EDITORIAL: One phone call, one penalty erased. The day Trump played referee again

Balogun, 25, Already Making History in the Tournament

The 25-year-old, a Brooklyn native of Nigerian descent who plays for Monaco, has scored three goals in this World Cup, tying Landon Donovan for second place on the list of all-time American goal scorers in the tournament’s history, behind Bert Patenaude and his four goals in 1930. With 12 goals in 30 international appearances and 13 goals in Ligue 1 last season, Balogun is no flash in the pan. He is the offensive spearhead of a U.S. team that dreams of reaching the quarterfinals for the first time since 2002.

The U.S. Soccer Federation (USSF) stated that Balogun would not be available for comment on Sunday. The player, however, posted a photo on social media of himself in front of American fans, accompanied by Michael Jackson’s song “Bad”—a barely subtle nod to the controversy.

Balogun said nothing. He let Michael Jackson speak for him. “Bad.” The word is almost too perfect to have been chosen at random. I can see him there, silent, while two federations and a president argue over his athletic fate right above his head. He never asked for that phone call. He never asked for this controversy. He just wanted to play against Belgium.

Friday, before the storm: “A yellow card would have been fair”

Even before FIFA’s decision, Balogun himself had acknowledged that the foul deserved a penalty, while maintaining that a yellow card “would have been fair.” His teammate Christian Pulisic went further: “If you look at the foul, there was really no intent. I’ve seen much worse plays go unnoticed during this tournament.”

Ronaldo, Otamendi, Caicedo: Low-Key Precedents

This isn’t the first time FIFA has applied Article 27. In November, the organization deferred the final two matches of a three-match suspension imposed on Cristiano Ronaldo following a red card against Ireland, allowing him to play from the start of the World Cup. Argentine defender Nicolás Otamendi and Ecuadorian midfielder Moisés Caicedo also benefited in April from a one-match suspension deferral for red cards they received during the qualifiers.

The rule is clear on paper: “The judicial body may decide to suspend, in whole or in part, the application of a disciplinary measure […] subjecting the sanctioned individual to a probationary period of one to four years.” It is a legitimate legal tool, but its use raises an unavoidable question: why now, why him, and why only after a presidential appeal?

I want to be honest: the rule exists. It has been used before. Ronaldo benefited from it without a head of state ever picking up the phone. And yet, this time, something feels different. It’s not the rule that’s the problem. It’s the hand that set it in motion—a presidential hand, in a sport that’s supposed to remain untouched by the corridors of power.

A Historical Echo: Garrincha in 1962

Soccer history has seen this kind of interference before. In 1962, the Brazilian Garrincha was sent off during a semifinal but allowed to play in the final against Chile after political pressure. More than sixty years later, the scenario repeats itself, with a different protagonist but the same underlying motive: power bending sports regulations to its will.

The United States, the host nation, is aiming for a historic record

Much of this World Cup is being played on American soil, and the national team is aiming to reach the quarterfinals for the first time since 2002. The Americans lost in the round of 16 to Ghana in 2010, to Belgium in 2014, and to the Netherlands in 2022. They failed to advance past the group stage in 2006 and didn’t even qualify in 2018. The stakes are therefore high, both practically and symbolically: a host nation seeking historic redemption against Belgium—the very team that eliminated them in 2014.

The American players learned of Balogun’s availability via social media during the ten-minute bus ride from their hotel to the University of Washington’s training stadium. It was an almost symbolic way to receive the news: through a screen, without any prior official announcement.

What if this were about more than just soccer? What if that rescinded red card were a metaphor for our times—a time when rules only matter if you have the right phone number? I can’t help but think of all the small-town referees who enforce the rules without any room for appeal, while elsewhere, a single phone call is enough to rewrite the history of a game.

FIFA: Referee or Puppet?

This case raises a question that goes far beyond the Balogun case: to what extent can the independence of international sports bodies withstand political pressure? FIFA has always claimed autonomy from national governments. But a presidential appeal, followed four days later by a decision favorable to the country of that same president, directly calls into question this proclaimed autonomy.

This is not to assert a proven causal link between the appeal and the decision—FIFA is relying on an existing regulatory provision. But the timing of the events, the nature of the appeal, and Belgium’s indignant reaction paint a gray area that the institution cannot ignore indefinitely.

I’m not saying that FIFA lied. I’m saying that FIFA allowed doubt to take root, and that this doubt is perhaps more dangerous than an outright lie. Because a lie can be debunked. Doubt, however, lingers; it seeps in and slowly erodes trust. And once that trust is broken in sports, it takes decades to rebuild.

FIFA’s Silence on the Presidential Call

To date, neither Gianni Infantino nor FIFA has publicly confirmed or denied the content of the call with Donald Trump. This institutional silence, in such a sensitive context, fuels suspicion more than it allays it. Transparency could have defused the controversy; its absence fuels it.

Is an appeal to the Court of Arbitration for Sport on the horizon?

Belgium has not ruled out taking the case to the CAS, which would require FIFA to publicly justify, before an independent body, the exact grounds for its decision. Such an appeal would transform a media controversy into a legal case, with potential implications for FIFA’s entire disciplinary regulations.

If the case were brought before the CAS, it would have to assess, among other things, whether the application of Article 27 in this specific case complies with the principle of equal treatment among all participating teams—a fundamental principle that the RBFA claims to want to defend, even beyond its own immediate sporting interests.

I want to hear the strongest objection, the one from FIFA’s defenders: “The rule exists; it has already been used—why take offense now?” It’s a legitimate objection. But it sidesteps the crux of the matter: it’s not the rule itself that’s being questioned, but the timing of its activation—and the hand that appears to have triggered it. A rule applied in the shadow of a presidential phone call is no longer quite a neutral rule.

A Belgium-U.S. Match Laden with Symbolic Tension

On Monday, when Balogun takes the field against Belgium, he will not only be carrying the United States’ offensive hopes. He will also, whether he likes it or not, be bearing the weight of an international controversy that has gone beyond the realm of sports. Every goal he scores will be scrutinized, every play analyzed through the lens of this suspension, which was lifted under troubling circumstances.

For Belgium, the stakes go beyond qualification: it’s a matter of principle, of sporting dignity, and of the tournament’s integrity. Rudi Garcia put it bluntly: his team isn’t just defending its own interests, but “soccer in general.”

When Balogun touches the ball on Monday, part of the audience will see a brilliant player finally back in action. Another part will see the shadow of a phone call looming over his every move. Both are right. And that is precisely the quiet tragedy of this story: the doubt that sets in never completely dissipates, even after the final whistle.

The issue FIFA will have to address, sooner or later

Whether FIFA likes it or not, this case has just set a precedent that it will have to address in future editions of the tournament. If a presidential appeal can, even if only in appearance, influence a disciplinary decision, then every future controversial red card involving a powerful nation will be viewed through this lens. Confidence in the impartiality of FIFA’s disciplinary system has just suffered a crack that will not heal on its own.

One question remains—simple yet nagging: What would FIFA have done if the appeal had come from the head of state of a smaller, less powerful, and less high-profile country? No one has an answer. And it is precisely this lack of an answer that weighs heaviest.

I close this case with an uncomfortable certainty: sports have never been completely pure, completely immune to the influence of power. But until now, there had been a sense of decorum, a feigned distance between the halls of power and the stadiums. That decorum has just been publicly shattered, right before our eyes, with a red card as its silent witness. And no one will ever be able to look at that red card the same way again.

What Balogun Will Bring to the Field on Monday

Folarin Balogun will play against Belgium on Monday. His three goals, his speed, his ability to unsettle defenses—none of that has changed. What has changed is the way people view his very presence on the field. A 25-year-old player who, through no fault of his own, has become the symbol of an issue far broader than his own talent: the issue of power encroaching where it should never have a say.

I think of that phone call made one July evening, somewhere between Washington and Zurich. I’m thinking of that red card, brandished and then rescinded, as if the sport could be rewritten through personal connections. Above all, I’m thinking of all those who, that evening, realized that the rules no longer protect the weak—they bow to the powerful. It wasn’t Balogun who gained anything on Monday. It was the public’s trust that lost something, perhaps for a long time to come.

Belgium, alone against a system that seems to have chosen its side

What remains is Belgium—its bitter coach, its stunned federation, and the feeling of having faced not just an American team, but an entire system that seems to have already made up its mind before kickoff. The fact that the match is now being played under these conditions doesn’t change the final score—but it changes everything about how it will be viewed for decades to come.

By Jacques PJake Provost