The cameras panned the VIP box at the World Cup final, searching for a familiar face. They found the Prince of Wales, diplomatic smiles and a firm handshake. They found the Prime Minister, awkwardly waving a flag. But the seat reserved for the most powerful man in the world remained conspicuously empty. Donald Trump, the leader of the free world, was not coming. And that absence, broadcast to billions, spoke louder than any speech.
Let’s be clear from the start. This was not a scheduling conflict. The President of the United States does not skip global events because of a diary clash. He skipped because he doesn’t see the value. Football, or soccer as they insist on calling it, is not his game. It’s a foreign sport, played by foreigners, for a global audience that doesn’t vote in his elections. For a man who measures everything in terms of personal branding and transactional diplomacy, the World Cup final offered little tangible reward. There were no cameras tracking his approval ratings. No deal to be struck on the sidelines that would boost his bottom line. So he stayed home.
Contrast that with the British presence. The Prince of Wales, heir to a throne that has no political power but immense symbolic weight, was there. The Prime Minister, a man fighting for his political life, was there. Why? Because for Britain, the World Cup is not just a sporting event. It is a stage. A stage to project soft power, to remind the world that despite Brexit, despite austerity, despite everything, we are still a player on the global pitch. We send our royals because they smile and wave and remind people of a shared history. We send our politicians because they can be seen clapping next to royalty, borrowing some of that centuries-old prestige. It is a ritual of national identity, a performance of relevance.
And the British public? They understand this on a visceral level. Walk into any pub during a big match. You will see people who have never kicked a ball in their lives, who couldn’t name the offside rule, suddenly becoming experts on tactics. They are not watching the game. They are watching themselves watching the game. They are participating in a collective narrative of who we are. A nation that invented the sport, that exports it to the world, that somehow still believes it matters. Trump’s absence, blunt and transactional, reminds us that this narrative is not universal.
The cultural shift here is profound. For decades, the transatlantic alliance was built on shared values, shared institutions, shared symbols. Presidents attended World Cup finals because it was expected. They did it to show that America was part of the global community, bound by the same passions and pageants. Trump broke that script. He treated the World Cup as an option, not an obligation. And in doing so, he revealed a new reality: America under Trump is not interested in playing the old game. It wants a new game, one where the rules are written in Washington, not Zurich.
Meanwhile, Britain clings to the old game. We send our royals, we host the events, we talk about the ‘beautiful game’ with a straight face. There is something tragicomic about it. A middle-ranking power, still dressing up for a party no one else believes in. But there is also something stubbornly admirable. We still believe that sport can be more than spectacle. That it can be diplomacy, identity, hope. That a man in a suit waving from a box can mean something.
So as the cameras scanned that empty seat, I saw two things. The future, cold and transactional, where only deals matter. And the past, warm and ceremonial, where a handshake could change the world. The empty seat was a triumph for no one. But it was a lesson for all of us.
