History of the World Cup’

In the nearly century-long history of soccer’s greatest spectacle, the World Cup has remained the preserve of dictators, juntas, and autocrats who wanted to use the tournament for self-aggrandizement. Benito Mussolini turned the 1934 tournament in Italy into a fascist tournament. Argentina’s military rulers in 1978 used it as a propaganda weapon even as they were exterminating thousands of their own citizens. Vladimir Putin used the 2018 event to portray a normal situation in Russia while his forces supported the murderous regime in Syria.

Jonathan Wilson’s brilliant new history, Power and Gloryhe writes all this and more with detailed research and elegant prose that has made him, like World Cup fever author Simon Kuper says, the author through whom “most of what we know about the history of football we know.” This is the first major English language World Cup history since Brian Glanville The story of the World Cupversions that first came out in the 1970s, and have arrived in time for this year’s competition.

Jonathan Wilson’s brilliant new history, Power and Gloryhe writes all this and more with detailed research and elegant prose that has made him, like World Cup fever author Simon Kuper says, the author through whom “most of what we know about the history of football we know.” This is the first major English language World Cup history since Brian Glanville The story of the World Cupversions that first came out in the 1970s, and have arrived in time for this year’s competition.

Wilson’s theory is straightforward: Since its inception in 1930, “the World Cup has become a vehicle for more than soccer.” Wilson takes us through each tournament, revealing what each host reveals about themselves during the games. We learn how the victory of West Germany in 1954 “integrated” the country “into the international community” after World War II; how the so-called Soccer War of 1969 created tensions between El Salvador and Honduras that had been “increasing for many years”; and how Croatia’s semi-final game in 1998 filled the young nation with a new sense of confidence.

The book is full of vivid characters, from the visionary Jules Rimet (FIFA’s longest-serving president) to the museum of subsequent FIFA leaders. There is the Brazilian João Havelange, “the son of an arms dealer,” under whose protection “a certain financial guilt disappeared.” And there is Sepp Blatter, whose reign ended in disgrace after 2015 to be arrested at the Baur au Lac hotel in Zurich. Wilson is unreserved in his disdain for the corruption and mismanagement that has plagued FIFA, from the brown envelopes of the Havelange era to the more modern forms of influence that made the Qatar 2022 bid a success.

But Wilson also understands that for all the curiosity of its organizers, the World Cup holds the global imagination. FIFA claims 1.4 billion people watched the 2022 final. “(E)ven if the exact number is questionable,” Wilson says, “it is the most watched event in the world.” The book celebrates the transgressive moments that have kept fans coming back: Pele’s emergence as a 17-year-old in 1958, Diego Maradona’s revenge on the gaucho in the quarter-final against England in 1986, Brazil’s jubilant 1970 campaign that Wilson says was “the most spectacular spectacle.”

Time and again, players have saved the tournament from the shameful behavior of its hosts. The beauty on the field has redeemed the ugliness in the boardrooms and on the platforms. This is the through line that gives Wilson’s narrative its moral architecture.

Which brings us to 2026, and to a unique challenge facing football’s premier show. Every dictator who has ever used the World Cup—Mussolini, the Argentine generals, Putin—had a vested interest in the game. They understood the power of soccer because they felt its appeal themselves. They wanted to be associated with victory because they knew what victory meant to their people.

Donald Trump is something completely different. He has shown no real passion for the game or its traditions. What he does have is an insatiable appetite for attention, a compulsion to indulge in any eye-catching spectacle. In this sense, he is less Mussolini than the man known online as Salt Bae—the celebrity chef who crashed Argentina’s celebrations after the 2022 cup final in Doha, harassing Lionel Messi for photos and stomping on the trophy while the real champions tried to enjoy their moment.

The images from Doha were very unusual: Messi trying to escape the clutches of Salt Bae, the faces of the players showing their exasperation at this player who contributed nothing to their victory but claimed to share in his glory. It was, everyone agreed, the perfect epitome of the social media age’s paradox of intimacy and success.

Now imagine that power magnified to the level of a head of state, with all the resources of the US government. That is what football is facing in 2026.

We’ve already had a preview. In December, FIFA president Gianni Infantino presented Trump with the first FIFA Peace Prize – an award that did not exist until Infantino invented it, seen as a consolation prize after Trump failed to win the Nobel. The celebration was surprising in its symmetry: Infantino to be praised “Trump’s unwavering commitment to promote peace and unity” less than 24 hours after the Trump administration carried out another deadly airstrike in the Caribbean.

In Infantino, the game has found a leader of extraordinary invertebrates. He has not only welcomed Trump; he has humiliated himself and his organization by seeking Trump’s favor. He gave Trump a replica of the Club World Cup trophy to display in the Oval Office. He remained on stage with Trump after the Club World Cup final, leaving the US president to enjoy the fireworks with the real winners. He is reported spent more face-to-face time with Trump in 2025 than any other world leader.

Wilson’s book reminds us that FIFA has always been a “profit-oriented” organization. But even by Havelange and Blatter’s standards, Infantino’s engagement with Trump represents a new low. The men who ran FIFA in the past may have been corrupt, but at least they maintained a pretense of institutional respectability. Infantino has replaced that status with access and attention.

The 2026 tournament will be played against several incidents of Immigration and Customs Enforcement raids, extreme heat caused by climate change, and a host whose leader will treat every match as an opportunity to promote himself. Fans from certain countries cannot attend due to visa restrictions. Others may stay away from the options, deterred by the political toxicity of Trump’s America.

And yet, if Wilson’s history teaches us anything, it’s that players will find a way to redeem the competition. They always have. The magic of Messi’s Argentina in Qatar survived the human rights abuses of the Qatari regime and the attention of Salt Bae. In 1978, Argentine superstars Mario Kempes and Osvaldo Ardiles overshadowed their country’s brutal dictator, Jorge Rafael Videla—for at least 90 minutes at a time.

In 2026, players will bear a greater burden than usual. They will have to compete not only against their opponents on the field but against the circus of ego and spectacle that Trump will create around them. They’ll have to remind us why we fell in love with this game in the first place—and why it’s more important than the scammers who want to exploit it.

Wilson ends his book with a message of great hope. The World Cup “survived Mussolini and the Argentine junta, it survived the indifference of the British and João Havelange, it survived the scandals of Russia and Qatar, and it will also survive Mohammed bin Salman and Gianni Infantino.”

One hopes he is right—and that the beautiful game will prove more enduring than the menacing desires of the men who would claim it as theirs.