Donald Trump has always seen himself as Midas, a golden genius whose touch turns everything into triumph.
To much of the world, however, he has the virus touch. Everything he comes into contact with becomes infected. Politics, business, diplomacy, war, justice, truth, even sport.
Nothing is made healthier by his presence. Nothing is left cleaner. He arrives, he spreads, he contaminates the air, then he stands in the middle of the damage, demanding praise for surviving the outbreak he caused.
Now he has managed to mortally infect the World Cup, a tournament he could not be bothered to attend, but then spotted a chance to make it about himself.
A World Cup should belong to players and fans. It should belong to noise, nerves, flags, misses, glory and heartbreak. It should never be bent by a vain, thin-skinned president leaning on his fawning FIFA pal Gianni Infantino because America had got itself into trouble.
Yet that is what happened. Folarin Balogun was shown a red card. In normal football, that means a one-match ban. The player walks, the team takes its punishment, and the tournament carries on.
Then Trump waddled into it, all ego and entitlement. He called Infantino. FIFA looked again. The suspension vanished. Balogun was free to face Belgium.
FIFA can bury it in procedure. Infantino can hide behind polished waffle. Trump can pretend he was asking for fairness. But football fans are not stupid.
They saw a US player sent off, a US president interfere, and a punishment disappear just in time for America’s next match. That is a stitch-up with a match ball.
It was Trump’s rotten act in miniature. The bully gets on the phone. The mate in the suit bends the system. The powerful man gets what he wants.
Everyone else is expected to shut up and pretend nothing stinks. Trump suddenly wanted the world to believe he cared about the US team.
This from a man who had not once gone to back them when it mattered before. He was not there with the supporters, not living every kick, not sweating through earlier group games.
Then a controversy appears, a chance to throw his weight around, and suddenly he is Captain America in a red tie. What a joke. He did not turn up for the team.
He turned up for the camera. He turned up to shove himself into the story. After all that, after leaning on FIFA, after getting America’s supposed star striker – only eligible due to the very birthright citizenship Trump tried to end – back on the pitch, the United States were hammered 4-1 by Belgium.
Beautiful. Brutal. Humiliated.
There it was, the Trump touch in all its grubby glory. Pressure, grievance, favouritism, interference, then humiliation. He tried to tilt the game and still lost.
Belgium made a mockery of the farce: four goals, one answer, no phone call to a powerful friend required. And this keeps happening. Trump turns up around sport like a bad smell drifting into the hospitality suite, then acts shocked when the whole place starts to sour.
Look at the Ryder Cup. He flew in to give America a jolt of patriotic Trump magic, as if a glimpse of his orange face would send the US team charging across the Bethpage Black course like heroes in a campaign advert.
Instead, Europe had them on toast. The home side were left chasing shadows while Trump’s visit brought queues, security chaos and the unmistakable sense that yet another great sporting event had been dragged into his travelling circus.
Then there were the Kansas City Chiefs. Trump picked them to win the Super Bowl. He backed Patrick Mahomes and the reigning champions to get the job done.
The Chiefs then went out and were battered by the Philadelphia Eagles. Another Trump blessing, another sporting curse. If he tipped rain in Manchester, you would pack sun cream.
This is the man who likes to brag that he knows sport “very well” because he was supposedly a “great athlete”. Remember, this is the same Donald Trump who received five Vietnam draft deferments, including one for supposed bone spurs. Some athlete. Some tough guy.
His fans call him a winner. The myth collapses like one of his gaudy old casinos. Trump Vodka. Trump Steaks. Trump University. Bankrupt ventures, failed products, cheap boasts, and other people left clearing up the damage.
He does the same in politics. He does not solve problems. He pokes them until they bleed. Nothing is too serious to be dragged down to the level of his ego.
Ask New York Knicks fans. They had a 13-game winning streak. Then Trump turned up at Madison Square Garden, and the streak ended. Sport runs on superstition, and he brings the atmosphere of a blocked drain wherever he goes.
Then there is his TikTok bragging. There he was claiming to be the most popular person on the platform, as if being President of the United States still was not enough attention for him. Still needing to boast about likes. Still needing another hit of applause. Still needing to be told he is loved.
That is the real Trump. A needy, vain, clumsy wrecking ball with a podium. A man who cheapens whatever he touches because he cannot bear anything existing without him at the centre.
The World Cup should be about football. Trump dragged it into his grubby little drama. His ego is so fragile that every stage must carry his name, every crowd must become his crowd, every victory stolen and every defeat blamed on someone else.
He thinks he is Midas. The rest of us can smell what he leaves behind.
