The mob has won, and frankly, I am disgusted. Following a relentless pressure campaign from legacy soccer purists and vocal internet populists, Major League Soccer has completely walked back its brave, necessary stance on the US Open Cup. According to reports, the league will force all 27 of its US-based franchises to return to the historic tournament next year, ending a brief, shining three-year period where top-flight American soccer attempted to shield its ownership class from the indignity of the working poor.
Fans of the sport are framing this as a massive victory for tradition, given that the single-elimination tournament has run continuously since 1914 and pits teams from every tier of the American soccer pyramid against one another. But let’s be honest: just because something has existed since the Wilson administration does not mean it possesses intrinsic value. We used to have child coal miners in 1914, and we bravely phased those out. Why are we refusing to phase out the archaic practice of forcing half-billion-dollar sports franchises to share a pitch with a team of amateur substitute teachers?
I was discussing this very issue over a three-hour omakase lunch with a source close to leadership at a prominent sports holding company, and you could see the sheer exhaustion in his eyes. He had spent the morning reviewing the real estate zoning permits for a new $800 million mixed-use stadium district. Now, because of this mandate, he has to allocate mental bandwidth to the possibility that his team might have to travel to a municipal athletic complex in Omaha, Nebraska, to play a squad sponsored by a local HVAC repair company.
It is a profound injustice. MLS owners have spent decades carefully constructing a closed-loop cartel. They pay exorbitant expansion fees—sometimes upwards of $500 million—specifically to ensure they never have to face the threat of relegation, and to guarantee their assets only interact with other equally expensive assets. The US Open Cup shatters this pristine walled garden by introducing the horrifying concept of sporting merit.
Imagine the psychological toll on a Major League Soccer designated player, a man who earns $6 million a year and models for luxury watch brands in his spare time, when he steps onto a public park field surrounded by a chain-link fence. Imagine the sheer terror of knowing you are about to be aggressively slide-tackled by a twenty-four-year-old named Gary who lays tile for a living and drove to the match in a 2011 Honda Civic. It is not just unsafe; it is profoundly insulting to the concept of generational wealth.
It is fundamentally un-American to suggest that a group of men who practice twice a week after their shifts at Home Depot should be allowed on the same grass as a depreciable corporate asset.
We love to romanticize the "magic of the cup." The media fawns over the underdog narrative, celebrating when a Goliath falls to a David in a stunning upset. We have built an entire societal mythology around the idea that heart, grit, and community can triumph over capital. But what about Goliath’s feelings? Goliath employs a massive public relations agency. Goliath secures massive tax subsidies from local municipalities. Goliath has shareholders to answer to.
When an amateur club from Des Moines miraculously manages to score a stoppage-time winner against a multi-million-dollar MLS roster, the fans cheer. But no one stops to think about the executive suite. No one thinks about the Chief Revenue Officer who has to sit in a Monday morning Zoom meeting and explain to a private equity board why the brand’s valuation was just dented by a part-time podiatrist who scored off a corner kick.
This is about the messaging we are sending to the titans of industry. The precedent MLS tried to set by withdrawing from the cup was incredibly brave. They were standing up for the right of the ultra-wealthy to simply opt out of anything that might briefly embarrass them. It was a beacon of hope for every billionaire who just wants to operate a monopoly in peace.
Instead, they have capitulated to the base. They have doubled down on participation, bowing to fans who demand "authentic competition"—two words that have absolutely no place in modern American sports entertainment.
Think about the dangerous macroeconomic precedent this sets. If we allow this in soccer, where does it end? Should Apple be forced to enter a regional technology fair and have its flagship iPhone judged against a ham radio a guy soldered together in his garage? Should Goldman Sachs be forced to compete in a local accounting bee against H&R Block? Of course not. We protect our dominant institutions from the indignity of having to prove their worth against the lower classes in every other sector of the economy.
We spent four years and seventy million dollars cultivating a premium, frictionless matchday aesthetic, and now our center-back is being marked by a guy who just ate a gas station hot dog. It’s basically a war crime.
I am well aware that my stance will be unpopular with the so-called purists who populate the bleachers. I will undoubtedly be accused of being an out-of-touch elitist who doesn't understand the soul of the beautiful game. But I am merely asking the questions no one else has the courage to ask. Who is protecting the investment portfolios? Who is safeguarding the emotional stability of the holding companies?
The next time you are standing on a set of aluminum bleachers at a local sports complex, sipping a lukewarm beer and cheering for a plucky semi-pro club to make a deep run in the Open Cup, I want you to stop and look at the opposing sideline. Look past the highly paid athletes and the coaching staff, and think about the luxury suites sitting empty back in the host city. Think about the silent, invisible victims of this tragedy: the executives, forced to temporarily acknowledge that people with less money than them exist, and occasionally, know how to play soccer.