So Cape Verdeans erupted in joy. They drew Spain. And now the British press is celebrating football’s ‘global magic’ as though we had just discovered a new continent. Let us not be churlish: it is genuinely moving when a small island nation of half a million people sees its national team share a pitch with the giants of the game. But the narrative of ‘global magic’ is a comforting myth we tell ourselves to avoid facing an uncomfortable truth.
Football’s expansion is not the story of a sport uniting humanity. It is the story of a cultural monoculture spreading under the banner of commerce, nostalgia, and the soft power of former empires. Cape Verde’s joy is real, but the context is imperial. The islands speak Portuguese, their best players are shaped by European academies, and their national team’s ascent mirrors the diaspora’s journey. Spain, of course, is the old coloniser’s neighbour. The draw is a meeting of two worlds that have been intertwined for centuries, but we pretend it is a spontaneous collision of equals.
Meanwhile, the British celebration of this ‘magic’ is a particularly grating form of self-congratulation. We invented the game, after all. It is our gift to the world. And whenever a small nation squeals with delight at the prospect of facing our league stars or our old rivals, we pat ourselves on the back for having exported joy. Never mind that the global football economy is rigged: the richest clubs buy the best talent from places like Cape Verde, depleting local leagues, and then send those players back for a few international games a year. The magic is a transaction.
History offers a parallel. The Victorian era’s great exhibitions displayed the wonders of empire: the machinery, the raw materials, the exotic peoples. The spectators marvelled at the ‘global’ nature of commerce and culture, never pausing to notice that the show was managed by the few for the many. Today, the World Cup draw is that exhibition. We watch the little nations cheer, and we feel good about ourselves. We do not ask why Cape Verde’s best players are not playing in their own league, or why the island’s football federation is dependent on FIFA handouts. The magic is a veil.
There is also the question of national identity. Cape Verdeans are not just happy to be in the World Cup. They are happy to be on the same page as their former coloniser and their current economic overlord. The draw reinforces a hierarchy: the small nation hopes to be noticed, to be validated, to be seen as a participant in a global conversation that it did not write. The British media’s use of ‘global magic’ is a paternalistic pat on the head. ‘Look at the little people enjoying the big game.’
None of this means we should mock Cape Verde’s joy. Joy is not a political statement. But as an intellectual, as someone who looks at the world and sees the patterns of power, I cannot help but roll my eyes at the uncritical celebration. The Fall of Rome was preceded by a similar cultural homogenisation: everyone wanted to be Roman, everyone loved the games, and the provinces were delighted when their athletes competed in the Circus Maximus. It all felt like magic. But the empire was crumbling, and the joy was a symptom of dependence.
So yes, celebrate the draw. Enjoy the underdog story. But spare me the sermon about football’s global magic. It is a magic trick, and we are the audience clapping while the magician picks our pockets. Cape Verdeans deserve better than to be a prop in our sentimental narrative. They deserve a football world where they do not have to export their talent to dream. But that would require more than magic. That would require a revolution.
