Bill Simons
Why do games matter?
Chuck Klosterman explained, “The reason I need sports in my life is that it’s the only aspect of my existence that I understand completely. It’s the only subject that fills me with confidence and gives me any sense of control.” He admitted he didn’t know what to do about North Korea. He didn’t fully grasp Moby Dick. Women baffled him. But if he met a stranger in an airport bar watching SportsCenter, he could talk for twenty minutes. Sport, he concluded, is the one idiom millions of Americans truly comprehend.
Sports do so many things. Often so pure and free of corruption or excuses, innocent games that morph into compelling reality shows that bring joy. Athletes still can tap their inner child as they learn little and large lessons of fair play. At its core sports dance free, an unfettered escape.
But, beware, games can punch tyrants in the gut. As Hitler, sat in his Berlin stadium in a funk, a Black man from Ohio, Jessie Owens, jumped long and flattened Hitler’s hate. Jackie Robinson demolished a wall of racism. Billie Jean King humbled a card-carrying chauvinist, making clear that women can do more than make blueberry pancakes. “Show me your ceiling – I want to break it!”
Some use sports to divide – us against the world. Nelson Mandela had other ideas. Rugby could bring bitter-ender whites and defiant Blacks together on a South African field. One game changed a nation.
This year has been a singular sports bonanza. America’s hockey teams lifted winter spirits. A long hapless hoops team, the Knicks, brought glee to a city whose brash identy had been long been division. “Hey, Vinnie, get outta my face!”
And there were hopes that the World Cup would be a sports lollapalooza like no other – Scots bringing joy to Boston. Norwegians rollicking in Times Square. Brazilians rocking in Jersey, and Americans dancing in streets from Philly to Seattle.
What a festival!
And America’s high-function team was a delight. Their leader quickly noted that all the white, brown and black faces on the team “looked like America.” Early on, Team USA was playing like savvy Euro vets or clever Argentines. Ecstatic fans sporting jolly red, white and blue costumes and grannies chanting “USA! USA!” dared to imagine host America could win the whole thing.
Could Mandela’s idea possibly be right? He told us, “Sport has the power to change the world. It has the power to inspire. It has the power to unite people in a way that little else does.”
From cornfields to Hollywood’s hills, “World Cup Fever” was a delightful unifying glue. Until it wasn’t.
A counter-narrative claimed sports needed to be confined to a narrow lane. Years ago, LeBron James was scolded, “Shut up and dribble.” Naomi Osaka was told to stick to her forehands – pleas for racial justice have no place in tennis. Goodness, don’t ask Aryna Sabalenka about her links to her Belarusian president, who backs Putin. And for heaven’s sake, don’t bring up that $200,000 she reportedly got from the guy.
American presidents have long loved sports. Eisenhower – golf. Kennedy – touch football. Obama – hoops. And Trump – everything. If it’s big, he’ll drop by. If it’s a huge SEC football game, he’ll come in the back way. At that Gold Medal Olympic hockey game, he’ll have his FBI chief chug some beers and then begrudgingly admit that he would risk impeachment if he didn’t bring the women’s Olympic gold medalists to the White House along with the men.
A UFC brawl on the White House lawn was good – Bad Bunny at the Super Bowl, not so much. The Knicks are soaring, so let’s clog mid-town, pass the fries, and pardon me, I’m going to take a nap.
As for tennis, he’ll drop by for the US Open final, as secret service agents turn the place into an armed camp – never mind that fans will be stuck in line for 90 minutes. Was it a shock when Ashe Stadium resounded with boos?
Maybe not. But it was stunning to see the cozy, power-adores-power bromance that President Trump forged with FIFA chief Gianni Infantino. FIFA has offices in the Trump Tower and Trump and Infantino hung out at the Mar-a-Lago Club, economic forums in Switzerland and Miami, at UFC fights, soccer matches, at the Gaza Peace Summit in Sharm El-Sheik, Egypt, and at the signing of the Abraham Accords.
Infantino’s 14 visits to the White House – where he gave the President a replica of the World Cup and FIFA’s first ever golden Peace Prize – invited chirpy critiques: “He’s been there more times than any Democrat. He should have his own bed in the Lincoln bedroom.”
Trump called Infantino, “probably the most respected man in sports.” Infantino said Trump should get the Nobel Peace Prize, and told the President, “You can always count on my support.”
So, it’s not surprising that, when America’s striker Folarin Balogun got a highly questionable red card that would have kept him out of the next game, against Belgium, Trump called FIFA boss to urge that the penalty be reviewed.
Never mind that the President said, “I understand sports really well, really well…[but] I don’t know what a red card is.” Never mind that there hadn’t been a red card reversal since 1962. And put aside that Africa’s leading soccer referee was banned from entering America, Senegalese players were stretched out flat on a North Carolina tarmac, Egyptians in the Dallas airport were shoved, and Iranians couldn’t lodge or practice in America.
There were other more pressing takeaways. Just a week ago, Trump, whose mother and wife were immigrants, raised his voice loud in opposition to birthright citizens, who, he asserted, “usually hate our country.”
But, hold on. Folarin Balogun, whose parents are Nigerian, was born in Brooklyn and grew up in England, is an American birthright citizen.
Trump’s intervention clearly motivated our Belgian foes, who, after scoring a crushing 4-1 victory, mocked Trump by dancing the Village People’s YMCA, which is the president’s trademark.
Some claimed Belgium’s win over the error-prone US team that seemed shell-shocked was both karmic and the latest example of a certain curse.
Trump went to his hometown Commanders NFL game, but the Lions won. Not far from his Palm Beach home, he went to the college football championship – but Indiana whipped Miami. At the 2025 Super Bowl, he pulled for Kansas City and the Eagles crushed them. He went to golf’s Ryder Cup on Long Island and Europe won. The Knicks game he went to was their only loss in a 16-game run. Fans were not pleased.
Internationally, soccer buffs felt the sky was falling. The game had been violated – it would never be the same.
In America, some suggested that Trump and FIFA were made for each other. Trump’s niece, Mary, a strident critic, said her uncle believes that, “You can win only if you cheat.”
Worse yet, the President’s call for the red card reversal undermined the entire premise of sports.
There’s an even playing field. Okay, sometimes it tilts a bit. Home field advantage, getting a seed, your start time, the luck of the draw, bad weather and bad calls often shake things up.
But the foundation of sports is sacred. Our games have rules. We play by them. May the best man win. If you win – celebrate. If you lose – accept defeat. Go home. Game over.
That’s why we so love our games. They’re fair, they reflect life and give us something unique – a gift that shouldn’t be messed with, even if you are the most powerful man in the world.
