World cup

Times have been good for Fifa under president Gianni Infantino. It pulled off the largest-ever World Cup this summer, with the organisation’s revenue growing to $15 billion: three times what it was when Infantino took over a decade ago. Yet, ask most football fans their opinion of this most successful of Fifa chiefs and their verdict is unanimously scathing. He’s everyone’s favourite pantomime villain; the Blofeld of the Beautiful Game.  It’s not hard to see why in recent months. For Infantino, football is a means to an end. He courted Donald Trump by giving him the freshly invented ‘Fifa Peace Prize’ in December and, during the tournament, reportedly suspended American striker Folarin Balogun’s red card after a phone call from the US President.

There is something intimidating about sporting royalty in the stands. At many great clubs, retired legends seem almost gargoyle-like, perched high above the pitch, judging those sent to inherit their legacy. Manchester United have long played beneath the watchful gaze of Sir Alex Ferguson; other clubs have their own ghosts. Spain’s World Cup triumph offered a different spectacle. As the Spanish greats of the past – from David Villa to Iker Casillas – watched Lamine Yamal, Rodri and co defeat reigning champions Argentina, they resembled something more saintly; a reassuring reminder of Spanish supremacy. It was a far cry from the shaking head of Ronaldo watching yet another Brazilian disappointment or protestations of England’s World Cup alumni.

In the regretful days that followed England’s World Cup exit last week, a video was played on repeat on social media. Someone had edited red and white into greyscale over a clip of England’s footballers linking arms and swaying, singing along to Oasis’s ‘Wonderwall’.  At this tournament it became a tradition. England won a game, then a few more. The pundits finally fell silent. Ian Wright or Gary Neville whispered: ‘Drink it in.’ That famous guitar started up; the camera panned along the players’ line. We all knew the opening words: ‘Today is gonna be the day…’ No more ‘Sweet Caroline’. ‘Three Lions’ was played but the crowd only cursorily joined in.

Tonight, Lionel Messi will walk out for his third World Cup final at 39 years old. Should Argentina beat Spain, they will be the first side to retain the trophy since Brazil in 1962, and the case for Messi as the greatest player of all time will be closed for good. As a self-respecting Englishman, I will not be cheering for Argentina after Wednesday’s depressing semi-final. I’ll be silently supporting Messi for a very different reason. At 5ft 7in, he represents a victory for the least pitied disadvantaged group: the vertically challenged man.  Back in 2022, TikTok was awash with videos hailing ‘short king spring’: a trend celebrating the rise (no pun intended) of famous men under 5ft 8in.

Football is fond of superlatives. Before this World Cup, column inches dwelt on its excess. Tickets were the priciest ever; there would be the most matches, the most teams, the most players. Amid the noise, many adopted that phrase favoured by Sunday League managers after a 9-0 drubbing: all we wanted was for football to be ‘the real winner’. Let the games begin.  We have been vindicated. The football has delivered and the hyperbole has quietened into background babble. But what could not have been expected was just how good it has been. Ahead of the tournament, naysayers implied it was already a damp squib. Fifa’s greed in expanding the number of participants to 48 from 32 would see each mismatch become a farce. England would sweep past DR Congo.

There is something luxurious about the group stage of a World Cup. Gone is the waiting. Gone the fill-inch columns about arcane details of squad selection. Gone the faux-humanitarian pearl-clutching about global sport events being a massive waste of time and money. Gone the moaning about the scheduling. Just stay up late; it’s actually quite fun. For now, here we are, with the glorious, technicolour feast. Goals left, right and centre. None of the quotidian misery of a goalless draw on a rainy Tuesday night in Stoke. Now it is the sun-soaked rush of national anthems, heroes, villains and  – most of all – a goal fest aided by defences that barely know each other from Adam. Matches that you’d never before think twice about – Uzbekistan vs Colombia at 3 a.m.