The Republic of Moneyball

Which Saudi club would Billy Beane sign for, you think?

In another utterly normal week in sports, the Riyadh Season Cup, held between Saudi Arabian teams Al-Nassr and Al-Hilal on Thursday, was presented by The Undertaker. Yes, that guy. And no, not in his real-life avatar. He was there in natural skin, as The Undertaker, clad in his signature black ensemble - part mortician, part rockstar - and a gaze that could cut through steel. Rumour has it that he once stared down a vulture mid-flight. As things go in football matches, a light and sound show announced his presence. The crowd, a mosaic of football scarves and designer sunglasses, erupted as if summoned by a spell. A constellation of A-list footballers looked on, bemused, maybe wondering if this moving art installation is also going to join them for the game.

As the match got along, and eventually petered out without conjuring up much else to remember, the air above the Kingdom Arena stayed light, lacking the tension that a serious game should carry. To no one’s surprise, honestly. Firstly, the Riyadh Season Cup is part of an annual state-funded sports festival called the Riyadh Season. Secondly, and more importantly, Al-Nassr and Al-Hilal are sister clubs. The Public Investment Fund, a shadowy cabal bankrolled by the Saudi Arabian royal family, owns a 75% stake in these two teams, along with Al-Ittihad and Al-Ahli. That’s four of the biggest teams out of a league of eighteen. In the last two years, they have pillaged footballers from across the globe. These footballers have followed the siren song, almost as if hypnotised. Some in their last laps hoping for a golden exit; some at their peak, unable to look away from the eye-watering numbers on their contract.

Riyadh has been quite the party central in football lately. A few weeks back, it played host to the Supercopa de Espana, a quick tournament amongst the four best teams in Spain. As the organisers had hoped, the marquee card for the final match read: Barcelona vs Real Madrid. An El Clasico is Hollywood incarnate, with all its context and colour. But an El Clasico title clash, bang in the middle of the European football season, is as big a statement as Saudi Arabia could make. They should just splice the Supercopa footage into the Visit Saudi advertisement, showcasing their prowess as host and patron.

With all said and done, the whole event did not seem to stir too much emotion in Riyadh. The crowd's hum felt more like the 12th seed playing 9th rather than a final between two sworn rivals. Perhaps familiarity had softened the edge. The Supercopa was moved to Saudi Arabia in 2019 in a 10-year, 300 million euro deal between the Saudi Government and the Spanish football federation. Many still tuned in for the football, but it was a lot like scrolling through a Vincent van Gogh fan account on Instagram. The shapes are the same, the colours vaguely similar, but there is more than one dimension missing from the original thing.

For a long time, professional sport occupied a peculiar niche - a half-inconsequential, half-romantic space that appealed to very few. The corridors of power, adorned by leather-bound volumes and mahogany furniture, rarely echoed with high-pitched discussions about goals, touchdowns, or matchday drama. Important people were expected to have no time for such trifles. A conversation about sports was akin to lowering the collective IQ of a room by a few notches.

But that discourse has completely changed tone now. The penny has dropped. Investment in popular sports has become a conduit to unparalleled influence on social mobility. Want a foothold in England? Why not acquire a football club from the Premier League, where dreams and bank balances often collide? As you read this, royal families from the Middle East have their tentacles in the football ecosystems of England, France, Spain, the USA, and Australia. The benchmark, however, still belongs to the late Silvio Berlusconi. He once owned half of Italy's press and their most successful football team while also being Prime Minister of the country. That's a level of power at which you own everything you touch.

In 2010, a few months before the voting window for the hosting rights of the FIFA Men's World Cup 2018 and 2022, the Qatari and Thai governments were negotiating an energy deal. Sat between other diplomats that day was Thailand's representative from FIFA. His mandate? A nod towards Qatar at the FIFA Congress will return a better energy deal for his government. Simple.

It is easy to see this as a dilution of a pure industry, but that would be naive. Sport was industrialised the day organisers figured out how to use ticket stubs and television pixels as fuel. The open market beckoned, its vast expanse ripe for exploitation. Ruling monarch involved, check. Transfer of a highly sought-after player sabotaged to clandestinely sneak him into your team, of course. Narco money, doping scandal, match-fixing, they had the entire works.

So why is all this new attention sinister? Because money, flowing from the right fountains, buys you more than a neon board on the outer walls of a stadium. It buys you a penthouse on the top of an industry's ivory tower. Sample this: this football season, English teams Everton and Nottingham Forest have been charged over failing financial rules. Everton, twice. It has been nearly a year since Manchester City, present English and European Champions, were charged with 115 counts of financial fraudulence. I will let that number sink in. One hundred and fifteen charges. The date for their hearing was announced just a couple of weeks back.

City are owned by the Abu Dhabi royal family. There is as much chance of English courts sanctioning them, thus drawing the ire of a key trade ally, as there is of me learning the Produnova. It ain’t happening. The English FA have been waffling, unable to take a strong enough swing at this woolly mammoth, while they slap and sanction smaller, non-threatening teams at the first sign of transgression. And as this case simmers in the background, City still feel strong enough to threaten the Premier League with legal armageddon over a potential bill that places stricter laws on transfers.

The bigger problem is that even a step in this direction was a step too far. And we have come a mile. The lessons that should've been learnt during Berlusconi's early rule in the late 80s and 90s are costing football dearly today. Manchester City won't be the last to test the tensile strength of a sport. Sometime last week, European football's governing body, UEFA, voted on rules that allow their president to hold their chair for well beyond the limit that was once imposed to prevent consolidation of power. For nearly a decade, neither UEFA nor FIFA, or indeed the International Olympic Committee, have had a proper presidential election. I heard the memory foam on those executive chairs is wild.

There was a time, maybe not too long ago, when the absurdity of the Undertaker at a football game would've made for a good essay. In 2024, it’s another mundane Thursday. Consecutive World Cups in Russia and Qatar were not smoke signals for a nefarious incursion, but the planting of a flag atop the citadel.

I giggled for at least five minutes after watching the Undertaker clip. At first, it was just visually funny. But then, I began to appreciate the even more hilarious symbolism of calling a made-up character from a scripted, toxic, made-up sport to unveil a trophy. Professional sport is walking on the same path as entertainment wrestling. Once contested by actual athletes, it took the shape of a performed show until the entire ecosystem was taken over by suits who only knew the scent of a freshly minted bill and actors with steroid running through their veins.

Which begs the question - how long before The Rock is handed the mic at Wimbledon?