Patrick Comerford
At the outset, as my own personal protest against the state of politics in Trump’s USA and the ways he and it are infecting, devouring and destabilising the world, I decided not to watch any 2026 FIFA World Cup matches broadcast from the US, although I was watching games played in the two other co-host nations, Canada and Mexico.
Donald Trump and Gianni Infantino, a pair of presidents, have come to embody everything that is wrong about this year’s competition. From the beginning, right up to its end this evening, this World Cup has been a complete disaster, one shambles after another. There has been nothing but one litany after another of controversies, from FIFA’s ticket pricing, to entertaining Trump’s political meddling, along with logistical and environmental problems, cost over-runs, disgraceful abuses of human rights and displays of ugly and unchecked racism.
Harsh US immigration and visa restrictions have targetted players, officials, journalists, referees and fans from several nations. A travel ban blocked fans from Haiti, Iran, Ivory Coast, and Senegal attending matches in the US, the Iraqi striker Aymen Hussein was detained for seven hours on his arrival, and the Somali referee Omar Artan was denied entry to the US.
Trump wanted FIFA to give Iran’s place to Italy, and threatened that the safety of the Iranian team could not be guaranteed. That failed to stop Iran, but Iran’s team was forced to relocate its training base from Tucson, Arizona, to Tijuana, Mexico, they constantly bullied and harassed each time they played in the US, the team’s ticket allocation was revoked, and many of the coaching and administrative staff were denied visas.
It was clear Infantino was never going to make good on his pledge that ‘any team, including the supporters and officials of that team, who qualify for a World Cup need to have access to the country, otherwise there is no World Cup.’ But then this is the same man who presented a newly-invented ‘FIFA Peace Prize’ to Trump last December – whoever thought he would want signs of peace and goodwill at this World Cup?
The national teams from Senegal and Uzbekistan faced unusually strict security checks when they arrived in the US, including individual body searches, the Uruguay national team complained if excessive security checks, and security personnel in Atlanta searched Egyptian fans but not Argentinian fans. In Arlington, Texas, ahead of Egypt’s match against Australia, a Dallas police officer pushed Egypt’s assistant coach and other members of the Egyptian delegation.
Spanish-speaking reporters have been asked by FIFA moderators to use English and their questions have often been turned away, even though Spanish is one of FIFA’s seven official languages, Mexico, one of the three co-hosts, is the world's most populous Spanish-speaking country, and two countries in the final this evening are Spanish-speaking.
FIFA officials have been accused of making racist and white supremacy gestures. At the match between Paraguay and France, a former Paraguay goalkeeper José Luis Chilavert referred to France as ‘a squad from Africa’, Paraguayan senator Celeste Amarilla made widely condemned racist comments in which she mocked Kylian Mbappé’s background and education.
Folarin Balogun’s red card and automatic one-match suspension ought to have ruled him out of the US match against Belgium. But Trumpphoned a friend, intervened directly with Infantino and then rejoiced that due to his special pleading FIFA had ‘made the right decision’. Belgium and UEFA condemned FIFA’s decision. That alone put an end to my personal boycott. I joined the world in watching and rejoicing when Belgium defeated the US.
I watched England’s defeat by Argentina on Wednesday night in the Old George in Stony Stratford, and I stayed up late last night at home to watch England’s 6-4 win over France in the third place play-off, a truly memorable match.
But my memories of this year’s World Cup are going to be distinctively different from my memories of the World Cup final 60 years ago in 1966.
It was a weekend in July, I was in my teens, it was summer, and it was 30 July 1966. It was the year Ireland had gone over the top in marking the fiftieth anniversary of the Easter Rising in 1916.
My parents had a real fear that I might fail Irish in the ‘Inter Cert’ the following year. Failing Irish at the time meant failing the full exam outright, and the consequences for families were dire: repeat the full year, which still provided no guarantee of success a second time; leave school and find an apprenticeship, which was never considered in a family such as mine; or being sent to England to a school such as Downside or Ampleforth.
Three of us were packed off to Ballinskelligs for a month to learn Irish. I boarded with cousins from Co Cork and learned much from them too; and when I returned home and was asked whether I had learned much Irish I answered smartly, ‘No, but I learned a lot about French, eh, French kissing.’
During that month in Coláiste Mhichíl, I also remember learning Irish dancing, boring evenings listening to the old seanachaí, reading Anne Frank’s Diaries and JD Sallinger’s Catcher in the Rye, having my first smoke, being challenged to go ‘skinny dipping’, and my first kiss.
I was the butt of some slight humour – but all in good taste – because of what must have been a tinge of an English accent at the time. On the other hand, I remember feeling negative about that year’s commemorations of the Easter Rising in 1916. If Irish colleges were about shaping national identity then, despite my age, I realised already some people wanted to classify me as an outsider.
There was no doubt on Saturday afternoon, 30 July 1966, who I was going to support in the World Cup Final. The main adventure that weekend was finding a place to watch it. Ballinskelligs was then a remote part of Kerry, it was not only part of the Gaeltacht, but it was ‘single-channel land’ and – even then – there were few homes there with a television, and we were never going to risk being caught in a pub at that age.
Two first cousins, Dick and Tom Barrett from Millstreet, Co Cork, came up with a cunning plan. They knew some nuns from the Presentation convent in Millstreet who were staying in Saint Michael’s Convent, the nuns’ summer house above the beach in Ballinskelligs. There we would be hidden safely from anyone listening out for any teenagers at the summer college risking to speak English, to say nothing about cheering on the English football team.
Not only did the nuns welcome us, and allow us to monopolise the one television in their best room, but they even brought in biscuits, cake and soft drinks to keep us fuelled for the afternoon. For us, that alone was almost more memorable than Geoff Hurst’s hat-trick and England’s controversial third goal – did it go over the line fully?
England had a 4-2 win over West Germany after extra time. It was the first and only time that England hosted or won the World Cup and it remains England’s last final in a major international football tournament, and still is England’s only World Cup final to date.
We stayed right through to see Bobby Moore receiving the cup and the team receiving their medals.
We were not watching alone. The British television audience peaked at 32.3 million viewers, making it Britain’s most-watched television event ever.
When I returned in August after a month in Ballinskelligs, my parents never showed any evidence they had received any reports of my independent behaviour. And, yes, I passed Irish in the ‘Inter Cert’ the following year – albeit a pass on a pass paper – and went on to finish the ‘Leaving Cert’ in 1969 at Gormanston College, Co Meath.
I can still remember with joy, delight and glee, England’s first, and so far only, World Cup title back in 1966. As I wait for this evening’s World Cup final between Spain and Argentina, I know which team I am disappointed is not playing tonight.
I do not particularly want to see tonight’s half-time show, which is nothing less that the Americanisation and commercialisation of the game. But I going to be eager to see how uncomfortable Trump is as he finds himself sitting beside the Spanish Prime Minister, Pedro Sanchez, the western politician he seems to dislike most, and hopefully to see Trump squirm as he presents the World Cup to Spain too.
And I shall be smiling too as I recall teenage memories of that summer afternoon in July 60 years ago.
