It ended almost as Gianni Infantino and Donald Trump had planned. Earlier on a seemingly endless World Cup final day, the trophy had, in a scene perfectly of a piece with the event’s excess, been let out of a Louis Vuitton trunk. Now they shuffled up to the podium together and presented it to a beaming Rodri, fumbling the moment slightly when Trump lingered for Spain’s team photo. After shrugging off anything resembling embarrassment they had made their exit, golden glitter sparkling on a bobbly pitch and the reverberations from a football event of unprecedented scale pulsing far beyond this concreted mini-state in New Jersey.
How to make sense of a heady, intoxicating, often deeply strange tournament that at once appeared totally welcoming and chillingly distant? It concluded with a disorientating fever dream beneath a bright blue American sky, football appearing a sideshow for much of the afternoon even if the game did not exactly help itself. Anyone straining for a parable could, if they wanted, take pleasure in Spain’s success. This was ultimately the triumph of a collective idea in a World Cup nurtured to indulge the cult of the individual.
