I was reminded of an iconic scene from The Simpsons recently, soon after I had capitulated in my self-imposed ban from watching the Club World Cup.
Homer, having died and gone to hell, is sent to the ‘Ironic Punishment Division’, where he is force-fed an endless supply of his favourite sweet treat – donuts – from a conveyer belt.
Here I was, someone who loves football and even depends upon it to make a living, feeling more than a little nauseous from having it crammed endlessly into my cakehole. Unlike Homer, though, it turns out I didn’t possess the insatiable appetite to much stomach being force-fed Gianni Infantino’s gross, overblown spectacle.
I know, I know, no one was actually forcing me to watch it. I could have ignored it completely, as I actually did for most for the tournament.
Whether it was morbid curiosity, the fact I hadn’t seen a game in a couple of weeks or the ‘FOMO’ on another exhibition of PSG’s slick football after their demolition of Real Madrid, I eventually decided to tune into the final, where the Qatar-backed Parisians were in fact blown off the park in the first half by those plucky underdogs, Chelsea, whose squad was assembled for the measly sum of £1.4bn.
Despite the gawdy glitz and glamour though – the half-time show, the thrones perched on high from where Infantino, Donald Trump and their wives surveyed the scene like vultures greedily eyeing the carcass of a once great sport – the overriding feeling was one of apathy.
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Chelsea had won an invitational tournament in the USA, played out during the close season in baking heat. They were crowned ‘World Champions’, even though some of the world’s best clubs were not taking part, while amateur sides like Auckland City (beaten 10-0 by Bayern Munich) were, as a token gesture to the global nature of the tournament. Did anyone really care?
For all the billion-dollar bluster, the tournament remains something of a curiosity rather than a must-see event. At best, it seems to occupy a status no greater than the UEFA Conference League. If that. It is the SPFL Trust Trophy of ‘elite’ competitions.
But over and above the whole dodgy premise and overblown extravagance of this manufactured mishmash of a tournament, there was more to my indifference. It was just too much football. And too much club football, specifically.
The novelty of summer tournaments is, firstly, that they only take place once every two years, and secondly, that they feature national teams.
By the end, despite one South American team, Fluminense, lasting until the semi-final stage, this was little more than a diluted version of the same teams we watch year-on-year slugging it out for real in the Champions League. A tournament which itself has grown a little tired, despite the introduction of the expanded league phase (more games, again) last season.
More important than spectator fatigue though is the issue of player welfare. I am certainly no fan of Infantino and the direction in which he is dragging world football, but Sergio Marchi, president of FIFPRO (a worldwide representative organisation with around 65,000 footballers in their membership) really let him have it this week.
Comparing Infantino to ‘Nero’ and describing the Club World Cup as a ‘fiction’, Marchi let rip.
“FIFPRO cannot fail to point out, with absolute clarity, that this competition hides a dangerous disconnect with the true reality experienced by most footballers around the world,” he said.
“What was presented as a global celebration of football was nothing more than a fiction created by FIFA, promoted by its president, without dialogue, sensitivity and respect for those who sustain the game with their daily efforts.
“A grandiloquent staging inevitably reminiscent of the ‘bread and circuses’ of Nero’s Rome, entertainment for the masses while behind the scenes inequality, precariousness and the lack of protection for the true protagonists deepen.”
Ouch. FIFPRO and other bodies such as the English Premier League are taking legal action against FIFA for the lack of communication before staging this tournament, and in an effort to protect those protagonists - the players - have now struck an agreement with the governing body that ‘there must be at least 72 hours of rest between matches, and that players should have a rest period/holiday of at least 21 days at the end of each season’.
A study conducted on FIFPRO's behalf suggested players should have at least eight weeks of rest between seasons, but I guess it's a start.
For many reasons, it is essential for the future of the game that there is an acceptance within FIFA that it might sometimes actually be ok if there is no top-level football to relentlessly feast upon. For the players, endless seasons not only increase the risk of injury, but fatigue also dilutes the quality of the product for spectators.
"It is warm and it is not easy to play," Courtois said.
"If the games were played in the evening, it would be better for the spectacle."
All of this raises concerns about the staging of the World Cup in the Americas next summer. In true Infantino style, such piffling details such as the players weren’t factored in when deciding to plough ahead with his plan to expand the tournament to 48 teams, and with 104 games to pack into 39 days, you can probably take a decent guess as to whether commercial broadcasting interests will win out or concerns over player welfare.
Also, the only way for the top clubs to cope with the modern schedule is to hoard players, and so the gap between the rich and the rest increases further. ‘World Champions’ Chelsea, for instance, currently have a first-team squad of 43 players. Almost as much as Motherwell last season.
And speaking of the humbler teams who make up the earthlier delights presented to us here in Scotland, most of them are already back in action in the League Cup group stage.
It might just be me as I advance into middle age and grow ever more wistful for those long summers without football - stretches that may have seemed interminable at the time, but made the start of each season an eagerly anticipated event after many weeks, if not months, of being starved of action - but this year, it barely feels like there’s been a close season at all.
I don’t know if I’ll ever reach a point where I truly lose my appetite for football. But increasingly, I’m starting to come round to the notion, unlike our old pals Homer and Gianni, that you can have too much of a good thing.
