Under the bright lights and booming theatrics of the newly expanded Club World Cup’s opening night, the contrast between glitz and substance could not have been more stark. The pre-match ceremony at Miami’s Hard Rock Stadium dazzled: fire, music, vibrant choreography, and a touch of unhinged enthusiasm everything engineered to stir excitement. It worked. The crowd was buzzing long before a ball was kicked. But when the football started, what followed was a largely directionless and underwhelming match that exposed the hollowness of the spectacle.
Inter Miami, led by the ageing Lionel Messi, could only stumble to a scoreless draw against a spirited but wasteful Al Ahly. The Egyptian side created several early chances, including a missed penalty, while Miami’s disjointed play suggested a group of individuals still figuring out the concept of teamwork. Messi, though a shadow of his prime self, still managed to offer fleeting glimpses of brilliance. In the second half, there were moments subtle turns, pinpoint passes, half-chances conjured from thin air that reminded everyone of who he was, and perhaps still could be. But they were only moments, ephemeral and fleeting.
What made the night resonate, however, wasn’t just the mediocre football. It was the sense that something cherished was being paraded and sold, manipulated for profit and power. The Club World Cup, now a bloated 32-team affair, felt less like a competition and more like a vehicle a platform for branding, for geopolitical leverage, and for the indulgences of those pulling the strings. Messi, a living symbol of footballing artistry, seemed less a participant and more a prop, wheeled out to lend credibility to the circus.
The spectacle outside the pitch was vibrant, almost too perfect. Americans turned out in force, drawn by Messi’s magnetism and the promise of a grand event. The stadium was full, the production polished, and the crowd eager. Yet the heart of it the football felt flat, a replica of the passion and unpredictability the sport thrives on.
There was a deep irony in seeing this take place in Miami, a city of lights and showmanship, where everything sparkles but not everything shines. Messi’s presence drew awe, but also sadness. Watching him drift across the field, one could feel both the genius still within and the weight of the artifice surrounding him. This wasn’t the beautiful game at its best. It was football commodified, nostalgia repackaged, and magic diluted an empty spectacle dressed in the garb of greatness.
