There is a reason the World Cup is the most important sporting event in the world, watched by billions every four years. There is a reason the Premier League is the standard for global marketing and appeal. There is a reason soccer is called the beautiful game. There is nothing like the tension and drama of boiling down months, sometimes years, of preparation into ninety minutes of action where every goal means everything.
Ask anybody from Brazil where they were on July 8, 2014. They’ll remember. It was the day that the Brazilian national team were smashed 7-1 by Germany in the World Cup semifinals, in their own home stadium no less. At face value, it was simply a loss in a game in a country that certainly has bigger things to worry about. But this loss stays with the nation, has become a part of its identity. Something about soccer touches the soul and sticks with you.
And that’s why yesterday’s news from the bustling town of Newcastle, England, is a massive blow to not only the world’s biggest sport, but sports and recreation in general. Newcastle Football Club, a proud old club dripping with history but still searching for modern success, was acquired by a new ownership group, most notable among them a representative of the Kingdom of Saudi Arabia.
This may not appear important, but the implications behind it for the future are massive. Saudi Arabia now owns 80 percent of Newcastle, allowing them to control the club’s decisions for the foreseeable future. This kind of takeover isn’t new for the Premier League, and that’s the problem: Roman Abramovich, a Russian multibillionaire and former governor of Chukotka, owns Chelsea Football Club, and the royal family of the U.A.E. owns Manchester City Football Club.
These owners pump money into the clubs and are responsible for the two teams’ massive success on the domestic and international stages, and the amount of money they are willing to give up often determines how well their respective club performs. Abramovic is worth somewhere north of 12 billion, and Sheikh Mansour, head of the royal family, is estimated around 22 billion. The Saudi family that just acquired Newcastle is worth three hundred billion, an amount that dwarfs even the Qatari ownership of Paris Saint Germain, the French powerhouse club that also benefits from foreign ownership.
This arrangement is very clearly a competitive advantage for these teams, and the debate over the impact of these conglomerates and monarchies funding massive player transfers and shiny new stadiums continues to rage. This reality reveals itself in two major ways: money allows clubs to improve infrastructure and weather economic storms far better than those that do not have the same resources, and it allows clubs to load their squads with the best players at every position, which would normally be a financial impossibility.
COVID ravaged most clubs around the world, even the notably successful and wealthy teams that typically dominate Europe—programs like Barcelona and Real Madrid. However, Chelsea and City have stayed remarkably stable. While thousands of clubs hemorrhaged funds trying to keep up with the loss of fans in seats, clubs like PSG simply asked for, and received, more money. Access to royal funds gives these teams unprecedented calm in the middle of a financial crisis.
The semifinals of the Champions League, the biggest international club competition in the world, consisted of Chelsea, Manchester City, Paris Saint Germain, and Red Bull Leipzig, a club owned by the corporate conglomerate Red Bull. This is not a good look for a tournament that prides itself on giving a stage to both the big and the small in Europe. More and more, domestic and international leagues are seeing teams that simply have more money, rather than those that are historically and potentially tactically superior, rise to the top.
More important than the competitive side, however, is the moral and ethical problem that these ownership groups raise. All these groups have one thing in common: oil. That’s where the money is, and that’s where their power comes from. Fans of rival teams have a clever name for supporters of these mega-clubs: plastics. This moniker is a clever play on their perceived fake fanhood, the image of a credit-card being swiped, and the fact that plastic itself is made from oil.
This oil isn’t always obtained in ethical ways, however, and the human-rights violations that stem from drilling oil are one of the biggest stains on modern football. Couple that with the questionable behavior of the governments in control of these clubs, and you’re presented with a situation that’s hard to defend. Ask women in Saudi Arabia how they really feel about the Saudi royal family, and then ask Newcastle supporters the same question. The fact that the answers are probably diametrically opposed is a glaring issue.
Soccer is still soccer. The electricity of a matchday in London is the same as it’s been for decades, and the spectacle of the sport itself might not ever die. But for every incredible goal and spectacular team move on the pitch, there’s an ethical dilemma waiting around the corner to dull the beauty. This is a problem that needs to be addressed, and the longer it goes unattended, the quicker English football, and as an extension soccer as a whole, inches towards its death.