The World Cup final. A global spectacle where heads of state typically jostle for photo opportunities, a chance to project national unity and sporting bonhomie. Yet, as the world’s eyes turned to the pitch, one seat remained conspicuously vacant: the American one. The absence of Donald Trump, or indeed any senior US administration figure, from this quadrennial festival of football has not gone unnoticed. It has, in fact, become a livewire in the British press, a symbol of a deeper, more troubling isolationism. The question is not merely one of protocol. It is a question of national identity, of soft power, of the very idea of American leadership in a world that is rapidly fashioning new alliances without them.
Critics will point to a President who finds little joy in soccer, a game he once famously called ‘very boring’. But this is not about personal taste. It is about the cultural and diplomatic capital that such events represent. The World Cup is the modern equivalent of the 19th century Great Exhibitions: a platform for nations to showcase their commerce, their values, their very soul. To snub it is to snub the world’s game, the game of the rising global middle class. It is to double down on a parochialism that has defined the Trump era. And the cost is not just a few awkward headlines.
Consider the historical parallels. When the Roman Empire began its long decline, it did so by retreating from its provinces, by abandoning the public spectacles that had once bound the known world together. The bread and circuses stopped. The roads fell into disrepair. Eventually, the empire was a ghost, remembered only in crumbling ruins. The United States, it seems, is writing a similar chapter. By refusing to engage in the rituals of global sport, by elevating a transactional view of foreign policy over the cultural glue that keeps alliances sticky, it is accelerating its own marginalisation. The Chinese, of course, were there. The Russians? Their leader may be a pariah, but he still attends. The British? The Duke of Cambridge, at least, understands the assignment.
This is not mere nostalgia for a more polite age of diplomacy. It is a cold, hard calculation. The World Cup is watched by billions. It is a chance to influence narratives, to build bridges, to remind the world that America is still the land of the free and the home of the brave. Instead, the Trump administration has chosen to treat it as below their dignity. This is the same administration that has slashed the cultural budgets of its embassies, that views the BBC as a ‘propaganda machine’, that mistakes ignorance for strength. And the world takes note. Our own Foreign Office has quietly sighed with relief that they are not the ones making this grave error. The ‘Special Relationship’ is a two-way street, and one lane is potholed.
The irony is thick. America claims to be the indispensable nation. Yet it cannot be bothered to send a single high-ranking official to a sports event that unites humanity. This is the soft power equivalent of skipping your own birthday party. It signals to a watching planet that the United States is no longer interested in being liked, only feared. And fear, as any historian will tell you, is a flimsy foundation for empire. It breeds resentment, not loyalty. It crumbles when the legions are weary.
So, let us not pretend this is a trivial matter. The empty seat is a metaphor for a presidency that has systematically dismantled the pillars of American influence. From trade wars to exit from climate accords, from closing embassies to freezing cultural exchanges. Each withdrawal is a stone removed from the arch. Eventually, the whole structure collapses. The World Cup absence is another stone, perhaps the smallest, but the most visible. It is the one the world’s youth will notice. And they will remember. As the Victorians used to say, it is not enough for a gentleman to be powerful; he must also appear gracious. America, it seems, has forgotten its manners. And in forgetting its manners, it has forgotten itself.
