that in mind, he has made no secret of his willingness to suck up to Trump. Whether he invited Trump to that final game, or Trump invited himself, isn’t clear. As far as I know, there was no advanced notice, yet there they were on my screen.

There were several notable things about that shot, which lasted maybe ten seconds.

The first was that nobody in the broadcast booth acknowledged that it was happening. Whereas normally the commentators might ooh and ahh over a sighting of Tom Brady or Jay Z or LeBron, here they nattered on about the game, pretending there was nothing to see.

The second thing was that Trump seemed to have a hard time keeping his eyes open, while Melania moved not a muscle, a mannequin in dark sunglasses.

The third thing was that Leena Al Ashqar was visibly miserable. I might be reading into this, but everything about her facial expression and body language said she’d rather be anywhere but next to these assholes, one of whom was her husband. Her sour demeanor didn’t change, even when the camera found them again in the second half. I have not seen either of those shots since, and I’ve looked.

I must now confess that I did not watch the post-game award ceremonies, so I’ve had to piece together what happened next.

Apparently, as those ceremonies were starting, Infantino escorted Trump onto the field, where they were greeted with a barrage of boos from the Meadowlands crowd. Trump, either oblivious or perversely enjoying it, then took over the podium where the players were receiving their medals.

There is plenty of footage of Trump hogging the spotlight, even as Infantino tries gamely to usher him away. There is also a record of befuddlement and indignation on the part of the Chelsea players — none of whom are Americans — who were clearly disconcerted by this intrusion on their moment of joy. But the team captain hoisted the trophy and did his best to deal with it.

It came out, subsequently, that the trophy itself — a gawdy gold thing made by Tiffany for a mere $230,000 — was actually a replica, not the real thing. Infantino had unveiled the original in the Oval Office back in March, and Trump asked Infantino if he could display it in the Oval Office until the tournament.

Infantino, thinking on his feet, gifted it to Trump outright. This is called a bribe.

I’ve written before about sportswashing, about the practice of investing heavily in sports ventures to put a veneer of respectability on otherwise hideous realities.

Infantino is the latest in a long line of notoriously corrupt FIFA officials through whom soccer money gets washed. He heads up a global men’s club that controls many billions of dollars in revenue, derived from a seemingly insatiable appetite, worldwide, for soccer. The last two World Cups were held in Russia and Qatar, which is all you need to know about the ethics of those officials.

But without getting into the politics and the sketchy deals that determine which country, or countries, get to host a World Cup, next year’s was awarded in 2018. Back then, the idea of the three amigos sharing the spectacle seemed like a shrewd piece of marketing, a high-visibility symbol of economic interdependence and solidarity.

Who knew then that Trump would become so openly belligerent towards the other two amigos? Who knew he’d launch a nonsensical trade war with both of them?

Whatever one thinks of Infantino, he’s in the unenviable position of having a multi-billion-dollar venture riding on the narcissistic whims of an unstable and senile child.

The FIFA World Cup is a major global event. Every four years, it creates an economic vortex, sucking cash into its host countries. It’s bigger than the Olympics, bigger than the Super Bowl, and it lasts a whole month. It’s also a festival of diversity, with superb athletes of every race, religion, and nationality on vivid display. A white supremacist’s nightmare.

So Infantino has to wonder what happens if ICE starts turning people away at the airports? What if they start detaining people, confiscating their phones, looking for anti-Trump memes? What if certain countries get treated more harshly than others? These are things that keep Infantino up at night.

He also has to wonder if soccer fans from other continents will prefer Mexico or Canada, avoiding the U.S. altogether. We’re already a pariah nation, the North Korea of North America, so who knows how they’ll feel by the time they book their tickets. The mad Trump regime has had a devastating effect on the U.S. travel and hospitality industries. Between his insane tariffs and his hostility to foreigners, tourists have been staying away in droves.

But mostly, Infantino has to wonder what this country will look like one year from now. In the last six months, we’ve been transformed beyond recognition, and not in a good way. What will a whole year bring, and how can FIFA plan for it?

So Infantino needs to bend Trump’s ear at every opportunity, and surely he was doing just that at the game. Surely, he presented a glorious vision of what a World Cup on American soil would mean, not so much to America or mankind, but to Trump personally. Surely, he painted a glittering picture of the global adulation that would accrue to the Dear Leader, as he takes his rightful place among the great statesmen of history.

I wouldn’t be surprised if Infantino threw naming rights into the conversation. “Trump World Cup” has a nice ring to it, yes?

But appealing to Trump’s narcissism only goes so far. Infantino knows he has to kick up to the mob boss, but he can’t be sure how much it will ultimately cost to remain in Trump’s good graces for the next year. We’ll probably never know what’s already been passed under the table — cash, favors, political influence, pardons — but it would be interesting to track the number of FIFA employees who stay in Trump-owned hotels over the next year, and how much they pay over the market rate.

The trouble for Infantino is that no amount of sportswashing can ever guarantee how Trump will behave. Trump will happily take the trophy, accept the bribes, pocket the hotel revenues, then throw any number of monkey wrenches into the World Cup at the last minute.

All he has to do, after all, is feel like it.