MacroPolis

The fury directed at Argentina does not really seem to be about football. It exposes Europe’s need to assert moral certainty - a habit seen before in its treatment of Greece during the country’s debt crisis. And it reveals a major blind spot.

In the days following Sunday’s World Cup final, some of the commentary from parts of Europe about Argentina took on a tone that felt strangely familiar. It was not the criticism itself that stood out – after all, an emotionally-drained and physically-spent Argentina played poorly against Spain, fouled cynically, and reacted gracelessly to defeat. Rather, it was the intensity of the condemnation: the moral outrage, the punitive language, and the calls for lengthy bans, even lifetime exclusions.

This demand for punishment, even humiliation, seemed to exceed the severity of the offence. It took me a few days to recognise why this bothered me. Then I realised I had heard this tone before. It was the same register used against Greece during the country’s economic crisis: mistakes inflated into moral failings, misjudgements treated as sins, and consequences deemed insufficient unless accompanied by ritualised punishment.

The language of “cheating”, “disgrace”, “shame”, “lesson‑learning” resurfaced almost verbatim. The target had changed - from a nation in financial collapse to a football team in sporting distress - but the reflex was unmistakably familiar and distinct to a school of thought in Europe.

Flawed, not unprecedented

The conduct of the three-time world champions Argentina in the final was flawed and should have been better given that it was one of the most watched spectacles on earth. The Argentinian players will regret they did not show any of their ability to play the game with the mesmerising skill and compelling intent they showed in flashes during this tournament, relying instead on disrupting their opponents and resorting to desperate means to stay in the match. Their challenges were sly and robust, their tactical fouling obvious, and their post‑match scuffles ungracious. But none of this was new to football, nor uniquely egregious.

The Netherlands’ approach in the 2010 World Cup final (also against Spain) was possibly more brutal, with Nigel de Jong’s chest‑high kick on Xabi Alonso becoming an emblem of the match. France’s captain Zinedine Zidane was sent off in the 2006 final for headbutting an opponent - an act more violent than anything seen from Argentina this year. Following the end of Argentina’s semi-final against England in Atlanta on July 15, Jude Bellingham slapped an Argentinian player on the back of the head. It was barely remarked upon. And at the previous World Cup final in 2022, France - a European team - left the pitch before Argentina lifted the trophy. No moral outrage followed.

The accusation that Argentina were “sore losers” and turned their backs on the trophy presentation seems an exaggeration born from a lack of the appropriate context. They collected their medals and walked towards the end of the stadium where their supporters were gathered - standard practice in most finals. Also, footage shows that moments after the brief scuffles, players from both teams hugged and dispersed. Within days, Argentina’s players and staff issued apologies, acknowledging Spain’s superiority.

The refereeing question is equally familiar. Argentina undoubtedly benefited from lenient officiating, particularly in the knockout match against Egypt. But favourable decisions for powerful teams are as old as the sport itself. Every major tournament has its beneficiaries. Every successful team has moments when match officials are generous. And it is a constant in football that the supporters of these dominant teams fail to acknowledge that their players receive preferential treatment, while “the weak suffer what they must”.

Argentina’s behaviour was unbecoming, but not extraordinary - unlike the reaction from some of the European commentariat in the mainstream media and on social media.

Moralising reflex

We live in an age where moral outrage is manufactured on an industrial scale. Social media amplifies indignation, rewarding grievance and punishing nuance. The beauty of Spain’s performance - methodical, disciplined, elegant - was overshadowed by the drama of condemnation.

It is a sad reflection of our times that the tendency is to generate outrage rather than revel in joy. In this environment, Argentina’s flaws became raw material for moral theatre, including the launching of a petition (signed by 23 million people at the time of writing) for the South American team to be perpetually banned from future World Cups.

But maybe other factors have also been driving the constant traffic of social media videos and comments from some parts of Europe – including, but not exclusively, the UK - heaping opprobrium on the Argentinians over the past few days.

Perhaps Europe’s institutional architecture - built on conditionality and procedural discipline - has generated a technocratic, apolitical mindset that spills easily into other domains. Football becomes another arena for policing behaviour. A sly challenge is not just a foul; it is a breach of order. A scuffle is not just frustration; it is a disgrace. A tactical foul becomes evidence of cultural deficiency.

This is the kind of tone that coloured commentary about Greece during the debt crisis. Greeks were not simply accused of mismanagement; they were portrayed as cheats, irresponsible children, and moral delinquents. The crisis became a morality play. Punishment was not just a policy instrument; it was a moral necessity.

Taking it a step further, perhaps as Europe’s position in the world - economically, militarily, geopolitically, demographically - is slipping, the continent that once defined global norms now struggles to shape them. In this context, moral superiority becomes a comfort blanket. If Europe cannot lead through power, it can lead through perceived virtue.

Does this create a psychological need to assert superiority in domains where Europe still feels confident? Civility, discipline, rationality, procedural order, for example. When Argentina behaves emotionally, abrasively, or “improperly”, the condemnatory reaction becomes a defence of identity – a way of reassuring ourselves that we stand apart from the others, on higher ground.

Cultural blind spot

A dimension that some of this week’s European commentary has missed is that for countries with weaker geopolitical or economic standing, football represents national identity, global visibility and emotional expression in a way, or to a degree, that it doesn’t for our continent.

Uruguay’s coach Ondino Viera highlighted this in the 1960s: “Other countries have their history, Uruguay has its football,” he said.

Uruguay’s place on the global stage was built to a significant extent on its footballing achievements as it won the first World Cup in 1930 and then again in 1950. The same is true, in different ways, for Argentina. While Argentina is a footballing superpower in terms of talent and titles, its domestic structure is fragile. Clubs are in a constant state of financial instability, like the country itself. Young players are plucked out of the country early by rich European clubs. Football becomes a cultural anchor - a way of reaffirming identity in a world where other forms of national power are limited.

In a country that has staggered from one crisis to the next, it is perhaps the only source of communal joy left to a beleaguered people, as was captured beautifully in the Copa90 “Once in a lifetime” documentary about Argentina’s 2022 World Cup win. Of course, it could be argued that football matters too much to the Argentinians. But the counter to this would be that when the state of all the other things that should matter more is too terrible to contemplate, an outlet for hope and togetherness is vital.

This produces a style of play, and support, that is combative, emotional, confrontational. It is not a moral failing; it is a cultural expression. It is the “right of the weak”, as the Italian football theorist and journalist Gianni Brera said decades ago, to play defensively or abrasively. Europe, blessed with footballing riches and power, sometimes fails to appreciate this. Instead, it often interprets emotional intensity as impropriety, passion as indiscipline, cultural difference as moral deficiency.

Turning a blind eye

The most striking aspect of the Argentina criticism is not the outrage itself but what it obscures. While Europe moralises about one player shoving another, too many on the continent remain silent about the genuine moral failures of FIFA, the governing body of world football.

Consider what happened during this World Cup: Hydration breaks were used to introduce advertisement slots through the back door; suspensions for star players - Cristiano Ronaldo of Portugal and Folarin Balogun of the USA (after a White House intervention) - were waved away; a 27‑minute halftime show was inserted into the final, in open violation of the laws of the game; the Iran national team was treated abysmally; Somali referee Omar Artan was left without support when US authorities rejected his visa; ticket prices were hiked to astronomical levels; the tournament was oversaturated with sickly US celebrity culture; and commercialisation reached unprecedented levels.

And yet FIFA’s president, Gianni Infantino – the (a)moral instigator of this abuse and debasing of the global game, is set to be re‑elected unopposed, with the backing of most - if not all - European federations.

These are genuine moral failures - of governance, integrity, fairness, and respect for the sport. They compromise football far more deeply than any scuffle or tactical foul. Yet so much outrage from Europe over the past few days has been directed not at the powerful actors reshaping the game for commercial gain, but at the emotional, and sometimes cynical, behaviour of players from Latin America.

This is the false comfort provided an illusory moral superiority: the satisfaction of pointing a finger at the weak while avoiding confrontation with the strong.