Football will always be the 90 minutes. It rises above the noise
The voice of sport
Martin Samuel
Trump’s presence at the Club World Cup stirred debate but shouldn’t stop enjoyment of the game
Were this column to be simply a list of what mattered about Chelsea being crowned world champions, at the very top, plainly, would be the title itself.
The honour, what it meant to the club in terms of unity and confidence, its impact financially and commercially, the confirmation of a business model, its worth as a sign on the road. Then we could explore its significance to individuals: to the head coach, Enzo Maresca, to the owners, the many heads of recruitment. Chelsea have been accused of stockpiling talent. With the Club World Cup triumph they can counter that it was a successful coping strategy for a season that would begin on August 18, 2024 and, if done right, end on July 13, 2025.
Then we could move on to individuals such as the goalkeeper Robert Sánchez, who, in one match, turned around or at least challenged the majority of opinions about his talent. We could proceed through the team that way. The instant impression made by João Pedro and Liam Delap, confirmation that room must be found in England’s starting XI for a player with Cole Palmer’s unique skillset, Marc Cucurella’s growing claim to be the best left back in the world.
And when, and only when, every last bit-part player and tangential feature had been accounted for, should we note that the trophy was presented by President Donald J Trump. It really doesn’t matter. Obviously it did to Fifa’s own president, Gianni Infantino. Getting Trump there, keeping him there and putting him on a stage he liked so much that he didn’t want to leave was the culmination of many years of toadying. But that’s why the rest of us have to concentrate on the football these days. Was the football good? Yes, it was. Well, OK, let’s remember that, then.
We can’t make the rest of it right. We can’t manage a cast list that takes in oppressive states, extreme capitalists, rampant self-interest, incompetents. We can’t pick sides between Fifa, Uefa, the FA, the Premier League, the EFL, the tiers below, the Professional Footballers’ Association, the rich, the poor, the elite, the super-elite, all insisting theirs is the one true and just cause. So it’s about the football, 11 versus 11. Did you enjoy that? Was that real to you? Then it has to be enough.
In some quarters, the game is discussed or reported as if it really is all about Trump, Infantino, Robbie Williams and the singer Doja Cat — I’ve no idea, could be a man, could be a woman, could be an actual cat — but then there is always a reason to stop playing football’s game. Africa, an entire continent, boycotted the World Cup that England won in 1966. Not sure many people even know that now.
Liking football does not signify approval of all that comes with it. The England fans who made a late dash to Russia in 2018 were not signalling tacit approval for Vladimir Putin’s regime. They were there for the game, for the chance of glory. Should a hosting decision over which they had no control deny them this opportunity? Same with those who went to Qatar, or who will travel to Saudi Arabia in 2034. If you like football, what other choice is there? You can’t make it all well. So it’s the 90 minutes. Do you like the 90 minutes? I still like the 90 minutes.
I don’t like Fifa, so I don’t listen to it. Infantino does not hold conventional press conferences anyway. He gives speeches, takes what appears to be the odd approved question, gives another speech by way of reply and hands the microphone to one of his Fifa legends, whose prepared answer could have been scripted by AI. I can’t remember the last time I heard Fifa’s president by choice, and my last Uefa gig was Michel Platini in Warsaw before the 2012 European Championship.
Yet I like Fifa tournaments, including this last one; I like Uefa competitions. Not every aspect. Not some of the formats, certainly not the wealth distribution; but is there a match? Is it as good as Barcelona versus Inter Milan, or Chelsea versus Paris Saint- Germain? Then I’m in.
I could have stopped going when they formed the Premier League. I didn’t like that either. I preferred the old way of sharing the television money: 50, 25, 12.5, 12.5, across the four divisions. Rick Parry didn’t, though. Parry was instrumental in 20 elite clubs taking the lion’s share of football’s wealth. Now he bleats about it as chairman of the EFL. Ironic, isn’t it? Yet I accept we can’t go back. Well, more than Rick does.
We have an entire business model set up to compete with a European elite and a global brand that is second to none. So either I continue bemoaning a battle that was lost before my children were born or I accept that the football the new league has delivered is of a consistently high standard, is enjoyed by millions, and works.
On occasions, we strike back. The reaction to the Super League showed there is the power to force changes in direction. It should happen more often. Without doubt, Fifa’s members had the clout to challenge the World Cup in Qatar once it was moved to winter — and could have put up greater resistance to the award to Saudi Arabia in 2034 too.
So again, when it happens, it is left to the football alone to win the day. The climax in Doha was arguably the greatest World Cup final of them all, once we disassociate it from so much around the periphery, from Salt Bae to Lionel Messi, cloaked in a Qatari bisht to lift the trophy, almost obscuring the colours of Argentina. Didn’t like any of that, but what about the final? Well, the final was fabulous. It was actually a good tournament, for football the game, if not the sport.
And we don’t always focus solely on football, because you can’t just focus on the football. We write about how it got there, why it got there, some pretty obvious sexism in the stadiums. In Qatar we wrote what we saw, which wasn’t always flattering. And it was the same at the Club World Cup. The heat, the climatic challenges, the incongruous presence of Inter Miami, Fifa ignoring its own rules for a 20- minute half-time show, every detail was picked over. Yet football abides. Football finds a way to win. It is impervious, because when Michael Buffer has shouted his last “Let’s get ready to rumble” — we’re ready, mate, we’ve been ready hours, we just need you to get off the pitch — a whistle blows and what unfolds is pretty much as it has been for a century or so, give or take a video assistant referee.
And if your mate says he’s not going any more because VAR has spoilt it for him, don’t feel guilty, don’t feel like a mug for not joining the boycott; he probably didn’t like it as much as you anyway. There’s always been a reason not to go. When I was growing up it was hooliganism. A few years back it was taking the knee or rainbow armbands. Look, maybe there are people who were so upset by five seconds of kneeling that they let it change the habit of a lifetime, it’s just that I always think there’s more to it. You’re getting old, your knee’s playing up, you can’t get the good parking space any more, your mates have stopped going, you prefer golf, money’s a bit tighter these days . . .
My grandad went all over London watching football. If there was a big game, we were all there. August 23, 1978, Ossie Ardiles and Ricky Villa, World Cup winners with Argentina and English football’s most exotic imports, made their debuts for Tottenham Hotspur at home to Aston Villa. Tickets were impossible to get and Tottenham wasn’t our team, but we never missed a match like that. We’d buy from Stan Flashman, the tout.
We needed three together. Grandad, Dad, me. I was 14. Stan was in his usual spot, but the money was crazy. Face value was about two quid but Stan wanted a tenner. So, 30 quid for three. My grandad, a gambler of inspired recklessness, proposed double or quits. We’d pay 60 quid, or nothing, on the toss of a coin. It was more than the average weekly wage, after tax. The coin hit the pavement and rolled with a crowd of about 20 chasing it. When it fell on our side, Stan virtually threw the tickets at us and told us to f*** off, and we went inside laughing.
Yet later in life my grandad watched his football on the television. It was too much hassle, going. My dad’s 86. People stand up when the ball gets near the goal and it’s hard for him to keep jumping to his feet. And it’s West Ham United. So by the time he’s up, the move’s probably broken down anyway. It’s easier for him to watch remotely too. But when he stops going it won’t be because of Infantino or VAR or sportswashing or because you can’t get in for three shillings any more. Because he still loves football, for all that.
So Trump presented the trophy and wanted to hang around on the podium? Big deal. If I think of all the things that worry me about Trump’s regime, him turning up for a football match and behaving like, well, Donald Trump, is way, way down the list.
The same with Saudi Arabia. If stopping them owning Newcastle United ushered in greater freedom in the Gulf, then get on board. If all it does is stop a lot of long-suffering Newcastle fans being happy, then where’s the victory? Liverpool are preparing to offer in the region of £120million for Alexander Isak. Mike Ashley would no doubt have taken it. The Saudis might just tell them to get lost. That’s good for football, surely? And it’s what some clubs feared about Saudi ownership from the start. It was always self-interest, not a principled stand.
Here’s what I think happens to the Club World Cup. It goes to 48 teams to allow the holders, Chelsea, to defend and for the major European leagues to get three, maybe even four teams in. And you may like that, or you may hate it. But if the football is good, it will work. Either way, it is here now. There is not a single English club that would not want what Chelsea have got. And that’s the modern game. That’s football: but it’s still just 90 minutes if that’s all you want it to be.
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