مدير عام كرة القدم
EAST RUTHERFORD, N.J. – No one really knows who Robbie Williams is in America. But the English singer appeared here all the same on Sunday, clad in a white spangled suit, singing a tune no one knew, the lyrics of which didn’t really make sense. He was soon joined by Laura Pausini, the Italian popstar who is equally unknown in the U.S.
They sang about "overcoming fury" and "love in slow mo."
Their confusing performance perfectly summarized what was a curious and often baffling vibe surrounding the Club كأس العالم final at MetLife Stadium. FIFA president Gianni Infantino pitched this competition as a wonderful collision of the world, different parts of cultures handpicked and meshed together in the melting pot of America – kind of like, well, a World Cup.
And in theory, that should work. PSG and Chelsea are both European powers. They have met eight times in the Champions League over the years, including two straight seasons from 2014-2016. Just five weeks ago, the Parisians beat Inter to become Champions of Europe. Putting these two on the same pitch and allowing them to play football – with the fat trimmed off – should work in isolation.
But take a tournament in his gestation period, still finding its feet in a country still formulating its soccer passion, and the result can feel forced, overdone, even a little silly at times. Such was the case with this Club World Cup final: a mixture of everything – different cultures, different stimuli, different teams, different people, different music, different cultures – colliding together in an awkward manner.
EAST RUTHERFORD, N.J. – No one really knows who Robbie Williams is in America. But the English singer appeared here all the same on Sunday, clad in a white spangled suit, singing a tune no one knew, the lyrics of which didn’t really make sense. He was soon joined by Laura Pausini, the Italian popstar who is equally unknown in the U.S.
They sang about “overcoming fury” and “love in slow mo.”
Their confusing performance perfectly summarized what was a curious and often baffling vibe surrounding the Club World Cup final at MetLife Stadium. FIFA president Gianni Infantino pitched this competition as a wonderful collision of the world, different parts of cultures handpicked and meshed together in the melting pot of America – kind of like, well, a World Cup.
And in theory, that should work. PSG and Chelsea are both European powers. They have met eight times in the Champions League over the years, including two straight seasons from 2014-2016. Just five weeks ago, the Parisians beat Inter to become Champions of Europe. Putting these two on the same pitch and allowing them to play football – with the fat trimmed off – should work in isolation.
But take a tournament in his gestation period, still finding its feet in a country still formulating its soccer passion, and the result can feel forced, overdone, even a little silly at times. Such was the case with this Club World Cup final: a mixture of everything – different cultures, different stimuli, different teams, different people, different music, different cultures – colliding together in an awkward manner.
Penn Station was crowded. This is, effectively, the unofficial hub of the Club World Cup, the train station in midtown Manhattan that has mainlined tens of thousands of fans to MetLife Stadium nine times this summer. On previous occasions, it has been blessed with the roars of Palmeiras fans, the chant of Fluminense supporters flooding it ahead of the semifinals, and the chatter of the ريال مدريد faithful.
On a debilitatingly humid Sunday afternoon, though, it was simply chaos. One supporter in Chelsea blue was hurried down a thronged staircase, and remarked, to no one in particular, that “it can’t be the only way” to the train – such was the clash of bodies down a narrow passage.
The train ride, an awkward journey that requires one change at the dull concrete of Secaucus junction, was even more packed, a mixture of confused day-trippers unaware there was a soccer match to worry about, Chelsea fans, and a handful of very vocal Fluminense support, having presumably bought a ticket to the final assuming that their side would beat the London club in the semifinals.
Their chatter brought some noise that was otherwise lacking pre-match.
The globalization of the tournament was clear on the ride, though. This tournament was meant to have global appeal, and it was certainly thriving. One Chelsea supporter was traveling from nearby Long Island. He had paid a “not bad” $240 for tickets in the second level of the bowl. Another had saved up his credit card points to watch his first football match in the متحد States (he is a مانشستر يونايتد fan).
Coronas, water and more Coronas were on offer. At least, that’s what the lady yelling in Spanish insisted. The parking lot vibe was always going to be awkward. Neither club has a history of tailgating like the 90,000 fans who show up to watch an NFL game at this stadium – home of both the New York Jets and the New York Giants – or barbecuing like so many South American supporters who have shown up throughout the tournament. Instead, it was a cultural collision of sorts. Fans flooded off the train.
Hopeful fruit sellers waited for takers. A man in a Fluminense shirt stood around wearing a wizard’s hat for no apparent reason. Unofficial Chelsea headware was flogged (“normally $25, but for you, my friend, $20,” BALLGM was informed). A South American financial company, Grupo Promerica, handed flyers out promising “experiencias fenomenas.”
Everything else was rather subdued. The faint thud of Parisian drums from the 500 PSG ultras that had made the trip could be heard from outside the stadium as kickoff approached. But otherwise, there was still a distinct Americanness about it all. The move to the stadium was less of a march and more of a stroll. There was little urgency to be found. That signature pre-match buzz that so often defines big games was lacking.
There was a fair share of uncertainty as to how packed the stadium would be before the game kicked off. New Jersey governor Phil Murphy promised a sellout just a few days before kickoff. A PSG spokesperson guaranteed 500 ultras from France, 1,000 followers from academies and fan clubs, and “lots of local supporters backing our team.”
But.
The Parisian support occupied only a tiny pocket of the stadium. Otherwise, there was a remarkable pro-Chelsea contingent, despite the club referring queries about fan attendance to FIFA. And they all gathered to see a baffling pre-match ritual.
A giant replica of the CWC trophy was shuffled onto the field. A drum line accompanied it, as did blow-up badges of the two clubs playing. U.S. President Donald Trump was said to be attending, and indeed he showed up just before the Williams’ pre-game performance, scowling and cheering from a box high in the stands, Infantino by his side. This isn’t, you’d imagine, Mr. President’s kind of fun.
And then Williams showed up to sing. There was some polite applause from the English fans in the crowd, but those in attendance seemed largely anxious as the pre-match rituals dragged on and on. The individual introductions, which require long walks across from the temporary tunnel to the opposite dugout near the two benches, were greeted with far less enthusiasm than they were at the start of the tournament, despite the fact that legendary boxing announcer Michael Buffer belted each name with gusto. “Let’s get ready to rumble!”
The box office was still open before the match, and it seemed there were still a few empty seats dotted around the concrete bowl as the whistle blew.
The redeeming factor, in all of this, was that – somewhat surprisingly – the two sides played out a remarkably compelling football match. PSG had just beaten Real Madrid, 4-0, in the semifinal, and were favorites by some distance to replicate a similar kind of romp. Their manager, Luis Enrique, had insisted before the match that Chelsea shouldn’t be taken lightly – and it turns out he was correct in his summation.
The Blues battered PSG for 45 minutes. Cole Palmer was terrific throughout, dropping into pockets of space and finding all sorts of deadly angles in and around the box. He should have scored after eight minutes, but found only side netting. Still, Chelsea pressed on.
He didn’t miss on the second time of asking, though, tucking a tidy pass into the corner on 22 minutes. They continued to play stellar football, Palmer providing a near carbon copy to make it two, before a delightful chip from new signing Joao Pedro saw them head into half time leading 3-0.
The Chelsea fans were in full voice by then, a cacophonous chant “Let’s go Chelsea!” echoing around the humid concrete bowl. The Parisians, usually so disciplined in their press and energized in their football, went flat. Their ultras fell largely silent.
And they rather strolled through the second half, too. If the first was an attacking display of the highest order, the second was a fine defensive rear-guard showing. They had less of the ball, but were content to defend. And the fans were happy to defend with them, too, applauding every tackle and shouting at every clearance. Their side were deserved winners here, and they knew it.
Of course, there had to be a half time show mixed in. This is what happens in big game American sports.
It was a largely confusing affair. It wanted to be a Super Bowl, it appeared, but didn’t quite know how to live up to that standard. FIFA had promised in a statement before the game that “football and music superstars to deliver nonstop spectacle at FIFA Club World Cup Final.”
Chris Martin of Coldplay was the man supposedly in charge of piecing it all together, and after a scan of his contacts, offered a mashup of a show featuring Tems, J Balvin and Doja Cat. The result was an agreeable 10 minutes – but one in which fans mostly filed out of their seats and made for the shade.
J Balvin danced on a platform on the third level of the bowl. Tems lip-synced admirably. Doja Cat appeared wearing Crystal Palace colors and sang, while a giant soccer ball floated behind her on a massive screen. There was time for one big final flush, too, as Coldplay popped up to sing “Sky Full of Stars.” Nine minutes into the show, and it was the one thing that seemed to actually get people moving.
It did little to reinforce the notion that football is made for half-time entertainment. Perhaps unremarkable was the best outcome – especially given that even a majority American crowd seemed disinterested.
As the full time whistle blared, and Chelsea’s players collapsed to the pitch in exasperation, the stadium around them rose. There was emotion from both sides, Luis Enrique was involved in a shoving match with Pedro – who fell rather dramatically on his back after the faintest of touches.
But oddly, it gave the whole thing some color. The game, to be sure, had been a hugely watchable occasion, but the spectacle around it has been baffling, a confusing collection of colliding visual imagery.
“There’s a lot of tension, a lot of pressure, and a whole bunch of pushing that was going on,” Enrique said. “My intention was to avoid any type of situation getting worse, that was my goal.”
The whole thing just felt weird. Having some sort of traditional aggro was familiar territory to ground it in – even if it came after the final whistle.
There were some further antics. The trophy lift was almost as garish as the opening ceremony, a collection of gold and oversized flags. Chelsea’s players, now donning “World Champions 2025” kits, looked happy enough to be there. Of course, there was a presidential appearance. Trump took the field to loud boos from the crowd, and handed out medals, one-by-one to winning and losing teams. Cole Palmer was visibly baffled at shaking Trump’s hand after earning the Golden Ball Award.
And there was one final flourish, Trump standing there, grinning and clapping, alongside Chelsea as they lifted the trophy, a baffling end of a fever dream of a tournament, a chaotic final that – despite trying so, so hard to be a sporting spectacle – simply fell short.
