SPORTS

The pompously titled Fifa Peace Prize – a bauble no one had heard of until five minutes before it was bestowed – found its way, by a celestial coincidence absolutely no one will examine too closely, straight into the hands of Donald J Trump.

Not even the most wide-eyed intern in the Kennedy Center could have mistaken it for an honour earned through sober consideration. The entire spectacle looked less like a global sporting institution recognising statesmanship and more like a fan club presenting its president with a commemorative tea towel.

Gianni Infantino, ever eager to audition as master of ceremonies for the Trump Restoration, welcomed his patron with the breathless enthusiasm of a man convinced that history had been waiting for this precise moment to applaud. “This is your peace prize,” he declared with a flourish that suggested he half-expected heavenly trumpets to sound. Alas, only the stage lights flickered, casting an orange glow across a president who already brings his own.

The trophy itself, perched on a plinth and emblazoned with “DONALD J TRUMP” as though in case he forgot who he was, could have been lifted straight from the prop room of a reality show. A golden globe resting on outsized golden hands – a detail that struck some observers as a touch on-the-nose. Subtlety, as ever, had been left at the door.

Infantino, determined that no opportunity for flattery should go unseized, presented not only the statuette but also a medal “to wear everywhere you want”. And wear it Trump did, hastily looping it round his neck with the eagerness of a man convinced he might yet appear on Mount Rushmore if he simply accumulates enough shiny objects.

The audience – a mixture of diplomats, sports executives and the sort of Washington socialites who can never resist an open bar – gamely applauded. It was, after all, the inaugural World Cup final draw on American soil since 1994, a time when Bill Clinton managed to resist inserting himself into proceedings. Restraint, however, is not a quality that troubles the current president.

Infantino’s courtship has been long in the making. He turned up loyally to Trump’s second inauguration, has been photographed more in the Oval Office than some Cabinet members, and has ensured that Fifa now boasts an office in Trump Tower. One might say he has pursued this relationship with the enthusiasm of a Victorian explorer convinced he has discovered an untouched continent of commercial opportunity – which, to Infantino, the United States undoubtedly remains.

The decision to stage the gala in the Kennedy Center, just around the corner from the Watergate complex, added a note of unintended irony. Senate Democrats are presently investigating alleged cronyism under a Trump-appointed official; appropriate, then, that Fifa – never knowingly under-accused of anything other than pristine propriety – should arrive in town bearing gifts.

Proceedings opened with Andrea Bocelli belting out Nessun Dorma, a choice that left some wondering whether organisers were making a coded reference to recent footage of Trump nodding off in high-level meetings. Then came Heidi Klum, shimmering like a human bullion bar, and Kevin Hart, sparkling with the frantic bravado of a man who knows he must keep the crowd awake until the main attraction arrives.

Trump, for his part, revelled in his festival of flattery. As the evening’s promotional video attempted to persuade viewers that the prize had not been minted solely for his benefit, he beamed. “One of the great honours of my life,” he proclaimed – a statement that may say more about the other contenders than the trophy itself.

The justification for the award, delivered by a narrator striving heroically to sound sincere, listed a range of conflicts the president allegedly resolved during his ten months in office. The omissions, naturally, were more telling than the inclusions: no mention of his chumminess with Vladimir Putin, no reference to recent controversies over operations in the Caribbean. These matters, it seems, did not fit the evening’s theme.

On screen flickered a montage of Trump striding diplomatically across the globe: handshakes in Gaza, nods with Narendra Modi, earnest stares at African leaders. Infantino appeared in several clips giving the president a proud thumbs-up, like a father congratulating a child for tying his shoelaces.

Once the draw was completed – a labyrinthine process that appeared to test even Trump’s capacity for staying awake – the president joined the leaders of Canada and Mexico behind chrome-plated lecterns, the trio resembling contestants on a game show waiting to guess the price of household appliances. Trump attempted a Ted Lasso-esque riff about watching Pelé in the 1970s and even conceded that “soccer” ought properly to be called “football”, a remark that caused several American pundits to clutch their pearls.

The evening concluded, inevitably, with the Village People’s Y.M.C.A., a song that Trump has adopted with such gusto one half-expects him to attempt the choreography at the next State of the Union. Infantino, meanwhile, looked like a man who had finally secured the endorsement he coveted above all others.

Whether this curious partnership elevates football in America or simply adds another layer of farce to Fifa’s already tottering reputation remains to be seen. But one thing is beyond dispute: rarely has an organisation so determinedly sought the approval of a world leader, and rarely has a world leader accepted with quite such unblushing delight.

Next stop for this improbable double act? The Oscars, perhaps. At this rate, Fifa may well introduce a Best Actor in a Geopolitical Narrative category – and we all know who would win.

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