NOW IS THE TIME:
HOW WE ARE THE LEADERS WE ARE LOOKING FOR IN WORLD FOOTBALL
By Mel Brennan
http://www.facebook.com/note.php?note_id=200808523296953---
“Soccer is not just what you see on the field.
It is a human activity that never sleeps, that absorbs the time and energy and
the thoughts of millions of people all over the world. It is a world within a
world with its own leaders, its own one hundred years of history, heroes,
triumphs and tragedies. A world no better and no worse than the one we live
in, full of admirable and shameful things, of sublime and sordid moments, of
honorable and disreputable people…"
- Paul Gardner
"A fan? I don't need you to be a f**king fan; I need you to be a businessman.
You - you ARE a capitalist, aren't you?"
- FIFA Executive Chuck Blazer, to the author, CONCACAF Gold Cup Downtown
Marriott, Los Angeles 2002
Part One: 40 Years of Women with Cold Feet
Given the steady doses of light that have been recently shone on FIFA’s secret
world, more and more people are seriously concerning themselves with how the
world’s most popular and prolific sport is being led. Some are reacting with a
recalcitrant pessimism – “What else did you expect?” – while others are
honestly, entirely shocked.
I see a new way forward. And it’s the answer to the questions “Who will lead?”
and “Leadership toward what end?”
Nine days into my tenure as Head of Special Projects for CONCACAF (UEFA’s
equivalent in the Caribbean, North and Central America) my boss – everyone’s
boss – invited me to dinner.
Charles Gordon “Chuck” Blazer, the only multinational General Secretary of a
representative body the size of CONCACAF who is also simultaneously the
Treasurer, had always been possessed of the ability to make everyone he came
across feel pretty good – about themselves and about him. And why not? A guy
who actively reminds one of Santa Claus, Chuck’s gruff voice, authentic smile
and charismatic charm can take hold of a room, and not let go until he’s
connected with everyone in it. Hell, the first thing this rotund man told me
about himself was that he wanted to write a book called “40 Years of Women with
Cold Feet,” an expose of four decades of female efforts to snuggle cold toes
under the enticingly warm folds of his prodigious gut.
And I still wanted to work in world football. More than anything.
Chuck was, and is, a convincer, a consensus-maker. A political set of skills,
for a political job. I looked forward to learning some of those skills, and
others I didn’t have, working in an environment that on the one hand was, no
doubt, a dream job; on the other, it was one I probably didn’t deserve to
enjoy.
Of course, I love world football; I’ve been a PSG and George Weah fan since the
days of that COMMODORE sponsorship, grew up on “Soccer Made in Germany” on our
local public television station, played the sport from age six onward, and am a
founding member of FC United of Manchester, the MyFootballClub/Ebbsfleet United
effort, and even found myself one of the floating managers you could select to
support your club-building efforts in Football Manager 2005.
But these aren’t the bonifides that ought be required to execute football
governance at the highest level, are they?
If CONCACAF were to draw upon the footballing brain trust found within the 40
nations it governs, who, down the hall and across from me in the rareified air
of our Trump Tower New York City offices would still qualify to work there?
Not many, and certainly not me. I was there because I begged to be there, and
I thought that Chuck saw some potential in me to become my preconceived notion
of what a sport administrator and leader should be.
On this night, I would find out differently. I would find out where football’s
money goes, and discover what was the beginning of my falling deeply OUT of
love with world football’s leadership.
Mia Kamran, Chuck’s IT assistant, I soon learned, would join us for dinner. We
would be going somewhere to fellowship and bond as a team, she said, as well as
watch the US Men’s National Team in World Cup Qualifying against Costa Rica.
What a way to start this dream gig, I thought to myself.
Our extended limo driver was singer Gloria Gaynor’s brother, Arthur, and,
although initially suspicious of my (and probably anyone’s) claims to know her,
we soon settled into a friendly discussion about my experiences with Gloria,
her support of my father’s sister in her time of need, our fellowship at
Thanksgiving.
Chuck interrupted with the slightly annoyed look and tone of a man used to
being the center of attention who was finding the conversation drifting away
from his intents, his control.
“Know where we’re headed?” Chuck asked me conspiratorially. “Scores.” He
smiled. “Could be a long night,” he added lightly.
I knew the strip club – it’s a part of Manhattan culture as much as anything
else – but had never been; what I became intimately aware of was Chuck’s focus
on my reaction to this news. Somehow I knew that how I responded to where we
were headed meant much to this man.
I pulled out my phone. I dialed my wife.
“You need to check with your wife?” Chuck bellowed, bemused.
“I need to let her know it could be a long night, like to you said,” I said
cautiously. Chuck, seemingly somehow disappointed, dismissed my response,
moving on to engage Mia, sitting opposite me in the limo.
---
“Welcome back Mr. Blazer,” the doorman announced, opening the door for Chuck’s
unceremonious exit from the limo.
We had a whole section to ourselves – Chuck, Mia, myself, and several other
CONCACAF personnel who would come to comprise what I called The Menagerie –
collections of ostensible misfits who fit perfectly into Chuck’s intents for
them as we all inhabited CONCACAF’s weird space…often, members of The Menagerie
would sit at their workstations all day, playing Solitaire or falling asleep,
until Chuck beamed down a message via AOL instant messenger to them from his
apartment in Trump Tower’s residential section above us, activating them for
some purpose or another…this is where CONCACAF’s money goes; where the money
that springs from the love of the game by hundreds of millions goes. As time
went on, I was determined NOT to be relegated to this “Team B”; for The
Menagerie was seen by the minority of folks who actually did work at CONCACAF
as the price to be paid to be in the good work of world football governance
under a man like Chuck. That group was not going to be me.
But this first night out, as we entered Scores, all I knew was that, well, this
was different for a first night out with the boss.
As we inhabited our section, I spent most of my time talking with Mia –
exploring how she got to CONCACAF (she and Chuck “found each other online”) as
well as the extent of her IT knowledge (“I don’t really know much; Chuck let’s
me figure it out”). Then came the filet mignon and the shoulder massages, both
of which I have to admit were quite nice. Oh yes, and the match was on a small
television mounted in the corner…that too.
When the game, and the fun and games, were all over, Chuck pulled out something
I had never seen before. He handed it to Mia, who handed it to me so I could
hand it to the waitress/masseuse.
An American Express Card, with CONCACAF and Blazer’s name on it. But it was a
color I’d never seen before. It was black. This was the AMEX Centurion Card;
card privileges are invitation-only, granted after extremely strict net worth,
credit, and spending criteria are met.
“This your card, Chuck?” I asked, curious. Chuck ignored me, turned to a
stripper/dancer he knew, and smiled, whispering something that made her smile
back.
This card existed on the back of the aggregated wealth of CONCACAF; the
everyday commitment to football made by the people of CONCACAF’s forty nations
(and the subsequent investment television broadcasters and advertisers make in
football to reach those audiences, and the resultant sales they expect to
garner from those audiences) made it possible.
And it was in Chuck’s name. And it just paid for food, strippers/dancers, and
a set of massages. That’s what the General Secretary and Treasurer of
CONCACAF, the FIFA Executive from North America, spent the region’s money
on…regularly.
While Mia Kamran turned out to be Masuda Sultan, a woman who left us after
September 11th 2001 to support her fractured family in Afghanistan, executing a
powerful documentary and becoming altogether serious about her life and
intentions in the process, I stayed, only leaving CONCACAF some 25 months
later.
Yet the remainder of my time there, from that night in February 2001 until I
resigned in 2003 was informed, in many ways, by that night.
Other people’s money, money meant for investment in football as culture, was
being used for outings like that night. Seemingly all the time.
---
Part Two: Black President
When consultant (“Senior Consultant, you bugger,” I can imagine the man
correcting me right now) Clive Toye rejected the idea of going himself to 2002
FIFA World Cup Korea/Japan, FIFA VP and CONCACAF President Jack Warner
instructed Chuck Blazer to offer me the opportunity.
"I told Jack it was a mistake," Chuck told me before I left for Korea. "We
should be gleaning far more value from this delegation slot than we are by
giving it to you. But Jack wants you to go."
Surely Jack, today, regrets that decision. But throughout my time at CONCACAF
and with FIFA, Jack played a clear role in what I saw and experienced, and what
I did not see.
Born Austin Warner, “Jack,” a nickname almost tailor-made to try to make one
invisible, was how everyone described him at the CONCACAF offices when I
arrived. Indeed, it was Jack, who had major concerns about the lack of black
faces at the Secretariat in New York, who indirectly played a major role in me
being hired.
“I love your martial arts background, and you can do what we’re asking you to
do…but it also doesn’t hurt that you are African-American,” Chuck said, hiring
me. “It gets him off of my back on that front.”
I didn’t care about Chuck bastardized attempt at Affirmative Action policy; I
was in, and working for, a black president. My pride knew no bounds. I had
led men and women for organizations and partnerships including Disney/ESPN,
SEGA, Universal Studios, DreamWorks SKG…and never had I seen anyone of my own
skin color in a position of determinate power in those organizations (Sidney
Poitier sat on the Disney board at the time I worked there, and dialoguing with
him in New York at one of their board meetings was a powerful experience, but
he didn’t lead there). Jack was the first.
And the first disappointment. Clive wrote all his words, Chuck took all his
credit, and, at the FIFA Congress, I watched him lie to his delegates.
The sounds and smells of Namdemun Market making their way into the Seoul
Hilton, I watched this leader, my leader, tell this extensive, detailed,
elaborate story about how he was approached in the middle of the night by (at
that time candidate for FIFA President himself, and current alleged taker of
bribes) Issa Hayatou and his entourage, seeking an audience.
And as Jack told his rapt delegation audience how he stood firm against racial
pressure from that entourage to vote for the black compatriot, and stood tall
for what was right, moral and just…voting for Sepp Blatter…his outrage was
palpable, his indignation on display for all to see.
He received raucous applause, and, despite claims of independent thinking and
voting from the NAs (not unlike we’re hearing from Warner sycophants like
USSF’s Sunil Gulati today), CONCACAF voted as a bloc in the direction Warner
pointed them.
That night, at one of the many meals the host nation provided free for FIFA
delegates, I explored the day’s events with Chuck.
“Power speech by Jack, huh?” I launched. “Shame Hayatou felt that his best
bet was to play the race card, that he felt his candidacy didn’t stand on its
own merit.”
“Didn’t happen,” Chuck murmured between bites.
“Sorry?” I responded, confused.
Chuck chewed, swallowed, then spoke. “Never happened,” he gruffed at me. I
still looked confused. “That story Jack told? He made it up. To get the
delegates to be outraged that Hayatou would try to manipulate Jack, and
consequently their vote, he manipulated them, and their vote, with an elaborate
lie.”
I stared at Chuck, apparently open-mouthed.
“Close your mouth,” Chuck said, disgustedly. “If you don’t get that this is
political life and death, wake up now!” Chuck went back to eating.
I went to my room.
Under the door had been slipped a piece of election material from Sepp
Blatter. This was 2002, and Blatter’s polished program described how 2002 was
“Halftime” in his ambitions to shape FIFA. Just give me four more years, and
I’ll be done, was the intimation.
I tossed it in the trash.
I knew Blatter, like Warner, Blazer and all the others in the FIFA Twenty-Four
and throughout the confederations, would never give up power, never orient
FIFA’s resources toward the interests hopes and concerns of most people, most
of the time, while looking out for the most vulnerable.
They would only exercise perfect political power, for the benefit of themselves
and those to whom they owed political favors.
That was it, and that would be all I could expect from the black President and
his compatriots.
The next day, Jack handed me a check. “Some additional for you,” Jack said.
The check was drawn on the bank of the CFU – the Caribbean Football Union, a
body in which Jack technically had no power. How many $75 dollar checks, for
whatever purpose, were being written by Jack, who had no fiduciary right to
disburse such funds? How many dollars went from being resources for youth in
the region to being payoffs in political dramas for Jack, his family and his
cronies?
-----
Part Three: We Can Do Better
We CAN do better. And we can do better right now. And now is the time.
Time for a governing body that values historic commitments to football while
being inclusive of everyone’s intents. Now is the time for a governance
framework that doesn’t equate the investment in football of Turks and Caicos
Islands with that of France, England, Germany, Spain, Brazil or Argentina (let
alone Australia, Japan, or Korea), but forever affirms the equity of value of
the human beings in those spaces and places. A governing body that can be
possessed of more than one idea at a time, and can reflect greatness, and not
baseness, in those ideas.
We can have that right now. And now is the time.
Now is the time for a governing body perfectly, cyber-spatially transparent;
one where anyone with an interest in football can go online and see, in
real-time, where the investment in football goes, and, crucially, can offer up
a say on that distribution.
A governing body made up of national associations themselves comprised of
representatives voted in by the people. All the people.
A governing body that organizes itself in regional ways that authentically
distribute power. The Americas, Asia/Oceania, Europe and Africa. Four
common-sense confederations, with about 50 nations per region. A Cup of
Nations that celebrates eight nations per region at that tournament, the
ostensible pinnacle of international power and performance football.
A governing body that sees power and performance football as only one of two
necessary pillars of football culture, the other being the pleasure and
participation forms of the sport that the other 98% of the world experience. A
governing body with something to say about the vitality and health aspects of
enjoying something throughout the life cycle, and not just in ways that declare
one retired at 35. A governing body which celebrates fair play more than just
winning at any cost, and institutionalizes its competitions with that in mind.
A governing body reflective of the mosaic of diversity found in the commitments
to the game. That is, a governing body that of course includes women, the
differently-abled, the poor and working poor and all kinds of others in its
determinations. A world, represented, for the world’s game.
A governing body that does more to redress racism than Aparthied opportunism and
celebrity press releases every six months.
A governing body fully, authentically democratic. By us. For us.
We can do that right now, and leave these clowns behind. We don’t have to try
to “fix” FIFA; the thing that these men fear more than anything else is that
you and I will wake up one day and realize that not one of us needs FIFA, as
FIFA, at all.
We can simply walk away from these “leaders.”
We are the leaders we are looking for.
Mel Brennan is formerly a Visiting Lecturer in the Department of Kinesiology
at Towson University (MD, USA) and is currently a District Executive Center
Director for a major community health and well-being organization. Mel's
doctoral work took place at the University of Stirling, Scotland UK, with a
focus on human kinetics, human rights and Olympiads. He is co-author, with
Prof. Grant Jarvie and Dr. Tony Hwang, of Sport, Revolution and the Beijing
Olympics, from Berg (2007). He is also author of The Apprentice: Tragicomic
Times Among the Men Running - and Ruining - World Football. As the
highest-ranked African-American in the history of world football's governance,
Mel has been interviewed by German, Dutch and British television and radio and
newspapers concerning global sport governance and corruption, and has written
several articles exploring a better, healthier role for sport in democratic
societies. Prior to his work in sport, Mel was GM and AGM for production and
operations at several location-based entertainment sites, with organizations
and partnerships such as Sega, DreamWorks SKG, Universal Studios, WWE and the
Walt Disney Company/ESPN.
