On the 19th of July 2026, Spain beat Argentina 1-0 in the World Cup final at MetLife Stadium — Ferran Torres scoring in the 106th minute to give Spain their second World Cup title. Gianni Infantino stood on the pitch alongside Donald Trump — the man he had awarded a specially invented prize two months earlier. The “FIFA Peace Prize” had not existed before Trump mentioned he was disappointed not to have won the Nobel.
Eleven days later, Infantino announced he was selling the World Cup.
Not all of it. Just the commercial operations — broadcast rights, sponsorship, ticket sales, licensing — bundled into FIFA Forward Enterprise, valued at $20 billion, with up to 20% available to private investors. The lead investor: Thrive Capital, founded by Joshua Kushner, whose brother Jared is married to Ivanka Trump. The person reportedly slated to run the new company as commissioner after Infantino’s FIFA presidency ends in 2031: Gianni Infantino, at approximately $64 million a year.
UEFA’s response, within hours: “It is not FIFA’s to sell. None of us are the owners of football.”
CONCACAF rejected it unanimously — including the United States, Canada and Mexico, the three countries that just hosted the $15 billion tournament Infantino was now proposing to monetise. Football Supporters Europe posted two words: “Game over, Gianni.”
What Infantino Is Actually Proposing
FIFA currently owns the World Cup as a non-profit. Every dollar it generates is redistributed back into football development across its 211 member nations. Infantino wants to create a new company that takes over the World Cup’s commercial operations — broadcast rights, sponsorships, ticket sales — then sell 20% of that company to private investors for $4 billion.
The moment that happens, the World Cup has a new constituency with a legal financial interest in its decisions. Private investors whose obligation is not to football but to their return. They do not need to develop the game in smaller nations. They need to maximise the profit of the asset they purchased.
UEFA named it precisely: “The World Cup cannot be treated as an investment product. It has been built over generations by players, national teams and supporters across every continent. No part of it should ever be surrendered to private investors. Football will never be for sale.”
The Structure of the Bribe
The plan requires a majority vote from FIFA’s 211 member associations. Infantino’s letter to all 211 included the following: approve FFE and your development funding doubles — from $10 million to $20 million per association.
By the following day, the offer had doubled again to $40 million.
That escalation is the most revealing detail in the story. Doubling within 24 hours is a textbook loss aversion response — when the initial incentive fails, increase the stakes rather than reconsider the premise. The only argument he has for this plan is a financial one, and when it wasn’t working, he made it larger.
Africa holds 54 of FIFA’s 211 votes — the largest continental bloc — and each association could receive up to $40 million if the plan passes. African federations are among the most financially constrained in the world. The path to approval was engineered to run directly through the nations least positioned to evaluate the long-term consequences of what they were approving.
CONCACAF’s statement contained the most damning line of the entire dispute: “Concacaf was only made aware of this matter through media reports and, subsequently, via a media release.” The confederation that hosted the tournament found out about the plan to monetise it from a press release.
The Transaction
Step back and look at what was exchanged across six months, and the Infantino-Trump relationship resolves into something cleaner than friendship.
What Infantino gave Trump: The invented FIFA Peace Prize. The overturned Balogun red card suspension. Maximum visibility at the most watched sporting event in history — sitting beside him at games, standing beside him at the trophy ceremony.
What Trump gave Infantino: Political cover for the Balogun decision. Connection to Joshua Kushner’s investment firm as the FFE deal’s anchor investor. Public endorsement as Trump’s preferred candidate for UN Secretary-General — describing Infantino as “respected by everyone around the world” with “a special ability to bring people together.”
The UN role is unlikely to materialise — the Security Council’s permanent members each hold a veto. But the endorsement is the point. This was never friendship. It was a transaction: two people using each other’s institutional power to advance their own interests, with the World Cup as the vehicle and the Peace Prize as the receipt.
Paul Piff’s research on power and rule perception explains the underlying psychology: people with sufficient institutional power do not experience rules as constraints. They experience them as suggestions — applicable to others, negotiable for themselves. The Balogun phone call, the invented award, the FFE plan — all of it follows the same logic. The rules apply until they don’t, and they stop applying the moment they become inconvenient.
The FFE plan was the transaction’s largest instalment — and the clearest expression of moral licensing: Infantino used the World Cup’s financial success as justification for a plan that would personally benefit him most. Good stewardship of the tournament became, in his framing, entitlement to profit from it. The relationship that produced the Balogun phone call was always heading somewhere. This is where it was heading.
Football Wins
It only took four days.
On Tuesday the 29th of July, Infantino announced FIFA Forward Enterprise. By Friday the 1st of August, he had scrapped it. UEFA threatened to boycott every FIFA competition. CONCACAF rejected it. The Asian Football Confederation rejected it. The UK Prime Minister condemned it. FIFA’s own chief operating officer told the Associated Press that staff had been “deceived” and “deserve better than contempt and intimidation.” His senior adviser resigned and called it “a bad deal for football.”
The opposition worked because it was unanimous and public — social proof operating in reverse. One federation saying no is ignorable. Ninety-six saying no in four days, including FIFA’s own senior staff, is not. Once the coalition formed, the cascade became unstoppable.
Infantino’s Friday statement: “Having listened carefully to all the views, it has become clear that the project has created divisions of a nature that, regardless of the level of support, are no longer in the interest of the objective set out in the first place.”
Translation: he ran out of road, he ran out of options.
Football is a game created by people with nothing — played on streets and waste grounds long before any governing body existed to put its name on it. The World Cup belongs to the kid learning to play on a dirt pitch, the Sunday league player who has never watched a board meeting, the neutral fan who needed the rules to mean something. It does not belong to venture capital. It does not belong to anyone’s retirement plan.
Football is created by the poor, the streets. This week, the rich tried to steal it.
The game won. Football wins.
A few days ago, a reel passed by on my feed: a pilot, still in full uniform with the stripes on his sleeves, riding a rented Lime scooter home from the airport. The caption was simple: “You just landed a plane, then you go home in a Lime.”
The comment section was full of pilots from all over the world, laughing and crying at the same time. One comment got more than 1,073 likes. It said something like: happened everywhere man, I drove home on a $1,500 old scooter after flying a $150 million machine called an airplane.
I know the guy who wrote that comment.
He sleeps next to me. Well, whenever his roster allows.
Photo by Denis on Unsplash
The girl who had never been to an airport
Let me rewind a bit.
I went to the Faculty of Fisheries and Marine Science. My major had a name so long that even my mum couldn’t spell it, so let’s just say I studied fishing gear and fishing vessels. My life back then was nets, boats, and the sea. I picked up scuba diving as a hobby, joined the campus dive club, and spent my weekends underwater, which sounds damn cool until you remember I was there to stare at fishes too long.
Meanwhile, my relationship with aviation was nonexistent. If you asked me what an airport looked like from the inside, I honestly couldn’t tell you. I had never been on a plane.
But one thing my lectures kept repeating stuck in my head: Indonesia is an archipelago. Seventeen thousand islands. Logistics and transportation here will always be a big business. Ships, planes, all of it.
Made total sense to me. How else would people and stuff move across all that water?
Then my boyfriend, a senior from the dive club, another sea-weed like me, told me he wanted to become a pilot.
My reaction was “Hah?”
Not because it was a bad idea. Because I genuinely could not imagine that world. And a few years later, when we decided to marry, my brain did it again: hah, what kind of life am I getting into?
But hey. Archipelago country. Planes will always be needed. Of course. Bills wouldn’t be an issue.
Right?
The warning I didn’t understand
He finished flight school. We got married.
Then, early on, he said something that confused me: “Even though a pilot’s salary is above average, we can’t spend carelessly. Aviation is uncertain. This job is high risk.”
I didn’t really get why. In my head, pilots were the definition of financial security, someone who sounds like “let’s have breakfast in Bali, then lunch in Singapore.” But I agreed. I am not a lavish spender anyway, and aviation wasn’t new to his family. He had watched this industry his whole life. He knew better. So okay, aye captain, I’m on board.
For a while, life proved him wrong. The schedule was full, the flying was steady, and money was never a topic. I quietly wondered if my husband was just being dramatic.
He was not being dramatic.
Then the world stopped flying
Photo by Clément Proust on Unsplash
COVID happened.
Here is something most people don’t know: a pilot’s income is not one big fancy number. A big part of it is flight-hour pay. No flying, no flight hours. No flight hours, and what’s left is the base salary.
And during those months, my husband, a licensed pilot, the profession everyone thinks is fancy, was bringing home less than Jakarta’s minimum wage. Not because that was his salary. His airline, like airlines everywhere, was bleeding, and that was all it could afford to pay.
Let that sink in. Less than minimum wage. That was the moment his old warning stopped being an abstract sentence and became our monthly budget.
That was also the year I learned that “pilot’s wife” and “promo hunter” can be the same job title.
The recovery that never really recovered
When the world opened up again, his schedule filled up. We exhaled. Okay, we’re back.
Except… after a while, the schedule started to thin out again. A few flights less this month. A few less the next. I thought it was just us. It wasn’t. While the world now flies more than before the pandemic, Indonesia’s passenger numbers still haven’t returned to 2019 levels, and lately they’ve even been shrinking. Hundreds of aircraft in this country are grounded in hangars, waiting for spare parts and maintenance money.
That’s when the fact I learned in university finally cracked open.
Yes, we’re an archipelago. Yes, in theory, we should be one of the biggest aviation markets on earth. But here’s the part my lectures never mentioned: need is not the same as market. An archipelago doesn’t buy plane tickets. People with money do. When the economy squeezes, people take the bus, the ferry, or just stay home. Geography, it turns out, does not pay the fuel bill.
Fun fact that still bothers me: this nation of seventeen thousand islands makes up only around two percent of the world’s air passengers.
Two percent. From the country that supposedly needs planes the most.
It used to be fancy. It isn’t anymore.
There was a time when being a pilot in Indonesia meant a big-name European car in the garage. That image was real once. My husband’s family lived through that era, and that’s exactly how he knew, long before I did, that none of it was guaranteed.
That era is over. Budget airlines changed it. The pandemic changed it. The economy changed it. What’s left is a demanding, high-stakes job with irregular hours, a medical check that can end a career in one morning, and a paycheck that moves with fuel prices and whether ordinary people can afford tickets this month.
And sure, if you fly for a big airline in the US right now, your story looks different. Pilot salaries there just hit record highs. But that boom never crossed the ocean. For most of us in the low-cost world, the scooter comment is not a joke. It’s a ride to survive.
The uniform still looks the same. The life behind it doesn’t.
I’m writing this because the image in most people’s heads is about thirty years out of date, and nobody bothered to update it.
And if you’re dreaming of that uniform yourself: do the math before you do the medical check. The math only works if you love flying enough to accept the bad years with the good ones.
My husband does. That’s why he’s still here. Him and his old scooter, and 1,073 people who felt that.
If the me from back then, the fisheries student who had never seen an airport, could read this essay, I know exactly what she would say.
“Hah?”
Yeah. Me too, girl. Me too.
. . .
Originally published at https://medium.com on July 12, 2026.
At the 2026 World Cup, two players have been everywhere on social media. Not for the same reasons.
Erling Haaland has been everywhere because of goals, a Viking row celebration, a Snapchat that misspelled "Orlando" as "Ornaldo" — and his immediate correction: "Not even allowed to write something wrong now in this perfect world. Sorry to all the perfect brothers and sisters out there." He has been everywhere because of a selfie with a low-res Shrek captioned "Selfie with my twin." Because of his $500,000 Birkin bag collection spotted on every road trip. Because of an AI-generated clip of him flinching at his own reflection in a restaurant that passed 31 million views before anyone checked whether it was real — and by then the correction was secondary, because the internet had decided the clip felt like Haaland. He has gained 12 million new Instagram followers since the tournament started. There are 1.4 million TikTok posts with his name in the hashtag.
Jude Bellingham has been everywhere for different reasons. The "Who Else" celebration — arms wide, chin up, staring into the crowd — has been clipped and reposted millions of times. His composure in press conferences, carrying himself like someone twice his age, has generated its own genre of admiring commentary. His Real Madrid journey — signed at 19, Champions League winner, three consecutive Ballon d'Or top-five finishes — has been tracked and documented with the intensity usually reserved for generational talents whose career arc feels pre-written. And then there are the quieter moments that don't involve goals at all: answering a disabled reporter's questions in Spanish in the mixed zone, delivering a message to earthquake victims in a language he wasn't obligated to speak.
Same tournament. Same level of global attention. Completely different reasons for it.
And here is the detail that makes the comparison most interesting: one of the most viral things about both of them simultaneously is old footage from their Dortmund days — pecking each other on the cheek during post-game interviews, collapsing into each other after goals. The "Cleated Rivalry" TikTok canon, as fans have named it, has introduced both players to audiences who had never watched a single match. Neither Haaland nor Bellingham produced this content. Neither managed it. Their genuine warmth from four years ago became, without their involvement, one of the most effective pieces of football marketing at this World Cup. The most viral thing about both of them is something neither of them planned.
This is not a coincidence. These are two footballers who have built two entirely different public identities — consciously or not — and watching them both go viral in the same three weeks makes the contrast unusually clear. One is selling focus. The other is selling greatness. Both are working. And understanding why tells you something interesting about how identity actually operates at the highest level of anything.
The Focus and The Brand
Haaland's relationship with football is the simplest thing about him. It is everything. The 6,000-calorie diet, the obsessive sleep routine, the raw milk from a local farm, the weekly self-assessment system focused entirely on controllable variables — none of this is image management. It is what happens when a person organises their entire life around one thing and doesn't particularly care what anyone thinks about the rest of it.
This is why he left Tom Holland on read. Not rudeness. Not calculated aloofness. He simply didn't know who Tom Holland was, and when you don't know who someone is, you don't reply to their dinner invitation. The story went viral not because it was scandalous but because it was so completely consistent. Of course Haaland didn't know. Why would he? Tom Holland has nothing to do with scoring goals.
The AI clip is perhaps the clearest proof of where this has led. When a fabricated video of Haaland flinching at his own reflection passed 31 million views before anyone confirmed it was fake, the correction barely mattered — because the audience's reaction was not "I was deceived" but "that does sound like something he'd do." His public identity has become a character that exists independently of him, one that fans can extend and remix and invent new moments for, because the character is so consistent and so legible that fake moments feel real. That is not something you can manufacture with a PR strategy. It emerges from being genuinely, reliably yourself for long enough that the internet learns to complete the pattern without you.
His competitive psychology follows the same logic. Sport psychologists describe him as "self-referenced" — he measures himself against his own standards week to week rather than against specific opponents. This is why defenders winding him up during matches barely registers. They are not relevant to the thing he is actually tracking. He is not competing against them. He is competing against the version of himself he was last Tuesday.
Bellingham is building something larger — and has been, visibly, since he was a teenager. When he left Birmingham City for Borussia Dortmund at 17, he gave interviews that sounded like someone who had been media-trained since primary school — measured, thoughtful, never a word wasted, never anything that could be clipped out of context and used against him. At Real Madrid, the same quality scaled up. The composure in the Bernabéu's most pressured moments, the leadership gestures toward teammates, the way he manages the gap between being 21 years old and being treated as a senior figure at the world's biggest club — none of it happened accidentally. It is the result of a person who understood, very early, that the career he was going to have would require a public identity to match it, and who began building that identity in parallel with the football rather than waiting for the football to build it for him.
The specific detail that best captures this: Bellingham does not have a single embarrassing interview from his entire public career. No teenage awkwardness that resurfaced. No quote that he had to walk back. At an age when most people are still figuring out how to exist in public, he was already operating with the discipline of someone who had decided exactly what version of himself he was willing to share.
The Spanish fluency is perhaps the most telling expression of this. When Bellingham arrived at Real Madrid, most English players abroad muddle through their first years on the pitch while their language acquisition lags years behind. Bellingham conducted a full two-minute interview in fluent Spanish just months into his tenure at the Bernabéu — discussing his injury, praising teammates, addressing the fans directly — without an interpreter. At the 2026 World Cup, after England's win over Mexico, a disabled reporter approached him in the mixed zone. Most players had walked past. Bellingham stopped, took his time, and answered the reporter's questions entirely in Spanish to make the conversation accessible. Earlier in the tournament he had delivered a message in Spanish to earthquake victims in Venezuela — unprompted, unrequired, addressed to a country he had no obligation to speak to. That last detail is perhaps the most revealing: not a gesture performed in front of a camera for an obvious audience, but one directed at people who were not even watching his tournament. These are not accidents of charm. They are expressions of someone who has thought carefully about what it means to be a public figure with reach, and has decided to use that reach deliberately.
This is not a flaw in the brand. It is the brand revealing itself as a real person underneath it — which, paradoxically, is part of what makes him compelling. The Ghana confrontation exists. The arm-waving exists. The emotional leakages are real. But they exist within a framework of such consistent public discipline that when they appear, they read as proof of passion rather than loss of control.
The Unscripted Version
City drew 2-2 with Arsenal in September 2024, John Stones equalising in the 98th minute. When the final whistle went, Haaland walked toward Mikel Arteta and said: "Stay humble, stay humble." Gabriel Jesus stepped in and Haaland responded: "Get the f*ck away you f*cking clown."
This is the moment that complicates the "Haaland never gets provoked" narrative — and complicates it in an interesting way. He wasn't provoked during the match. He was provoked after the whistle, by something he perceived as arrogance from the opposing manager. And then — this is the part worth noting — he turned it into a catchphrase. At a World Cup press conference weeks later, asked about England's chances, he said: "I think everyone should stay humble." The confrontation became a running joke. The anger became content. Even in the moments where emotion breaks through, he manages to land somewhere that works for him.
At this World Cup, Bellingham scored twice in the quarterfinal — including a 93rd-minute winner — to eliminate Norway and send Haaland home. At the final whistle, Haaland hugged him. Not briefly. A real one. Then in his press conference: "Jude is a good friend. We had two good years together in Dortmund. And I'm not surprised that he scores two goals today and performs the way he does." He ended by saying everyone would want a Jude on their team. Then, after England's own elimination four days later, Haaland posted on Instagram: "You gave it your all, Jude Bellingham. Onto the next one now."
Haaland had been eliminated by the player he was praising. He used the occasion to celebrate him publicly, twice.
That same night in Atlanta, after England lost their semifinal to Argentina, Bellingham approached Valentín Barco — an unused substitute who had run onto the pitch to celebrate — from behind, and slapped him on the back of the head. Barco turned to confront him. The pair were separated.
Neither moment defines either player entirely. Haaland has had his own confrontations. Bellingham has had his own moments of genuine grace — the disabled journalist, the Venezuela message, six World Cup goals as England's leader. But as illustrations of two different emotional frameworks in their most unscripted versions — the contrast is almost too clean to be real.
Focus contains itself. Greatness, sometimes, doesn't.
The Celebration as Thesis
If you wanted to reduce both players to a single image, the celebrations do it.
Bellingham's "Who Else" — arms wide, chest forward, chin up, staring into the crowd as if the question genuinely needed answering. This is what psychologists call an expansive power pose — the deliberate physical expansion of the body into available space, claiming it, announcing presence. Amy Cuddy's research on expansive postures found they signal dominance and status to everyone watching, and also change the person doing them — raising testosterone, lowering cortisol, reinforcing the internal belief that this moment was always coming. "Who Else" is not a question. It is a statement. It is a body saying: I belong here, I always belonged here, this was always going to be me.
Haaland's celebrations, by contrast, are almost anti-statement. The meditation pose — cross-legged on the pitch, eyes closed, while teammates celebrate around him. The Viking row — disappearing into the collective, indistinguishable from the group. Occasionally just standing completely still with an expression that communicates almost nothing. These are not claiming space. They are retreating from it. They say: the goal happened, now what's next.
The contrast is the piece's whole argument in two images. One player expands into every available inch of the moment. The other contracts back to the next task before the moment has fully arrived.
Why Both Work
The interesting thing is that both strategies are producing the same outcome: global virality, devoted fanbases, status as two of the most discussed footballers in the world.
They work for different reasons and on different audiences. Haaland's appeal is built on the gap between what he is on the pitch — terrifying, mechanical, physically imposing — and what he seems to be off it — dorky, unaware, more interested in raw milk than celebrity culture. That gap is disarming. It makes an almost incomprehensibly good footballer feel somehow accessible, because the person doing it seems to find the fame slightly confusing. As one new fan at the World Cup put it: "We're in an era where we're all craving authenticity, and it makes it easy to root for him."
Bellingham's appeal is built on coherence. Everything points the same direction — the football, the composure, the leadership, the ambition. He looks like what people expect greatness to look like. There is no gap between the person and the projected image, which is admirable and slightly uncanny in equal measure. You are never quite sure whether you are watching Jude Bellingham or the version of Jude Bellingham that Jude Bellingham decided to present. The answer is probably both, inseparably.
Both are impression management in Erving Goffman's sense — all public identity is performance, and the most effective performances are the ones that conceal their own artifice. Haaland's performance conceals itself by appearing to be no performance at all. Bellingham's conceals itself by being so consistent that the performance and the person become indistinguishable.
The Question Underneath
There is a version of this comparison that is just about two footballers and their social media presence. But the more interesting version is about a question most people encounter at some point: how much of your identity do you build around the one thing you are extraordinary at, and how much do you build a larger identity that the extraordinary thing sits inside?
Haaland's answer is: everything. Football is not a vehicle for a larger story. It is the story. The diet, the sleep, the focus, the farm — all of it in service of the same singular objective. When the football eventually ends, as it will, there will be a real question about what comes next. The person who organised his entire existence around one thing will need to reorganise.
Bellingham's answer is: it's the foundation. The football is what made everything else possible, but the everything else is being built deliberately and in parallel — the brand, the composure, the image, the identity that will outlast the playing career.
Neither is wrong. Both are just choices — and both are unusually visible examples of a decision most people make quietly and mostly without realising they are making it.
"Stay humble" and "Who Else" are not just celebration lines. They are two completely different philosophies about what it means to be good at something, stated in public, by two people who happen to be very good at football.
misterillahi•Jul 17, 2026 Roland Garros, 2022.
Zheng Qinwen, 19 years old at the time, just took a set from Iga Swiatek. The world number one.
One more set. But then her period came.
She called a medical timeout. Her trainer immediately wrapped her leg, but her leg was fine. It was her stomach. The cramps were so bad she could not play her own tennis anymore.
Yes, those very cramps. The menstrual cramps every woman recognizes too well.
She lost the match.
At her post match interview, she explained:
"The first day is always so tough. I have to do sport and I always have so much pain on the first day. I couldn't go against my nature. I wish I can be a man on court, but I cannot."
Then she added the three words,
"It's just girls' things, you know."
That was 2022. It has stuck with me since.
I have never played at Roland Garros, of course. My tennis is an amateur game. My biggest trophy is my father-in-law saying "Mantap, te! Finally, you hit the ball." over my clumsy backhand.
But I know Zheng’s words deeply.
Photo by Renith R on Unsplash
The day I killed my friendship
In college, I had a friend. I liked her very much because she was witty and smart. One day she invited me to a discussion about our field project. A friendly, before lunch discussion. Nothing offensive at all.
Small problem: I was PMS-ing.
So in the heat of a small argument, instead of being a civilized woman saying "can we revisit this tomorrow morning, over a coffee perhaps?", nope, I called her "anjing lu".
For my non Indonesian readers: it means "you dog". Sounds not-so-bad in English. But in my culture, when it comes from a girl's mouth, it is a big cultural disaster. Women here are raised to be soft spoken, and well mannered. We often find ourselves apologizing too many times for mistakes we did not even make.
And yep, we never really talked again. She cut me off before I could say sorry.
Honestly? I am not blaming her.
Painfully honest? I would be mad if she didn't cut me off. I know I was way out of line that day.
And here is the part that hurts the most. Even now, when I recall that memory, I have completely forgotten why I called her that. I forgot the whole conversation or even the project. What I remember vividly is the emotion. How badly I wanted to spit that curse word.
Is this real or am I making excuses?
I have PCOS, stands for Polycystic Ovary Syndrome.
If you have never heard of it, bless you, your hormones behave. Mine run a 24 hour circus.
Here is the fucked-up part. Science cannot tell me yet why I have it. It is not my diet nor simply my mother's genetics. A Dutch twin study found that PCOS is about 70% inherited, but the genes they have discovered so far only explain around 10% of it.
So, in simple words, researchers know the answer is written somewhere in my body, they are just stuck. At this point, I only hope they did not stop digging.
No, I am not saying every mood swinger woman has PCOS. But for sure, every woman has a hormone cycle. That part is undeniable.
But, mine is just… so freaking loud.
How loud? In one Danish study, 65% of women with PCOS reported mood swings, and two out of three had anxiety. And it is not in our heads. One likely reason is boring and very real: too much male hormones quietly mess with the brain chemicals that control mood.
So where a normal cycle makes a woman cry at a Thailand insurance advertisement, mine makes me end a dear friendship before lunch. Same old song that you have probably heard over and over, just at the loudest volume.
So, yeah. Flash news, it is not drama. It is what it is.
Now, Tennis
Yes, tennis. Trust me on this.
I watch Grand Slams from my sofa. One night it hit me.
Have you ever wondered why tennis-muggle can easily name Nadal, Federer, and Djokovic, but not a single women's player?
Serena Williams? Sure. But have you heard of Jabeur, Swiatek, Sakkari, Kostyuk, Raducanu, Osaka, or Sabalenka?
Men's tennis has the same champions for twenty years. Federer, Nadal, Djokovic. Now Alcaraz and Sinner, trading finals like two kids passing one trophy back and forth. They even joke about it. I am not making that up.
Women's tennis? From my sofa, it looks completely different.
Wimbledon just crowned its ninth first time champion in a row. Nine years, nine different names.
Osaka won big, then disappeared. Raducanu won once, never came back. Swiatek dominates, then loses to someone you have never heard of.
Experts and amateurs alike blame the depth of the field. The pressure. The coaching changes. The "why-women-have-slower-response-time" theory. Sure, sure. Name it all.
But there is one variable nobody even mentions: these athletes play a brutal sport while riding a hormone cycle that hits strength, sleep, and mood every single month.
Let me be clear about what I am not saying.
I am not saying women are too hormonal to win consistently. That is the lazy, sexist take I grew up hearing, and it is complete bullshit.
I am saying the opposite: they perform at the highest level on earth while carrying something the men's tour never has to think about, and nobody even counts it. It is not an excuse for losing. It is an invisible tax every woman pays, every month, quietly.
Aryna, I feel you
Aryna Sabalenka. Four Grand Slam titles. Even Serena Williams' coach, Patrick Mouratoglou, calls her tennis probably the best on tour. Have you watched how she plays? Her serve once hit 133 mph, or 214 km per hour. The second fastest serve ever recorded in women's tennis. Even my car can't go that fast.
And yet. All four titles on hard courts. Roland Garros and Wimbledon: zero. She keeps reaching Grand Slam finals and losing them, four runner up finishes in recent years. And this year at the French Open, in the quarterfinal against Diana Shnaider, she won the first set, went up 4-1, and was two points from winning while serving for the match at 5-4. Then she lost 12 of the last 13 games.
After that match, a reporter asked about her thoughts and emotions. She answered:
"No thoughts, no emotions. Just want to quit tennis right now."
And later:
"I just am so tired of me losing some matches not in the best way just because I was overemotional."
Drama? Don't think so. She has said it more than once.
And this is not new for her. Back in 2022, she cried on court because she suddenly could not serve. Hundreds of double faults in one season, over a serve motion she had done a million times.
Now, do I know if Sabalenka has PCOS? Definitely not. I am not her doctor. I am a random Indonesian woman watching her game from my sofa, snacking low calorie chips, watching my sugar intake, feeling personally attacked.
But she sure has a cycle. Every woman on that tour does. And mine, the loud version, gave me years of private lessons on what it looks like when your own body votes against you in the middle of something important.
So when I watch her cry on court over a failed serve in 2022, I do not think "weak", "shame", or "failure".
I think "oh, I feel you, girl. That's our thing. Girls' thing."
Photo by Keith Allison on Wikimedia Commons / CC BY-SA 2.0
Why I only play tennis with people who know me
I play tennis too. But with one strict rule: only with my husband and my in laws. People who have seen the worst tennis version of me and, for some reason, stayed. Or maybe they just choose not to judge me. Either way, that is why I respect them.
Frankly, my tennis spills my mood.
Good hormone day: in my head, I am Sabalenka. Once I've ruined my racket trying to imitate her serve. Bad hormone day: I can miss a ball that is not even moving.
Once I tested myself and joined a session on Reclub, an app for finding people to play sports with, basically Tinder but for active human beings. I sucked so badly, one guy taught me how to grip the racket. Forgodsake, I have played tennis for years. I know what continental grip is.
The only difference between me and Sabalenka is scale. When she cries and collapses, the whole world writes about her mental state.
When I miss lots of balls and get mad at my racket, only my husband knows. And after years of marriage, he has learned the most important skill in understanding a woman at her hormonal peak: saying nothing and passing the cold water.
The point
No. This is not a free pass to call your best friend anjing (Hell, no). There is no hormone level that makes that acceptable. I still owe her an apology. If she is reading this: I am sorry, and you were right about the project. Probably. I honestly do not remember the project.
The point is simpler. Women are hormonal. Yes. It is hormones, not character.
And painfully honest? We cannot fully control it. I have tried. The hormones won, no matter how hard I tried to reverse it. Most days, I end up trying to reduce my interaction with the world.
So please, do not define who a woman is based on who she was when her hormones were driving. She was still the driver. She just had something screaming in the passenger seat, so loud she went numb and could not think straight. Hormones explain the crash, but after the crash, we don't forget who was behind the wheel.
Zheng called it “just girls’ things”.
She was being polite. It is that invisible tax I told you about. Paid every month, by half of this planet’s population. No medical timeout is long enough to cover it, and nobody gets a trophy for surviving it.
The least woman can do is admit it is on the court.
And not being judged by it.
On the 2nd of July 2026, Donald Trump called Gianni Infantino.
He wanted to talk about a red card. Specifically, the red card shown to Folarin Balogun — the United States' leading scorer at the World Cup — for stepping on the ankle of a Bosnian player in the round of 32. An automatic one-match ban. Standard procedure. Written into FIFA's own competition regulations in language that could not have been clearer: "If a player or team official is sent off as a result of a direct or indirect red card, they will automatically be suspended from their team's subsequent match."
Trump told Infantino he wanted a review. His reason, stated publicly afterward in the Oval Office with the kind of candour that occasionally produces extraordinary sentences: "I asked for a review because I didn't think it was a foul. I didn't know what the hell a red card was."
Four days later, Balogun played against Belgium. FIFA — for the first time in more than 60 years of World Cup football — suspended an automatic red card ban mid-tournament, citing a "probationary period" of one year. UEFA called the decision "unprecedented, incomprehensible and unjustifiable." Former FIFA president Sepp Blatter wrote: "Red cards are not overturned by political phone calls." Belgium's football association called it a "direct contradiction" of the competition regulations and were told their appeal was inadmissible because they had "no standing" to challenge a disciplinary decision that directly affected them.
The match ended 4-1 to Belgium. Balogun played. The United States were eliminated. And when Romelu Lukaku scored Belgium's fourth goal, he and his teammates performed the Trump dance on the pitch — the arm-pumping, hip-rocking routine the president had made famous at campaign rallies, performed by Belgian footballers on American soil, in front of a crowd that had just watched their team's most significant disciplinary intervention in six decades produce a comprehensive elimination. The Belgian national team's social media account posted the scoreline alongside two words: "Overturn this."
Trump, it was reported, boarded a plane and left the country as the scoreline unfolded.
The universe occasionally has a sense of humour. The rule of law, in football, is another matter.
The Rule That Wasn't
Start with what should be the simplest part of this story: the rule.
FIFA's Laws of the Game — a document FIFA itself produces, publishes, and enforces — does not allow for the suspension of automatic bans following a red card at the discretion of the FIFA president. The 2026 World Cup competition regulations stated it in terms that left no room for interpretation: automatic suspension, subsequent match, no exceptions described.
This is not a grey area. This is not a case where reasonable people might differ on how the regulation applies. Belgium's football association pointed this out immediately. UEFA pointed it out. Sepp Blatter pointed it out. The rule existed. It was applied to every other player who received a red card in this tournament — and there were others — without incident or intervention.
The rule did not change. What changed was that the host nation's president made a phone call, and the rule was treated as if it said something different from what it said.
Trump's explanation — "I didn't know what the hell a red card was" — is almost more alarming than a calculated intervention would have been. He intervened in a decision he admitted he did not understand, in a sport whose rules he admitted he was unfamiliar with, and the institution responsible for enforcing those rules complied.
The ignorance was not an obstacle to the intervention. In some ways it was the enabling condition.
If you don't know the rule exists, it cannot constrain you.
Power and the Exception
Paul Piff, a psychologist at the University of California, has spent years studying what happens to people's relationship with rules as their social power increases. The finding, consistent across multiple studies, is both intuitive and unsettling: higher-status individuals are significantly more likely to treat rules as suggestions, to identify exceptions that apply to them specifically, and to act on those exceptions without apparent awareness that they are doing something others cannot do.
This is not simply corruption. It is something more structural than that. Power genuinely alters the cognitive framework through which rules are perceived. The powerful person does not typically think: "I know the rule exists and I am choosing to break it." They think: "This rule cannot possibly apply to me in this situation, and the fact that it appears to apply is itself an error that needs to be corrected." Trump's statement — "I didn't think it was a foul" — is the clearest possible expression of this psychology. He did not say he knew the red card was valid but wanted it overturned anyway. He said he had assessed the situation and reached a different conclusion, and that conclusion should therefore determine the outcome.
The power dynamic did not produce cynicism. It produced certainty. And certainty, in a person with sufficient authority, is considerably more dangerous than cynicism because it does not recognise itself as overreach.
FIFA's response to that certainty is the second half of the psychological picture. Infantino did not override the rule because he independently concluded it was wrong. He overrode it because the most powerful person in the most immediately relevant room told him it should be overridden. Stanley Milgram's famous obedience research established decades ago that ordinary people, placed in institutional contexts with clear authority figures, will comply with instructions that they would refuse in any other setting. The FIFA disciplinary committee that supposedly made this decision independently was operating in a context where the outcome had already been signalled by the most politically significant figure in the building. "Independent" committees are still committees of people. People are still subject to the psychological dynamics that Milgram documented.
The Window, Now Broken
In 1982, criminologists James Wilson and George Kelling proposed what became known as broken windows theory: the idea that visible signs of disorder — an unrepaired broken window, an unpunished minor violation — signal to everyone in the environment that the normal rules of maintenance and behaviour are not being enforced. And when that signal is sent, further disorder follows. Not because anyone has explicitly decided to allow it. Because the environment now communicates permission.
FIFA broke a window on the 6th of July 2026. Not a minor one. The automatic red card suspension — one of the most fundamental disciplinary mechanisms in football — was shown to be negotiable under sufficient political pressure. The window is now broken. And the signal that sends is audible to every football federation in the world.
The next time a nation loses a key player to a red card at a tournament — and there will be a next time — the conversation inside their football federation will be different from the one that would have happened a week ago. It will include, somewhere, a version of this question: if the United States could have their player's suspension overturned with a phone call, what options do we have? The answer they will receive is that they do not have the same options, because they are not the host nation and their head of state does not have the personal relationship with Infantino that Trump cultivated. But the principle — that the rule is suspendable under the right conditions — has now been demonstrated. The window is broken. The signal has been sent.
Belgium knew this immediately. Their "Overturn this" caption was not just a football taunt. It was a precise, two-word articulation of what FIFA had done to the tournament's integrity and what Belgium's performance had done in response. You overturned a rule. We overturned your team. The scoreboard, in this case, was the most coherent institutional response available.
The Neutral Who Suddenly Had a Side
Here is something that happened all over the world on the 6th of July 2026, in living rooms and group chats and football bars from Jakarta to Johannesburg to Brussels: people who had no particular stake in the United States versus Belgium match — neutrals, non-partisans, people who had been watching the World Cup with casual interest rather than tribal loyalty — found themselves, without quite deciding to, rooting for Belgium.
Not because of any affection for Belgium. Not because of Lukaku or De Ketelaere or the quality of their football. But because rooting for Belgium had become the only available way to express something that had no other outlet: the feeling that the rule should have been enforced, and that since FIFA had declined to enforce it, the scoreboard was the last remaining mechanism that might produce a just outcome.
When Belgium scored their fourth, and Lukaku did the Trump dance, and Belgium's social media posted "Overturn this" — the reaction from neutrals across the world was not celebration of Belgium. It was relief. The universe had produced, through the mechanism of a football match, the outcome that the institution had failed to guarantee through its rules. The word "justice" appeared in thousands of posts alongside that clip. Not justice for Belgium specifically. Justice as a concept — the feeling that outcomes should track fairness, and that this one, finally, did.
This is moral outrage and tribal switching — a well-documented psychological phenomenon in which a perceived violation of widely shared fairness norms causes people with no prior stake in an outcome to spontaneously adopt a position. The outrage is not manufactured. It is the authentic response of people who internalise rules as social contracts, and who feel the violation of those contracts as a personal affront even when they are not directly affected. FIFA's decision did not just anger Belgium fans. It created, in a single afternoon, millions of instant Belgium supporters out of people who had woken up that morning with no particular preference.
That is a remarkable thing for an institution to do — to convert the entire neutral world against your host nation through a single disciplinary decision, before a ball had been kicked. And when the scoreline confirmed what the neutrals had hoped for, the relief was disproportionate to anything a round-of-16 football result would normally produce. Because it was never really about football. It was about whether the rules mean something. And for ninety minutes in Seattle, the answer was: they do, at least on the pitch, even when they don't off it.
What This Actually Changes
The most important thing about the Balogun decision is not what it did to this specific match. Belgium won comfortably. Balogun's presence, it turned out, changed nothing about the outcome. The injustice — if it was one — resolved itself on the pitch in the most satisfying possible way.
What the decision changed is what comes after it.
FIFA has now established, in practice if not in writing, that automatic suspensions can be suspended. That the host nation's political leadership has a channel of influence over disciplinary decisions. That an appeal lodged by the directly affected opposing team can be ruled inadmissible while the original decision — made in response to the host nation's president — stands. These are not small things. They are the foundations on which the integrity of every future tournament will be built, or will fail to be built.
Precedent is a social technology. It tells people what is possible. Before this tournament, overturning an automatic suspension was outside the range of what football federations considered available to them. After this tournament, it is inside that range — at least for nations with sufficient political leverage. The rule did not change. The map of what is imaginable did.
The domino has been pushed. We will not know which other dominoes fall for some time. What we know is that the person who pushed it said he didn't know what the hell a red card was, and the institution responsible for the game's rules complied anyway.
Sepp Blatter asked the right question. Quo vadis, FIFA? Where are you going?
The answer, based on available evidence, is wherever the most powerful person in the room points. And the most important thing about that answer is not that it describes this specific moment. It is that it now describes every moment that follows. The precedent is set. The window is broken. The signal has been sent to every federation, every government, every person with sufficient proximity to Infantino and sufficient motivation to use it.
Football has survived corruption before. It has survived political interference before. What it has not previously survived — what no sport has survived, once it begins — is the open, documented, publicly celebrated confirmation that the rules mean something different depending on who is asking.
That is what was overturned. Not a red card. The assumption that the rules apply equally to everyone inside the game.
Overturn that, and you have overturned the game itself.
misterillahi•Jul 11, 2026 In March 2025, a survey of 1,200 Indonesians found that 71.5 percent approved of naturalising foreign-born players for the national team. When asked separately whether there were now too many of these players in the squad, 31.5 percent of respondents said yes.
The word doing most of the work in that survey is "naturalising," and it is, for most of the players this conversation is actually about, the wrong word.
There is a real difference between a state granting citizenship to someone with no ancestral claim to the country, and a state recognising the citizenship that a person's bloodline already entitled them to, even if the paperwork is only now catching up. Indonesia has examples of both. Cristian "El Loco" Gonzalez, the Uruguayan-born striker who became one of the country's most beloved adopted sons in the 2000s, had no Indonesian ancestry whatsoever — no parent, no grandparent, nothing in his blood that connected him to the archipelago before he arrived. He qualified through years of residency and marriage to an Indonesian woman, and Indonesia's citizenship law allowed the federation to convert that residency into a national team shirt. That is naturalisation in the full sense of the word: a state manufacturing eligibility for a talented outsider, because the law permitted it and the football was worth it.
Almost none of the current wave fits that description. Jay Idzes, Mees Hilgers, Ole Romeny, Joey Pelupessy, Mathew Baker, Shayne Pattynama — every one of them already had an Indonesian parent or grandparent before a single conversation with the federation took place. The blood was never in question. What was missing was the citizenship, and in most cases, the active choice to claim it. Calling this "naturalisation" makes it sound identical to the Gonzalez pathway — a country recruiting outside talent and processing the paperwork to make it eligible. It isn't. It is closer to the opposite: a country's diaspora, scattered by migration and colonial history rather than ancestry, choosing — for the first time in their lives, in most cases — to formally become what their family tree always said they already were.
These are not really two slices of the same pie — they come from different questions entirely, which is exactly what makes them worth sitting with. A person could easily answer yes to both: broadly support the policy, and still feel uneasy about how far it has been taken. Indeed, the same survey found 54.5 percent had no issue with the current numbers as long as results kept improving, while a smaller 13.5 percent rejected the policy outright. Overlapping, sometimes contradictory positions, all held by the same population in the same week.
They are, taken together, the most honest possible snapshot of a country that loves what the policy has produced and is not entirely sure it loves the word being used to describe it.
What Actually Happened
The mechanism is not complicated, even if the feelings around it are. FIFA allows a player to represent a country other than the one they were born in, hold citizenship of, or have long resided in, provided a parent or grandparent was born there. Indonesia, with an enormous diaspora in the Netherlands dating back to Dutch colonial rule, has more eligible players abroad than almost any nation that has used this rule.
Under coach Shin Tae-yong and later the federation leadership of Erick Thohir, Indonesia began actively recruiting them. Jay Idzes, whose maternal grandparents were born and raised in Indonesia. Mees Hilgers, with Indonesian roots through his mother from Manado. Maarten Paes, a former Dutch youth international goalkeeper who became Indonesia's hero in a World Cup qualifier. Shayne Pattynama, who has spoken about representing Indonesia as a way of honouring his late father's Moluccan heritage. By 2025, a provisional national squad was reported to be 63 percent diaspora-eligible.
The results were immediate and real. Indonesia passed the group stage at the Asian Cup. They reached the semi-finals of the U23 Asian Cup. They came closer to World Cup qualification than at almost any point in the country's footballing history. For a fanbase that has spent decades watching the national team underachieve relative to the country's size and passion for the sport, this was not a minor shift. It was the first sustained taste of competence in a generation.
The wave has not slowed. In early 2025, four more players took the oath of citizenship within weeks of each other — striker Ole Romeny, a Dutch youth international with an Indonesian grandmother who thanked Indonesia's president personally for making the process possible; goalkeeper Emil Audero, on loan from Italian football; defensive midfielder Joey Pelupessy, whose Indonesian descent runs through his Moluccan father; and Dean James, who took the same oath the same week. PSSI was simultaneously courting Mitchel Bakker, the Lille left-back with an Indonesian grandfather, as a further reinforcement to the defence — a sign that the federation views the diaspora pipeline not as a one-off project but as an ongoing, almost permanent recruitment strategy.
The Three Stories Indonesia Tells Itself
Academic researchers who studied Indonesian media coverage of the policy found something worth taking seriously: the conversation does not split into simple support and opposition. It splits into three distinct, overlapping frames — frames that, tellingly, tend to use the word "naturalisation" themselves even when discussing players who are really exercising a diaspora claim rather than being recruited from nowhere.
The first frame treats diaspora players as national assets — a pragmatic, even patriotic solution to a structural problem. Indonesia is a country of nearly 280 million people that has historically punched far below its weight in football, hampered by chaotic youth development and years of administrative dysfunction. In this frame, recruiting players with Indonesian blood who were trained in Dutch academies is not a shortcut. It is simply a faster, smarter way to access talent that, in a fairer world, would already belong to Indonesia by descent.
The second frame is built on skepticism about authenticity — the suspicion that these players do not feel what a player who grew up dreaming of the national team feels. This frame does not usually deny that the players have Indonesian blood. It questions whether blood is the same thing as belonging. A player who was born in Tilburg, trained in a Dutch academy, and only learned of his Indonesian grandmother's hometown as an adult is, in this view, a different category of Indonesian than the player who grew up in Surabaya idolising the team he later joined.
The third frame is about what gets lost — concern that leaning on the diaspora pipeline, however effective in the short term, comes at the cost of developing the country's own footballing infrastructure. Why build academies, invest in coaching, and be patient with a generation of homegrown talent, when a faster route to results exists in the Eredivisie's reserve squads?
All three frames are visible in the same week of coverage, sometimes in the same article. This is not a country that has made up its mind. It is a country actively negotiating, in public, what it means for a stranger with the right grandparent to wear the same shirt as the players who were born wanting to wear it.
The Voice From Inside the Policy
The most interesting perspective on this does not come from a pundit or a politician. It comes from one of the first players who ever went through the process.
Stefano Lilipaly and Sergio van Dijk were among the earliest of this diaspora wave to play for Indonesia, years before the current generation made the pathway mainstream. Van Dijk, who still follows Indonesian football closely and refers to the country as "we," has expressed real sympathy for the broader project while raising the same concern that researchers identified independently: "There are definitely downsides. My main concern already was we are looking at results... the local players could feel demotivated at this moment, not having a chance to make it or having a very difficult chance to make it into the national team."
This is not the voice of an outsider dismissing the project. It is the voice of someone who benefited from it directly, who still wants Indonesia to succeed, and who is nonetheless naming the exact tension the country has not resolved: that a policy built to close the gap with the rest of Asia might be quietly widening a different gap, between the players who are flown in to fix the problem and the players who were already there trying to grow into the solution.
The Colonial Layer Nobody Can Fully Set Aside
There is a historical layer to this that makes the Indonesian case different from, say, the various Gulf states' programmes of naturalising athletes with no ancestral connection to the country at all — the El Loco pathway, exported and scaled.
The overwhelming majority of this diaspora generation were born in the Netherlands — the country that colonised Indonesia for over three centuries and fought a brutal war to prevent its independence. In 2022, the Dutch prime minister formally apologised after a government-commissioned study confirmed the Dutch military had used what the report called "systematic and extreme violence" during Indonesia's fight for independence. That history sits, mostly unspoken, underneath every conversation about a national team now built substantially from players developed in Dutch academies, carrying Dutch passports until the moment they chose otherwise.
Some commentators have read this as an uncomfortable irony — a nation reaching back into the colonial relationship that once denied it sovereignty, in order to build the team that now represents that sovereignty on a football pitch. Others read it differently: as a quiet, almost poetic reversal, in which the descendants of people who were displaced or who emigrated under colonial-era conditions are now choosing, entirely voluntarily, to return their footballing talent to the homeland their grandparents left. Both readings can be true of the same player at the same time.
Blood, Passport, and What Belonging Actually Requires
Underneath all three media frames, and underneath the colonial history, sits a single psychological question that the policy forces every Indonesian fan to answer for themselves, whether they realise it or not: what actually makes someone belong to a place?
Is it where you were born? Most of this diaspora generation were not born in Indonesia. Is it where you were raised, where your habits and instincts and first football memories were formed? By that standard, they belong to the Netherlands, not Indonesia. Is it blood — the simple, undeniable fact of a grandmother from Manado or a grandfather from Makassar, carried forward into a body that grew up an ocean away? This is the standard the diaspora pathway is built on, and it is also the standard that media skepticism most often pushes back against, because blood alone has never been enough to satisfy most people's intuitive sense of belonging.
Or is it something closer to what Shayne Pattynama described — not a fact about where you are from, but a choice about where you decide your story has to go. Pattynama did not claim Indonesian citizenship simply because his bloodline allowed it. He claimed it, by his own account, because it was a way of honouring a father who was no longer alive to see it. That is not a fact about geography. It is an act of will.
This is probably the most honest answer the country has access to. Claiming the citizenship makes the legal belonging possible. It does not, on its own, manufacture the emotional belonging that turns a player in an unfamiliar stadium into someone the crowd around him recognises as theirs. That has to be built separately, match by match, through performance and visible commitment and the slow accumulation of a player choosing, repeatedly, to mean it.
Some of these players will do that work and become as beloved as anyone who grew up dreaming of the shirt. Some will not, and the doubt the skepticism frame voices will turn out to have been justified in their specific case. The pathway cannot guarantee which outcome any individual player will produce. What it can do — what it has already done — is give a country that spent decades underachieving something it had rarely had before: a reason to believe, even if the belief is complicated, even if 31.5 percent of the country thinks there might now be too much of a good thing — and even if "naturalised" was never quite the right word for what most of them actually are.
What It Looks Like From the Inside
The word the conversation keeps using is "naturalised." And it is still the wrong word — not just as a technicality, but as a description of what actually happened. Naturalisation implies a state granting something to someone who did not previously have it. What Indonesia has been doing with this wave of players is closer to the opposite: recognising something that was always already there. The blood existed before the passport. The eligibility existed before the federation made the call. The paperwork caught up to a fact, rather than manufacturing one.
On the 5th of June 2026, at Gelora Bung Karno Stadium in Jakarta, a seventeen-year-old defender named Mathew Baker came off the bench during Indonesia's 3-0 win over Oman and became the youngest player ever to debut for the senior national team. That night, he posted to Instagram: "Indonesia, there are no words that can truly describe how proud I am to make my debut for my country. Last night is a memory that will last a lifetime."
No survey statistic, no media frame, no academic argument explains that sentence better than the sentence explains itself. Baker did not become Indonesian on the day he took the oath. He always was. That is what separates this wave from naturalisation in the way the word is usually meant — from El Loco Gonzalez arriving from Uruguay with no ancestral claim, from the Gulf states processing foreign athletes with nothing more than residency and ambition. This is not a state manufacturing eligibility. This is a state recognising something that was always already true.
The debate will continue. The question of what belonging actually requires — blood, upbringing, feeling, choice — will never be fully settled, because it is not a question with a clean answer. Countries have been wrestling with versions of it for as long as they have had borders and the people who move across them.
But Baker on that pitch in Jakarta, at seventeen, in a red and white shirt, is the whole argument made visible. Not naturalised. Not recruited. Not processed. Just — finally, formally, officially — home.
"If you're good enough, you're old enough." Sir Matt Busby said it first. Ferguson inherited it. And for decades, it shaped how Manchester United — and much of football — thought about youth.
The quote is still repeated. It still sounds right. But it only tells half the story. Because being old enough to play and being young enough not to break under the weight of playing are two entirely different things. And the difference between them is not talent. It is everything that talent has not yet been asked to carry.
What Youth Actually Is
The young player is not just physically different from the experienced one. They are psychologically different in a specific and important way.
They are fearless because they do not yet know what they have to lose. The 17-year-old who makes their debut does not carry the weight of previous failures, the memory of injuries, the accumulated awareness of exactly how badly things can go wrong. They play with a freedom that is not confidence — it is the specific psychological state of someone who has not yet updated their risk tolerance to match the actual stakes.
Psychologists call this risk homeostasis — the idea that humans maintain a consistent internal sense of what feels acceptable risk. Young players have not yet recalibrated. The challenge that feels reckless to a veteran feels completely natural to someone who has never felt the consequences of losing. Which is why teenagers attempt things experienced players would not — and occasionally produce something extraordinary as a result.
The experienced player's composure is built from the opposite process. Stress inoculation — repeated exposure to high-pressure situations, survived — produces a player who has been in this moment enough times that the fear no longer controls them. They read the game rather than react to it. They know where the danger is coming from before it arrives. But the fearlessness built on not knowing what was at stake has been replaced by a very clear awareness of what is at stake — which produces caution, the preference for the safe option, the instinct to protect what they have built.
Both are real. Both are necessary. The question is what happens in between.
The Ones Who Burst
Micah Richards made his Manchester City debut at 17. England debut at 18 — the youngest defender ever to represent the country. He described his early career in his own words, unprompted, on live television: "I burst onto the scene, didn't I? And I was going to be the next best thing."
Roy Keane challenged him immediately. "Did you burst onto the scene? Very few defenders burst onto the scene."
Richards held his ground. "I played for Man City at 17 and England at 18. I would say that's bursting onto the scene."
He was right. He did burst. The speed, the power, the fearlessness — a right-back who attacked with the conviction of someone who had not yet been taught to be careful. By his own assessment, it was also where things began to go wrong. "If you see me when I first burst onto the scene, you see how quickly I could turn for a big lad and how fast I was up and down the pitch. Then I started picking and choosing my time to go forwards because I was scared of my hamstring going or my knee not dealing with it."
That sentence is the whole story. The fearlessness replaced by fear. Not through wisdom, not through the composure that experience is supposed to build — through injury and the body's memory of what pain feels like. Richards retired at 31. Gary Neville — steady, consistent, never electric — played until 35. At some point on a television programme, Neville turned to Richards and said: "You're 34, you should still be playing."
The tortoise outlasting the hare. The man who never burst onto the scene, telling the man who did, that he gave up too soon.
The Weight of Being the Next Someone
Bojan Krkić scored more goals in Barcelona's youth system than Lionel Messi. He broke Messi's record as the youngest player to debut for the Barcelona first team. He was 17 years old and the world had already decided what he would become.
He did not become it. Not because the talent was absent — the talent was extraordinary. Because the weight of being declared a generational talent before you have had time to become a person is a specific psychological burden that has nothing to do with football ability and everything to do with anxiety.
Bojan later revealed that he had been quietly suffering anxiety attacks throughout the period the world was watching him most closely. He missed a Spain call-up not due to injury but due to an anxiety attack — a fact concealed at the time. "I didn't go to the European Championship because of anxiety issues but we said I was going on holiday. Football's not interested."
Football was not interested. Which is precisely the problem. The fearlessness of youth had been overwhelmed not by experience but by expectation — the specific and suffocating pressure of being told at 17 that you are the future of the greatest football club in the world. The risk homeostasis that should have protected his fearlessness was broken not by defeats or injuries but by the relentless weight of a comparison he had not asked for and could not escape.
Bojan's response later in life was instructive: "People say I failed in football. But I didn't fail in football. I played football." This is not the defiance it sounds like. It is the specific peace of someone who has separated their identity from the story the world tried to write about them. The failure was not his. It was football's — the culture that placed everything on the shoulders of a teenager and expected him to carry it without complaint.
The Exception
Kobbie Mainoo is 21 years old. He scored in an FA Cup final at 18. He started a European Championship semi-final in the same summer. He recently signed a contract keeping him at Manchester United until 2031.
His defining quality, according to almost everyone who has worked with him, is composure. Not the composure of the experienced player — the hard-won, stress-inoculated calm of someone who has been through the fire. The composure of someone who arrived already grounded. His academy director described him as "a really cool customer all the way through the journey — in love with the game, grounded, respectful, focused."
Mainoo is the rare case where the thesis of this piece does not quite apply. He is not fearless in the way youth produces fearlessness — reckless, electric, unaware of consequences. He is not cautious in the way experience produces caution — careful, conservative, aware of stakes. He is something less common: a young player who is already operating in the space between those two things. Who has the freedom of youth and the groundedness of experience simultaneously.
The contrast with Matthijs de Ligt is instructive. De Ligt emerged at Ajax with similar promise — youngest captain in the club's history at 18, youngest player to start a European final, sold to Juventus for €85.5 million. He was everything a defender could be at 19. Then Juventus — a conservative, results-driven system built around not losing rather than winning expressively — placed that player inside a defensive structure that required exactly the opposite of what had made him extraordinary. The fearlessness was not eroded by injury or expectation. It was simply not needed. And a quality that is not needed tends, gradually, to disappear.
What the Quote Actually Means
"If you're good enough, you're old enough" is true. The evidence is everywhere — Mainoo in an FA Cup final, Mbappé in a World Cup final at 19, Bojan's extraordinary youth statistics, Richards' first touch on the England pitch.
The quote just does not tell you what comes next.
And it is not only a football problem. Every system that accelerates talent — every school that places a gifted child with older peers, every workplace that promotes someone before their contemporaries — is running the same experiment. The person who is good enough to be there is almost never prepared for everything that comes with being there. The academic acceleration that compresses nine years of school into seven produces a student who can handle the curriculum and must simultaneously navigate being the youngest person in every room — for years. The employee promoted early sits at a senior grade while colleagues who started before them are still at the level below. The grade says one thing. The room's dynamics often say another. Being good enough to be there and being old enough to carry everything that comes with being there are two different questions. Football just asks them both at once, in public, in front of tens of thousands of people.
Being good enough to play is not the same as having the support systems to survive playing. The fearlessness that makes the young player electric is not a permanent condition — it is a specific psychological state that can be eroded by injury, by expectation, by environment, by the culture of professional football that has never been particularly good at protecting the very thing it most rewards.
The best young players are not the ones who simply have the talent. They are the ones whose fearlessness survives contact with everything that tries to remove it — the pressure, the expectation, the injuries, the wrong managers, the right managers who still cannot quite accommodate what makes them different.
Gary Neville never burst onto the scene. He was not electric. He was not fearless in the way that generates headlines. He was good enough, steady enough, composed enough — and he played until 35, outlasting the ones who were more thrilling to watch.
The tortoise does not always win. Sometimes the hare is Mbappé and the hare wins everything.
But sometimes the hare is Micah Richards, scared of his hamstring, picking and choosing his moments, retiring at 31 while the tortoise is still in the studio asking why he stopped.
Good enough to play is just the beginning. What happens after is the whole story.
misterillahi•Jun 26, 2026 Every time you run the deep research feature on Claude, there's a real computational cost behind it. Tokens get processed, the model "thinks" through extended reasoning, web searches run, and a long answer gets assembled. That cost is invisible to the individual user because it's wrapped into one flat price, which is a monthly subscription. But once we try to translate that into an actual dollar figure, the picture gets interesting and that’s what this article digs into.
Foto oleh Google DeepMind di Unsplash
This piece tries to answer two questions: what does one deep research session actually cost when converted to API pricing, and what happens to that value when the resulting research is shared publicly instead of kept to yourself.
What Claude.ai Subscriptions Cost Right Now
Before getting into the math, it helps to align on the baseline pricing. Claude Pro is $20/month, and includes access to the latest models, extended reasoning, and MCP connectors. For users who need more headroom, there are two Max tiers: Max 5× at $100/month and Max 20× at $200/month, offering five and twenty times Pro's usage allowance respectively.
Outside of subscriptions, there's also the Claude API, billed per token. That's the yardstick we'll use to translate one research session into a concrete dollar figure.
Pricing Out a Single Deep Research Session
A deep research session isn't a single back-and-forth exchange. Several components contribute to the token count:
Component
Estimated Tokens
Notes
Initial input (prompt + context)
~10,000
Question and instructions
Web search & fetch
~20,000
Articles retrieved and processed by the model
Extended thinking
~30,000
Internal reasoning before answering
Final output
~5,000
Roughly 3,500–4,000 words of research output
Total
~65,000 tokens
For an Opus-class model, API pricing runs $15 per million input tokens and $75 per million output tokens. Based on the assumptions above, the rough math is:
Input (including web search and thinking): 60,000 tokens × $15/million ≈ $0.90
Output: 5,000 tokens × $75/million ≈ $0.375
Total per session: roughly $1.27
This is obviously an estimate and it could be lower with a Sonnet-class model, or higher for a much longer and more complex research task. But as a rough benchmark, one reasonably thorough deep research session is worth a little over a dollar if paid for directly through the API.
How Many Sessions Does One Subscription Actually Buy?
The next question: out of the $20/month paid for Pro, how many deep research sessions does that actually translate to?
This is a bit messy because Claude doesn't meter usage per message, it meters by computational load. A short conversation can consume a much smaller share of quota than a single deep research session involving many tool calls and long reasoning chains. The difference can run 10–20x. With a conservative assumption, an active Pro user running this feature regularly might get somewhere around 15–20 deep research sessions per month before hitting the limit.
Mapped to API-equivalent value:
Plan
Price/month
Est. Sessions/month
Equivalent API value
Difference
Pro
$20
~15–20
~$19–25
roughly break-even
Max 5×
$100
~75–100
~$95–127
modest savings
Max 20×
$200
~300–400
~$380–500
meaningful savings
The takeaway so far: from a pure compute-cost standpoint, the Pro subscription is roughly break-even against API pricing. The real value of subscribing isn't dollar savings, it's convenience: no API billing to manage, no token limits to track, no infrastructure to maintain.
The Turning Point: What Happens When Research Gets Shared
This is where the math gets more interesting. Up to this point, a single deep research session worth roughly $1.27 in compute cost. Typically stops with one person: whoever ran it. The output sits in a chat history, maybe gets copied into personal notes, and that's it.
Now picture a different scenario: that research gets published as a public article. Someone else who needs similar information no longer has to run the research from scratch, they just read it.
Run the numbers with conservative assumptions:
One Pro user runs 15 research sessions per month ($20)
Every result gets published as an article
Each article is read by an average of 500 people (a reasonable figure for a niche article shared within a community or on social media)
Without that article, some share of those 500 readers would likely have sought the same information another way — including running their own AI research
If all 500 of those readers had to run equivalent research independently through the API, the total cost would be 500 × $1.27 ≈ $635 per article.
Multiplied across 15 articles a month:
Metric
Value
Subscription cost
$20/month
Articles published
15/month
Readers per article (estimate)
500 people
Compute value per research session
$1.27
Total potential value saved for the community
~$9,525/month
Ratio vs. subscription cost
~476×
That 476× figure is obviously not a precise calculation, it depends entirely on assumptions about reader count and how relevant the research is to them. But the underlying direction holds: the value of one research session doesn't disappear after the first person reads it. Once published, the same value can be reused by different people, with no additional compute cost for each subsequent reader.
Why This Matters
There's a real access gap in how AI gets used today. Not everyone can afford a $20/month subscription, let alone $100–200 for a Max tier. Not everyone has the time or the skill to write a good research prompt either. But once one person has done that research well and shared it openly, others without the same access can still benefit from it for free, without needing to understand how the AI works at all.
This isn't a new argument. Libraries, open-access journals, and Wikipedia all run on the same logic. But with AI capable of producing deep research in minutes, the scale and speed at which knowledge could be distributed this way is potentially much larger than before. Provided there's a channel that makes "research on AI, then publish publicly" as frictionless as possible.
How to Actually Share It: The Frasa Connector
All of this math is interesting in theory, but it only matters if sharing research is actually easy. If publishing a deep research session requires copy-pasting into a separate publishing tool, reformatting, and manually posting it somewhere, most people simply won't bother and the 476x multiplier stays theoretical.
This is the gap the Frasa connector for Claude.ai is built to close. Frasa is a custom MCP (Model Context Protocol) connector that lets Claude publish directly to Frasa.io. Turning a finished research session into a public article without leaving the chat.
Setup takes three steps:
Open Custom Connectors in claude.ai settings
Enter the Frasa MCP server (api.frasa.io/mcp)
Connect — done. Claude can now publish to Frasa on request
Once connected, the workflow looks like this:
Run deep research in Claude → ask Claude to publish it via Frasa → it's live as a public article on Frasa.io
With the connector, there are no extra steps. You don't copy, reformat, or repost anything. The gap between "I just learned something useful" and "other people can now read it" basically disappears.
The connector doesn't change the math from before. It just makes that math real. The 476x multiplier only happens if sharing is as easy as the research itself, and this is what makes it that easy.
So the earlier numbers come down to one simple point. The question was never whether research is worth sharing, because it clearly is. The hard part was always the effort it took to share it. When you drop that effort close to zero, sharing stops being a rare one-time thing and becomes a normal habit for thousands of people.
wibowo•Jun 20, 2026On the 7th of June 2026, Omar Abdulkadir Artan arrived at Miami International Airport carrying a Somali diplomatic passport and FIFA documentation. He was Africa's reigning Referee of the Year, selected as one of 52 referees for the 2026 World Cup, and would have been the first Somali ever to officiate at football's biggest stage.
He was detained for eleven hours, then placed on a return flight. Somalia is on President Trump's travel ban list. FIFA confirmed Artan "will be unable to train and officiate" — the same FIFA whose president had promised, less than a year earlier: "Everyone will be welcome in Canada, Mexico and the United States for the FIFA World Cup."
That promise lasted until the first Somali passport reached the border. Artan's own response was more gracious than the situation deserved: "Despite the circumstances, I am in a positive mood." A man who had officiated through explosions in Mogadishu to reach the World Cup, turned away at Miami, telling the world he was fine.
This is the tournament that was supposed to bring the world together.
The World That Cannot Come
Artan's case is not isolated. By mid-2025, Trump's travel bans covered 19 countries — over 400 million people — including four World Cup qualifiers: Iran, Haiti, Senegal and Ivory Coast. Amnesty International issued a formal travel advisory warning fans they face arbitrary denial of entry, arrest, detention and deportation.
The World Cup's emotional power has always rested on a partial fiction: that for one month, borders become irrelevant and politics recedes. That fiction requires the host to at least perform openness. When the referee is sent home and 400 million people live under restrictions that make attending impossible, the performance collapses.
The pattern repeated at every port of entry. Uzbekistan's squad — including staff connected to their coach, World Cup winner Fabio Cannavaro — were filmed lined up with sniffer dogs and metal detector wands. Cannavaro's response: "They said to me it's the rules, but in the end the check was only for us." Iraq's striker Aymen Hussein was held seven hours at Chicago O'Hare; his team's photographer was held over ten and never let in. Senegal's players were searched on an airport tarmac. None of these were people under any specific suspicion beyond the country printed on their passport.
A World Cup winner being told the rules apply differently to him is not a footnote. It is the tournament stating its own character.
The Geopolitical Intruder
Iran qualified through merit. They are playing three group stage matches in the US — yet their base is in Tijuana, Mexico, because Washington will not allow Iranian officials to remain on American soil between matches. More than a dozen coaches and staff were barred entirely.
Trump initially said Iran should not play at all. Infantino talked him out of it: "Gianni is fantastic. He's a friend of mine." A qualified nation's participation, settled by a private conversation between two men. The US and Iran are in active military conflict, and a team is crossing that border to play matches and crossing back again. FIFA's response to questions about it: "chill and relax."
What the Tournament Sounds and Costs Like
Beyond the borders, the tournament has been reshaped in its own image. FIFA confirmed a halftime show at the final — a first — prompting fan reactions like "Superbowl 2.0" and "they are ruining our beautiful game." The official song, Lighter by Jelly Roll, drew comparisons to a truck commercial: "We went from Waka Waka to this?" Dynamic pricing has made this the most expensive World Cup in history, with final tickets reaching $32,970 on resale — seven times the equivalent in Qatar. Football Supporters Europe called it a "monumental betrayal."
The same instinct shows up in how strictly the tournament protects its sponsors. Jamal Musiala was made to tape over the logo on his own headphones. Levi's Stadium was temporarily renamed. Gillette Stadium covered its own signage with an estimated 60,000 pieces of tape. The infrastructure for control clearly exists — it has simply been pointed at branding rather than at hospitality. (Even England wasn't spared the surrounding chaos, just a gentler version of it: two truck drivers were charged after $18,000 of training kit, including Harry Kane and Jude Bellingham's match boots, went missing in transit — along with, improbably, two stuffed lion mascots.)
None of these are accidents. They are coherent choices by an organisation that has decided this World Cup is primarily an American entertainment product, packaged accordingly. Defensible for a domestic event. A category error for one that derives its meaning from being global.
The Dilution Nobody Wanted to Name
Before any of the political controversies, before the song and the halftime show, there was a quieter problem that the football world largely accepted without sufficient resistance: 48 teams.
The 2026 World Cup is the first to feature 48 national teams, expanded from 32. This means 104 matches instead of 64. More matches means more games between teams of significantly different quality — the mismatches that produce 6-0 results in group stages and empty stadiums in cities that drew a lower-profile fixture. It means a longer tournament in which individual matches carry less urgency, because the path to the knockout stage is wider. It means more football and, paradoxically, less meaning per match.
The scarcity principle — the thing that makes each World Cup match feel significant — is built on constraint. When there are 64 matches, each one is precious. When there are 104, the mathematics of attention work against the tournament. Fans and viewers calibrate their emotional investment to the stakes involved. When more games have lower stakes, the average emotional intensity of the tournament declines.
The expansion was sold as democratisation — giving more nations the chance to participate, broadening the tournament's global reach. The reality is that it was driven by commercial logic. More matches means more broadcast rights, more sponsorship inventory, more revenue. FIFA projected $14 billion in revenue from the 2026 tournament. The 16 additional teams are not there because they make the football better. They are there because they make the financial model larger.
What a World Cup Actually Is — And Whether the Numbers Agree
The World Cup's power has never come from the football alone — extraordinary football happens every week, in the Champions League, in continental finals. What the World Cup uniquely produces is collective effervescence, Durkheim's term for the shared emotional energy generated when large groups gather around one experience simultaneously. At its peak — 1998, 2006, 2010 — that meant the sense of the entire world watching the same thing at once. That feeling requires actual universality, not performed universality: the world has to be able to watch, and has to feel invited.
FIFA's answer to any of this is to point at the numbers — over 500 million ticket requests against six to seven million tickets, more sold than 2022, 2018, or 2014. The numbers are real, and also misleading. This is the first World Cup hosted by three nations with a combined population north of 500 million, and the first with 48 teams and 104 matches instead of 64 — structurally guaranteed to set demand records regardless of how any individual fan feels.
The more honest test is how the rest of the world — no team in the tournament, no home advantage — is responding. There, the picture changes. European travel bookings to US host cities are down roughly 5 percent, Asian bookings down 3.6 percent, despite a weaker dollar making the trip cheaper than last year. South American bookings — from the continent possibly watching Messi's last World Cup — are essentially flat. Even inside the host nation, only around a third of Americans say they plan to watch at all, well below what the same population delivers for the Super Bowl.
What this suggests is that the people buying tickets and the people who used to feel something about the World Cup are no longer reliably the same people. Host-nation buyers and farewell-tour chasers can break every demand record FIFA wants to publish. None of it requires the neutral fan — watching purely because the World Cup once felt like the whole world inside one moment together — to still feel that pull. The travel data suggests a meaningful number of them no longer do.
When the Somali referee is sent home, when 400 million people live under travel restrictions, when the song sounds like a truck commercial and the final ticket costs more than most people's annual salary — the collective effervescence is not possible. A subset of the world is gathering, in one country's image, on one organisation's commercial terms. A tournament can be the most attended in history and still be the one that fewer people, proportionally, actually wanted.
That is not a World Cup.
The Promise
FIFA president Gianni Infantino said: "Everyone will be welcome in Canada, Mexico and the United States for the FIFA World Cup."
Omar Artan arrived at Miami airport with a valid FIFA credential, was detained for eleven hours, and was placed on a return flight. He will not officiate a single match.
The promise was broken on the first Somali passport. It will be broken again, quietly and repeatedly, across the duration of a tournament that was supposed to demonstrate football's power to bring the world together — and has instead demonstrated, with uncomfortable precision, exactly how conditional that power is.
The football will still happen. Goals will be scored. Some of them will be extraordinary. There will be moments — there are always moments — that remind you why this game matters. The World Cup cannot be entirely undone by the conditions surrounding it.
But the thing that makes the World Cup the World Cup — the specific, irreplaceable feeling of the whole world gathering in one place, setting everything else aside, watching together — that thing is not here this summer.
This is not a World Cup. It is a tournament. A very large, very expensive tournament, played in a country that cannot quite decide whether it wants the world to come.
misterillahi•Jun 20, 2026 
