That photo from Sunday at the World Cup.
I don’t even need to go any further because you automatically know what I’m talking about.
Spain, world champions, standing on the podium, arms open, ready to hoist the trophy, and Donald Trump planted there with them, soaking up a moment that belonged to somebody else.
FIFA’s president, who has long kissed Trump’s posterior, hurriedly tried to move him out of the way. Physically. At the biggest sporting event on the planet, Trump had to be nudged aside so the actual winners — not a loser like him — could have their time in the sun.
That image is only part of the story of this World Cup.
Go back a few weeks Trump’s direct intervention to overturn U.S. soccer star Folarin Balogun’s World Cup suspension sparked global backlash, with U.S. Soccer officials criticizing the meddling as a “moral stain” on the game.
The U.S. ended up losing its next game. The world celebrated that loss, crying vindication after a cheating Trump tried to fix it.
But the boos that followed the U.S. team after Trump stuck his nose where it didn’t belong weren’t really about the team. They were about him. He cursed America’s chances while the world cursed him.
Two moments. Same malevolent man. Same insidious instinct. Get in the middle of something that isn’t his, make it about him, and let everyone else suffer in his wake.
But not quite.
I live in the New York City area, and for the last month I’ve been taking my usual runs along the Hudson River, past the train stops and ferry landings, and the tourist spots. And it has not looked like my city.
It looked like the world. Jerseys and hats from six continents. Flags I had to look up while I was running because I didn’t recognize them. People stopping dead in the middle of the riverwalk because the skyline caught them off guard.
I watched strangers photograph that breathtaking skyline with their breaths taken away. You could see the awe in their eyes. The excitement.
So I stopped a few people for the purpose of writing this column at the conclusion of the World Cup. I asked them where they were from, what they thought of this country, and what they thought of Donald Trump.
The first people I talked to were, coincidentally, a family from Spain. I suppose that should have been a personal harbinger of who would go on to win.
Father, mother, and two teenage sons, their English coming in pieces. They told me New York had been beautiful to them. Strangers at the train station walking them to the right platform. People at their hotel going out of their way. They were all smiling from ear to ear.
I asked about Trump, and the father didn’t hesitate. He said, in effect, that Americans aren’t like Donald Trump. He said Americans are like the people at the train station and the hotel. That’s what he wanted to take home with him.
I met a retired couple from England near the World Trade Center sculpture around the corner from my building on the Hudson. It was right after the U.S. lost to Belgium. They told me, in no uncertain terms, that what Trump did was wrong. He had no business doing it.
They said they felt sorry for the American players, getting hated for something that wasn’t their fault.
And then Sunday. That humiliating photo. And the world pounced, again, on the egomaniacal Trump. The neediness of it. The narcissism of a man who cannot let a moment exist unless he’s standing in the middle of it. Trump belongs in only one place, Alcatraz, which he wants to upgrade, presumably for his upcoming stay.
But that picture from Sunday. My, oh my. What struck me wasn’t the mockery that came from all sides of the globe. Or the unanimity of the condemnation. The whole world just knew, instantly, what it was looking at.
Here’s what I’ve been thinking about over the last few days. Maybe it was a strange kind of blessing that this World Cup landed in the U.S. in the middle of Trump’s second term.
The world already disliked and mocked him before the tournament started, and sadly, by extension Americans. Now, its worst instincts about him were validated. But that is only one side of the story.
Because the tournament was here, on our sidewalks and subway platforms, on buses and in hotels, all those people didn’t just watch America from a distance. They walked through it. Ate in it. Got lost in it and got helped by strangers who didn’t ask where they were from before pointing them in the right direction.
They’re going home now, to their communities in Spain, England, and to every country whose flag I saw along the Hudson. They’re going to tell two true stories at once. They’ll talk about the ignoramus who couldn’t stay out of a red card review and couldn’t stay out of a trophy photo.
And they’ll talk about the people of the U.S. they encountered, and how wonderful and helpful they were. And how beautiful our country is.
Trump wanted to be the story of this World Cup, and for two ugly — and brief — moments, he was.
Yet his intrusions can be cropped. He wasn’t top of mind to the Spanish father who’s going to tell his sons that Americans aren’t like that. And those kids will nod their heads in agreement.
Trump is temporary. He’s a stain on two moments in a month-long tournament. What the rest of the world actually experienced here was the goodness, the beauty, the celebration, that will travel home with them, remain with them, and stand the test of time.
The post Trump’s World Cup backfire erased him from the global view of America appeared first on Raw Story.
