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I keep thinking about that photo of Donald Trump and Cole Palmer, of course. It’s only been two days, but the image itself has the jarring, alternate-universe feeling of one that might be two or three decades older, like that weird photo of Diego Maradona in a Tottenham kit, or Mike Tyson wearing Scotland ‘98 home kit while pointing at someone and looking furious.
Cole Palmer shouldn’t have to know what Donald Trump is (“Who?”) and Donald Trump should never have met Cole Palmer (“Beautiful passer, wonderful passer. And the running—”). But two of the planet’s most curious animals meeting and touching hands is possibly the most fitting end to the Club World Cup we could have had.
EAST RUTHERFORD, NEW JERSEY - JULY 13: Reece James #24 of Chelsea FC holds the FIFA Club World Cup trophy after their team's victory as intereacts with U.S. President Donald Trump following the FIFA Club World Cup 2025 Final match between Chelsea FC and Paris Saint-Germain at MetLife Stadium on July 13, 2025 in East Rutherford, New Jersey. (Photo by David Ramos/Getty Images)David Ramos/Getty Images
The Club World Cup was weird, I think we can all agree that. One of the tournament’s stand-out players was a Real Madrid striker who Florentino Pérez has already forgotten, Estêvão Willian played his last game for Palmeiras by scoring against his new employers Chelsea and not really knowing what to do with his body afterwards, Fluminese fielded one of the oldest defences ever assembled and João Pedro watched half the tournament from the beach before scoring three goals in 153 minutes and lifting the trophy.
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The final saw arguably the next great team in the world get tactically outmanoeuvred by a manager whose position at his club is so doomed he may as well wake up to sniper lasers pointed at him. Chelsea have to wear a badge on their kit for four years because of this. Who was this for?
But I do think, quietly, we got a glimpse at the future of football, here, while a PSG side stood and gawped at a 24-minute halftime show featuring Doja Cat that floated above the pitch so as not to mess up the turf. From each player awkwardly walking out on his lonesome and MOTMs being re-named the catchy Michelob Ultra Superior Player of the Match to Michael “Let's get ready to rumble!” Buffer cameos and ticket prices wildly fluctuating from $4 to $4000+, the Club World Cup was a taste of what a North American World Cup is going to look like next year, and I do sort of think the crazed glamour of that tournament is going to change football forever. In a good way? Ah. Well. Ah.
USA ‘94 already gave us a little taste, of course: Diana Ross missing a penalty but still exploding the net in half, the agonising doom that followed Roberto Baggio around, having to know who Alexei Lalas was. But that was a different America, and the soccer-fication project has moved on. Miami has Messi, Wrexham have ‘Rob Mac’ and Ryan Reynolds, USMNT have Pochettino, and if you want to lose an afternoon of your life just go on any social media platform and say “Christian Pulisic? You mean that Chelsea reject?”, and the American fans will find you. They’ll find your address.
I’m excited, honestly. A few years ago I went to an MLS game – Nani’s first appearance for Orlando City against New York City FC, in case you were wondering, where even watching the ex-Man United winger walk down the channels showed you how much better he was than everyone else on the pitch – and it was fantastic. Everyone in the stadium was dressed in full Orlando-purple pomp, apart from a small enclave of sky blue NYCFC fans cheering at the back. The game was played in technicolour American summer sun, and you could actually see the pitch from the concourse. The beer and hot dog offerings were like a dream. America has honed the art of going to a stadium for a really long time and having a hell of an afternoon there because that’s all baseball really is, and I am excited to see them bring all this to the World Cup. Are half-time shows ‘proper football’? No. Is Gianni Infantino wearing white trainers with his suit ‘proper football’? No. I even have some qualms about the size and design of the trophy they gave them.
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But we probably have to just admit that our version of football – of ‘Barclaysmen’ and xG and going to the pub and just trying to name players who played for Blackburn once (“Youri Djorkaeff! Morten Gamst Pedersen!”) – is slipping away. The generation before us had to watch their pint-and-a-cig-and-play-on-a-broken-leg midfielders have to adjust to the gloss of the Premier League. And now we’ll have to watch Jack Grealish do two years in Saudi Arabia before winning whatever they’ll call the Ballon d’Or of the Baller League (my prediction is: ‘The Nando’s® Golden Cockerel’). Football has to appeal to people who spend money on FIFA Ultimate Team packs, and people whose only knowledge of China is from iShowSpeed clips, and 12-year-olds who have never actually seen Cristiano Ronaldo be good, but for some reason their favourite player is still Cristiano Ronaldo. And, of course, Americans. We’re done.
The future of football is Cole Palmer having to wait to take the World Cup-winning penalty kick while Andrew Schulz explains the rules of the shoot-out to Addison Rae. Get over it.