Whose Game Is It Now.

There is an old understanding that sits quietly beneath every great sporting contest. Players agree to compete within the rules. Officials agree to apply them fairly. Supporters accept victory and defeat because they trust the contest itself. Every tackle, every goal and every controversial decision only matters because everyone involved believes the competition is fundamentally honest.

That trust is the most valuable thing in world sport. It is worth more than broadcasting rights, sponsorship agreements or sold-out stadiums because all of those depend upon it.

For most of its history FIFA understood this. It certainly did not always live up to the ideal, but it recognised that its authority rested upon the belief that it existed to protect football rather than itself. Watching the 2026 World Cup, however, it was difficult to avoid the feeling that the relationship has begun to reverse. The tournament was magnificent. The football was compelling, the audiences enormous and the commercial returns unprecedented. Gianni Infantino declared it the greatest World Cup ever staged, and on those measurements he may well be right. Yet another story unfolded around the edges of the tournament.

Donald Trump became an unusually visible presence throughout the competition, culminating in his appearance on the presentation podium as medals were awarded and the trophy lifted. The symbolism mattered. FIFA has always worked alongside governments. It cannot stage tournaments of this scale without them. But there is a difference between cooperating with political leaders and appearing eager to share their stage.

The distinction may seem cosmetic until one remembers that FIFA's statutes continue to speak the language of political neutrality. That neutrality looked increasingly difficult to reconcile with events elsewhere during the tournament. Questions were raised after reports that political intervention contributed to the lifting of Folarin Balogun's suspension. Whether or not that single decision changed the outcome of a match is almost beside the point. UEFA's unusually public criticism reflected something larger. Football can survive disputed refereeing decisions. It is far less comfortable if supporters begin believing that influence, rather than process, determines outcomes. The Balogun episode was not the story. It was simply a glimpse through the curtain.

For years FIFA's critics concentrated on corruption, questionable bidding processes and allegations of bribery. Those scandals remain part of its history, but they no longer feel like the defining issue. Modern FIFA has become something rather different. It is one of the world's most influential sporting institutions, presiding over an event capable of attracting governments, sovereign wealth, multinational corporations and billions of viewers. It no longer merely governs football. It convenes power. There are obvious advantages in that position. Governments provide security, infrastructure, immigration arrangements and public investment. Sponsors underwrite enormous costs. Broadcasters finance a spectacle on a scale the game has never seen before. Everybody receives something of value. The difficulty comes when proximity begins to resemble dependency.

Institutions rarely surrender their independence in dramatic moments. They usually do so through a succession of entirely reasonable decisions. An exception here. A special relationship there. A commercial partnership that makes financial sense despite awkward ethical questions. A political friendship presented as practical necessity. Eventually those decisions stop feeling exceptional. They become culture. Perhaps the most revealing part of this story has less to do with FIFA than with the people who make football possible in the first place.

Supporters are routinely described as the heart of the game. Every promotional campaign celebrates their passion. Every television montage lingers on faces painted in national colours, families travelling across continents and strangers embracing after late goals. Football sells emotion because emotion is its greatest asset.

Yet supporters occupy almost no meaningful place within FIFA's governance. Broadcasters have influence. Sponsors have influence. Governments certainly have influence. Member associations elect the president and shape the organisation's future. The people filling the stadiums possess remarkably little voice in the institution that depends upon them. Instead, they are asked for something else. Loyalty.

Football expects supporters to remain faithful through disappointing seasons, disputed refereeing decisions and rising ticket prices. Players are taught sportsmanship from childhood: respect the officials, accept defeat with dignity, play fairly and honour the game. Those are admirable principles. One wonders why they appear to apply more consistently to players and supporters than to some of the institutions charged with protecting the sport.

This is not an argument that FIFA has become uniquely corrupt or uniquely political. Elite sport has never existed in isolation from either money or power. Every generation believes it has discovered the moment innocence was lost. That is probably nostalgia talking. The more interesting question is whether FIFA still sees itself primarily as the guardian of football or whether it increasingly sees football as the vehicle through which FIFA exercises its own influence. Those are not the same thing.

The difference matters because trust, once spent, is difficult to replenish. Football supporters are routinely told they are the game's greatest asset. The phrase appears in speeches, promotional campaigns and anniversary videos. Yet assets are things organisations own, not people to whom they are accountable.

FIFA has become extraordinarily successful at converting the loyalty of supporters into revenue, spectacle and political influence. It has become less convincing at demonstrating that the loyalty flows both ways. Perhaps that is what has changed under Gianni Infantino. FIFA no longer asks supporters to trust it because it is independent. It asks them to trust it because the World Cup is simply too magnificent to question.

For now, millions appear willing to accept the bargain. Stadiums remain full. Television audiences continue to break records. The sponsors keep signing.

But every sporting institution ultimately depends upon one thing that cannot be purchased or negotiated: the belief that the competition belongs to the game rather than to those who govern it.

Once supporters begin to doubt that, no amount of commercial success can quite replace what has been lost.