Miami’s Club World Cup Debut: Messi’s Fading Magic Overshadowed by FIFA’s Grand Illusion

 The Hard Rock Stadium on a clammy, boisterous, and vaguely hallucinogenic night witnessed a curious sporting “first.” The much-hyped opening act of FIFA’s colossal, billion-dollar “death star” – the newly bulked-up Club World Cup – delivered an opening ceremony that was, by all accounts, infinitely more entertaining and coherent than the football match that followed.

The main event saw Africa’s best, Al Ahly, grind out a 0-0 draw against a largely incoherent Inter Miami. In the first half, Miami displayed only a dim understanding of the sport’s mechanics, appearing to struggle through a monumental, wall-eyed hangover.

The second half offered a slight improvement, largely due to a flicker of the Lionel Messi identity. It was a muscle memory of genius, akin to watching an aged Frank Sinatra still crooning “That’s Life” on a Vegas stage, drawing thunderous applause merely for a nod and a point to the crowd. Yet, the dominant emotion was a profound sadness. This was the post-Messi Messi, wheeled onto a stage of fakery, his sporting beauty weaponised in his twilight years to promote a blatant power grab.

Observing this spectacle, the sheer scale of FIFA’s deception became starkly clear – a betrayal of sport, a cynical manipulation. The equation is simple: everyone loves Messi, there’s a hard-wired emotional response, an irresistible pull. “We will bolt the aged Messi to the front of our project,” the subtext read, “we will play with your feelings, we will, in effect, produce a targeted sporting crystal meth.”

However, “crystal meth” sounds a touch too exciting. The football itself was, for the most part, abysmal. But does this truly matter? This “thing” isn’t engineered to be a robust sporting entity. It is pure product, a calculated attempt to capture a global market. It’s FIFA enabling Saudi Arabia’s foreign policy ambitions, planting a flag squarely in the epicenter of the world’s greatest popular culture megaphone – the projection of a single, random Swiss administrator’s vision.

Despite the cynicism, not everything was as dire as predicted. The whispers of half-empty stadiums proved largely exaggerated. FIFA’s marketing machine is a juggernaut, and crucially, Americans possess a knack for turning up to events. The primary draw, of course, was Messi. Miami adores Messi, and America adores stars.

The Hard Rock, a pristine, white “castle-on-the-hill” structure with its crisp, flying roof, sits majestically in a vast expanse of shimmering tarmac. By the time the opening ceremonials commenced, the stands were almost entirely full. The venerable Sir David appeared, looking graver now, hands clasped like the fourth Earl of Sandwich, delivering one of those expensive, regal waves – less a greeting, more a power-flex.

A DJ spun infectious club tunes, received with gleeful enthusiasm. This wasn’t a testament to FIFA or even necessarily football, but to Miami itself. Something in the air – the heat, the light – makes it a place of inherent fun, pleasure, and showmanship, brimming with beautiful, glowing people who seem, quite frankly, eternal.

The ceremony itself was surprisingly good, devoid of the stiff, mannered stiffness often associated with such affairs. Instead, it featured throngs of people dancing, playing horns, and genuinely appearing to enjoy themselves. A terrifying, horror movie-esque voice boomed, “take it to the worrrlllldd,” delivered in a manner suggesting its owner was in the throes of being expertly throttled.

Messi was the last to emerge onto the pitch. The crowd predictably erupted, a shared static field of excitement, an aura of event glamour, the palpable sense of witnessing a celebrity miracle.

He began in a non-position, vaguely walking about, like a man engrossed in a podcast during a leisurely stroll. Yet, even now, Messi retains that signature shuffle, the subtle switch, the innate groove, the music playing in his head. Watching him, one gets that poignant feeling of a truly great footballer who can still see it all, but whose body can no longer perfectly execute the brilliance – a Mozart suffering from tinnitus, a Hemingway staggering through his soggy late days in the Florida Keys, still feeling his own greatness, still the matador, even as he sinks pisco sours in a crab shack.