The steel and glass of the Lusail Stadium gleamed under the Qatari sun. But for those watching, the most telling absence wasn’t a player. It was the empty seat where the President of the United States should have been. Donald Trump’s no-show at the World Cup final, while the Prince of Wales sat in full diplomatic pomp, wasn’t just a personal snub. It was a stark reminder of how the UK, despite its shrinking global footprint, still commands a central role in the world’s most popular sport.
For the working families in Manchester, Liverpool, and Glasgow who crowd around pub televisions or huddle over streams on cracked phones, the World Cup is a rare piece of affordable global theatre. The price of a ticket might be beyond reach, but the match itself is a shared inheritance. And that inheritance is British. Football’s modern rules were codified in a London pub. Its global governing body, FIFA, still speaks a dialect of English. The Premier League, with its foreign ownership and eye-watering ticket prices, may have drifted away from the terraces of my youth. But its product is the global gold standard.
So when the US President decides to skip the tournament, it’s not just a diplomatic pout. It’s an admission that America’s soft power stops at the 50-yard line. The UK, meanwhile, still wields a disproportionate influence. Prince William’s presence as FIFA president of the English FA wasn’t just ceremonial. It was a symbol of the ‘real economy’ of sport: the billions in broadcasting rights, the sponsorship deals that flow through London, the agents and lawyers who negotiate contracts over expense-account lunches in the City.
But let’s not kid ourselves. This influence is built on a fragile foundation. The same globalisation that made the Premier League a cash machine has also hollowed out the grassroots. I’ve stood on windswept pitches in Sunderland and seen the dreams of young lads evaporate because the local leisure centre was closed and the Sunday league team couldn’t afford a new kit. While the FA officials dine with royalty, the cost of a pair of boots has gone up 20% in two years. The ‘beautiful game’ is becoming an expensive luxury.
Trump’s absence, though, is a moment to pause and think about what we value. The World Cup final is a rare moment of shared national pride. It’s the one event where the colour of your postcode doesn’t matter as much as the colour of your shirt. And if the President of the United States thinks that’s not worth his time, then maybe he doesn’t understand what binds people together in a fractured world.
For the UK, this is a call to action. We can’t just rest on the laurels of our sporting history. We need to invest in the pitches, the coaches, and the access that allow a kid from a council estate to dream of playing on a stage like the Lusail Stadium. Otherwise, the empty seat at the final won’t just be a symbol of a diplomatic spat. It will be a sign of a nation that has lost its grip on the very game it gave to the world.
