Why the Club World Cup Doesn’t Mean a Thing (And Why That Matters)

The Myth of Global Dominance

I’ve watched enough football to know: when we crown a champion, we’re not just celebrating skill—we’re validating legitimacy. The World Cup? It’s about national greatness. The Champions League? European supremacy. But the Club World Cup? It’s less an event, more an invitation-only party where only 7 out of 20 top teams get in.

That’s not fairness. That’s exclusion masquerading as competition.

The core problem? No meaningful qualification system exists. Unlike FIFA tournaments that use continental rankings or qualifying rounds, the Club World Cup lets UEFA clubs qualify via their domestic league finish—and only if they won their continent’s top cup. So Liverpool didn’t make it because they lost in the final last season—not because they weren’t good enough.

But here’s the irony: if we really want to find the world’s best club, shouldn’t we let every elite team have a shot?

Europe Owns the Game—But Not by Merit Alone

Let me be clear: Europe dominates football—not just because of better coaching or infrastructure—but because money flows there like gravity.

Every year, scouts from Manchester United to Real Madrid fan out across Africa, South America, and even Asia, hunting for talent before anyone else spots them. A player in Jakarta or Buenos Aires who outperforms 90% of Premier League fringe players? He’ll likely end up in Spain by age 19.

Capital doesn’t care about geography—it cares about potential profit.

So yes: Europe has most of the world’s best players. And naturally—by market forces—the strongest clubs cluster there too.

But does that mean those clubs deserve to be called “the world’s best” when they don’t face off against others from other continents? Not unless you’re okay with defining “global” as “where money flows.” And I’m not.

When Teams Don’t Care—The Tournament Dies Quietly

Here’s where things get messy: attitude matters as much as talent.

In any major tournament—World Cup group stage, Champions League knockout round—you see starters on the pitch until injury or elimination. But at last year’s Club World Cup? Paris Saint-Germain fielded half their bench against FC Porto in the semifinal—and still won easily.

Now ask yourself: would Bayern Munich risk losing its star striker against an Asian club if it meant missing next season’s Champions League draw? No way.

For European giants, this is literally just another friendly match with prize money attached. For teams from CONCACAF or CAF? This is everything. Their only chance to prove themselves on international soil—and so they play like their futures depend on it.

That imbalance tells us everything: if your tournament doesn’t demand full commitment from all participants—even under pressure—it can’t claim authority over legitimacy.

So What Should We Do?

The answer isn’t necessarily to scrap it—but to rethink what it means. If we want real global competition among clubs… then let every club ranked Top 10 globally qualify automatically. Open up slots based on performance over two seasons instead of one-off wins. Include neutral venues across continents so no region dominates logistics—or perception.

And maybe—just maybe—make playing time count toward individual stats and career legacies too (yes, I’m looking at you FIFA).

The goal shouldn’t be spectacle alone; it should be truth through inclusion and fairness through structure. The current format doesn’t measure strength—it measures access.