It is time we admitted that "crony capitalism on steroids" is exactly what the World Cup needs

I was enjoying my morning espresso and a rather delightful artisanal brioche when I read the latest hand-wringing from the sports media. Three writers, reviewing the first week of the World Cup, had the absolute audacity to describe the event as “crony capitalism on steroids.” They wrote this as if it were an insult. They wrote this as if a hyper-accelerated, chemically enhanced network of billionaires trading favors wasn't the precise mechanism that makes civilization function.

I had to set my espresso down. The sheer, unadulterated naivete of the working press never ceases to amaze me. Yes, the history of global soccer is, in some sense, a history of the world’s political problems. But why must we insist on calling them “problems”? Why can we not call them “synergies”?

Let us break down this supposed insult. First, there is the word “crony.” What is a crony, really, other than a friend who happens to control a massive sovereign wealth fund or a global soft-drink conglomerate? Is it now a crime to have successful friends? When I summer in the Hamptons or attend Davos, my cronies and I frequently collude on small matters—reserving the best tennis courts, suppressing local property taxes, restructuring the global supply chain to bypass environmental regulations. It is entirely natural. To suggest that the organizers of a global soccer tournament should not do business with their closest, most obscenely wealthy friends is to deny human nature itself.

Then we have the second half of the phrase: “on steroids.” I am frankly baffled by the negative connotation here. Steroids are a marvel of modern science. They promote exponential growth. They accelerate recovery from devastating injuries. They allow an organism to push past its natural limits and achieve godlike feats of strength. If our global economic system is on steroids, that means it is muscular, vascular, and capable of lifting heavy geopolitical burdens that a natural, un-enhanced economy simply could not budge.

The writers at these liberal publications want a skinny, asthmatic capitalism that asks permission from a zoning board before building a monorail. I want a capitalism that can bench-press a mid-sized constitutional republic without breaking a sweat.

Consider the sheer logistical miracle of hosting a World Cup. You do not build seven air-conditioned stadiums in the middle of a desert through the sluggish, uninspiring mechanisms of participatory democracy. You do not secure multi-billion-dollar broadcasting rights by holding town hall meetings with concerned citizens. You achieve these things through decisive, unquestioned, top-down authority, lubricated by massive amounts of untraceable capital moving through offshore shell companies. This is not corruption. This is efficiency.

I recently had lunch with a senior FIFA executive at a quiet, Michelin-starred establishment overlooking Lake Zurich. The veal was exquisite. Over our second bottle of vintage Bordeaux, he explained to me the incredible burden of orchestrating this spectacle. People simply do not understand the mental toll it takes to ignore that many Amnesty International reports. It requires a level of cognitive endurance that the average fan, complaining about the price of a stadium hot dog, could never comprehend.

We must also spare a thought for the corporate sponsors. Brands like Coca-Cola, Adidas, and Budweiser pour hundreds of millions of dollars into the sport, only to be subjected to relentless moralizing from journalists who have never had to manage a quarterly earnings report. These executives are bravely weathering a PR storm just to bring hydration, footwear, and heavily regulated alcohol to the masses. And how are they repaid? With whining.

We need to stop pretending that sports and politics exist in separate vacuums. The pitch is merely a green-screen projection of the boardroom. When a player scores a brilliant goal, you are not just watching athletic prowess; you are watching the triumphant culmination of decades of backroom deals, broadcast rights negotiations, and the strategic suppression of organized labor. It is poetry in motion.

It is time for the ordinary fans to look past their own petty concerns. Stop worrying about where the money comes from, or who was displaced to build the parking lot, or which specific despotic regime is using the tournament to sportswash its international reputation. That is not your job. Your job is to buy the overpriced replica jersey, cheer for the men kicking the sphere, and silently thank the magnificent, steroid-injected crony capitalists who made it all possible.