JOHN DAVENPORT | Football is losing its soul to the billions in others’ pockets

There was a time when a professional player was not allowed to compete in any number of sports. The idea of being paid to play was considered unsporting, and thus the person who did so was not a sportsperson — they were a professional person.

Naturally this (like virtually everything else on the planet) worked to the advantage of those with money. So it rightly died out as an idea. But should it totally have died out as an idea? Is there still a point where money makes sport unsporting?

During the World Cup I was in Brazil for work. I stayed at an odd hotel near the airport. While perfectly nice, the planes flew over it so low that it felt as if any misjudgment on the part of the pilot would end extremely badly for me and the other occupants of the hotel. The World Cup had just begun, which is like the start of a giant, month-long, monotheistic religious festival for Brazilians.

On the TVs all over the hotel there is blanket coverage of football and football-related content. As we leave the hotel for supper, we see footage of football matches from the ’60s and ’70s. Then, because the TV stations are running out of the football-related content needed to supply several channels 24 hours a day, they show current but lower-level local football.

Muddy pitches. Torn jerseys. Tackles that today would result in tearful denunciations at the UN. Beards. Players (shameful in this day and age) going onto the pitch without having visited the hairdresser in 12 hours. Forwards being cut down and jumping right up again to continue playing. Fans who live up the road from the football ground attending games live as often as possible because they do not own TVs. Players who drink with fans after the game. Jerseys decorated with the logos of local car dealerships and power tool makers.

I’m not sure what the technical definition of a sport is. But I think any rational person might think that football back then, or football now, in the second division of the Brazilian, Italian, English, or any other league, is more of a sport than the spray-tanned product that is rolled out on pristine, manicured pitches on our TV screens. Sport was supposed to teach us lessons about life. And we still do learn from the stories of bravery, dedication and selflessness that we see on the football pitch. But we are also learning other things. Things involving private islands and man-buns that feel less beneficial.

When has a vast quantity of money ever not destroyed anything it touched?

In a Sao Paulo sports bar. Patinaed green tiles on the wall. What seems to be a sort of shrine to Pelé in the corner. With candles. The devotion here is as powerful as anything found in an evangelical tent church. Plastic tablecloths covered with Bible verses and beer logos. Cold beer served in short glasses that disappear faster than waiters can bring them. Shots of local mescal. Small hills of sliced steak. A table of prostitutes behind us are glued to a TV that discusses the minutiae of Brazil’s last game. They’re arguing about an offside call that occurred a week ago.