by Heidi Blake
The car purred through the wide avenues passing through streets which were mostly deserted. Doha is not a city where people go out for a casual stroll in the summer. The sun is too unremitting, too cruel. The temperatures average over 40°C and can often climb into the fifties. It is a city that beats to the pulse of a million air-conditioning systems – a hostile desert environment tamed and made habitable by the best refrigeration devices money can buy. People move seamlessly from expensively cooled homes and offices to the comfort and safety of air-conditioned cars and shopping malls, avoiding the harsh rays as much as possible. Stepping out into the open air is a little like opening an oven door. You are hit by a wave of heavy heat – so thick and tangible you could almost grasp it. In such temperatures, pale skin burns within ten minutes.
They sped along the Corniche snaking around the West Bay with the Persian Gulf shimmering in the glaring daylight, then hit the long wide stretch of Al Rayyan Road heading out to the gated compound on the outskirts of the city where Bin Hammam lived with his two wives, 11 children and numerous grandchildren. The billionaire had plenty of time to reflect on the problem he had been wrestling with on the way. The Qatar summer is a brutal climate. He had only to look at the forehead of his stout travelling companion: beads of sweat had already formed after a short exposure to the sun. Yet modern football is a lung-busting high-velocity game. Players can cover more than six or seven miles in the course of a 90-minute match – much of it in bursts at sprinting pace. If it was too hot even to venture outside, surely it was too hot to play the world’s biggest football tournament?
Bin Hammam was proud of the rise of the game in his nation since he had watched the oil workers play along the West Bay waterfront as a boy, but he knew it could never really compete with countries hundreds of times bigger where football was almost a religion. The game had come a long way since his days scuffing around with a ball in the Doha scrublands, and as a pioneer of organised football and the former president of the Qatar Football Association, he could take some credit. But it still had a long way to go.
The top dozen clubs in the Qatar Stars League averaged crowds of 4,000, and that was no more than a club like Yeovil Town in the third tier of English football pulled in. For the price of their tickets to the Khalifa International Stadium, the fans came to see the odd fading professional from Europe or South America paid handsomely to bolster the home-grown teams and slog out the dregs of their career under the desert sun. Qatar’s tiny population had not produced one single great player of note. Even the native footballers didn’t dare play in the summer cauldron: the Stars League season runs from September, when the worst of the heat has died down. Having grown up listening to raucous choruses of ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ in the Scouse theatre of Anfield, Bin Hammam was realistic enough to understand that football in Qatar would struggle to match the passion so famously encapsulated by Liverpool’s legendary manager Bill Shankly when he quipped: ‘Some people believe football is a matter of life and death. I am very disappointed in that attitude. I can assure you it is much, much more important than that.’
The truth was that Qatar had never even come close to qualifying for a World Cup finals and it was unlikely to do so in the near future. Unless, of course, he succeeded in his mission. The team from the country which hosts the World Cup qualifies automatically. Bin Hammam had been successful in bagging the 2011 Asian Confederation Cup to be hosted in Qatar, a big tournament contested by national teams from the region, but that would be played in January when the mercury dips to a more bearable 20°C. It was a sensible solution, but not one that Qatar could propose when bidding for the World Cup. His nation would have been a laughing stock. Every World Cup finals since the competition began in 1930 had been played in the months of May to July.2 It was tradition, and an unfortunate one from Qatar’s point of view because June, July and August are its hottest months.
But it wasn’t just about history. The world’s packed sporting calendar had evolved in such a way that those eight or nine weeks every four years in early summer were the only window to hold the tournament. The powerful professional football leagues, especially in Europe which controlled many of the world’s top players, were always bitterly resistant to any change to their seasons, which mostly ran from August to May. Weeks lost at the heart of a season equalled millions of pounds lost in gate receipts and broadcasting money. In addition, the major television companies, which were the lifeblood of a World Cup’s income, would fight against any attempt to move the competition to a time of year which clashed with events such as the Winter Olympics or American football’s Superbowl. It had to be June or July. But it simply could not be: not in Qatar. It wasn’t safe for the players or fans. Bin Hammam rubbed his silvered chin and stared pensively out of the car window. His task seemed impossible.
But the Emir wanted the World Cup to come to Qatar and Bin Hammam was the only man in the whole Middle East who stood any chance of making his ruler’s dream a reality. He had risen out of the desert and through the ranks of world football to become a member of FIFA’s ruling Exco, earning the admiration, loyalty and gratitude of many along the way. That was why the improbable task of persuading his colleagues to let him carry off their crown jewels to the desert fell to him. To outsiders it might have looked like a poisoned chalice. But, on the other hand, might this be his big chance to put himself and his family at the very top of Qatari society?
Sheikh Hamad had explained to him that hosting the World Cup was a crucial pillar of his plan to turn Doha into the foremost sport and tourism hub of the 21st century. It was all part of the 30-year strategy devised to shore up Qatar’s position for a future without the oil and gas that had brought such riches. Four years previously, Qatar had unveiled a $15 billion scheme to transform the country into a centre for sports, tourism, business and culture, and earlier in 2008 the Emir had pumped another $17 billion into the project.
The plan had just suffered a humiliating setback when Qatar’s bid to host the 2016 Olympics was quashed, failing even to make it through to the candidate city shortlist. The bid had proposed to hold the Olympics in October to avoid the summer heat, but this was outside permitted dates for the games. The president of the International Olympic Committee, Jacques Rogge, had also privately told his aides that he did not trust his 102 members to withstand the temptation to succumb to the advances of the super-rich emirate, and Qatar’s bid had been nipped in the bud. But no matter, Sheikh Hamad had reasoned. The World Cup was an even bigger, more glittering prize. So now Mohamed bin Hammam had a chance to play a pivotal role in securing his country’s future. If he failed, he would bring further humiliation upon his homeland. If he won, his family would bask in the victory forever.
By now Bin Hammam was back home again and the sun had begun to dissolve into a dusty horizon. A shamal was gaining potency and soon a desert sandstorm would be whipping up from the winds gusting in from the north-west coast. It was time to close the shutters and attend to his guests who were beginning to assemble in his majlis. His evening ritual was a reminder of the immense wealth and status which was founded on the hard-won patronage of the royal family. Sometimes men would come seeking money or loans, and Bin Hammam would always listen carefully. In Qatar generosity is a mark of honour and if someone asks you for something you are bound to give it to them. If you admired Bin Hammam’s watch, he would take it off his wrist and press it into your palm. The Emir wanted the World Cup and it was in his gift to help deliver it. How could he say no?
The World Cup is a colossus dwarfing even the Olympic Games for television viewing figures. For four weeks in a given summer, the competition stirs up a heady mix of joy, triumph and despair among the billions of people who are sucked in to watch the improbable drama of 22 athletic young men in shorts patriotically chasing a small polyurethane sphere around a neatly mown rectangle of grass. A missed penalty can be a national disaster and a hopeful hoof goalwards can be such stuff as dreams are made of. The names of the heroes are writ a
s large in popular history as the pioneers who first stepped on the moon. Think of the slender 17-year-old Pelé juggling the ball over the head of a bemused defender in Sweden 1958, the much-imitated Johan Cruyff drag-back in Germany 1974, or the barrel-chested Diego Maradona skipping past half the leaden-footed England team to score one of football’s greatest ever goals in Mexico 1986.
It is an event of such outrageous glamour that countries will fight tooth and nail to be the hosts in the knowledge that nothing else – except war or natural disaster – would attract such a swarm of the world’s television cameras to their doorstep. For a ruler or politician, hosting the competition is a way of bathing in the stardust and advertising the capability, organisation, hospitality and, above all, prestige of their nation. It is the ultimate showy dinner party in your lovely home, with the whole world as your guests. So it is perhaps surprising that the decision on where to hold this great showcase, the tournament to end all tournaments, should rest with just 24 people.
Thankfully, Bin Hammam was well acquainted with all of them. After 12 years at the FIFA boardroom table, he had come to call his colleagues on the ruling Exco his ‘brothers in football’. This was one advantage Qatar could count on. The Emir’s grand plan was in its early stages, but there were only a few months to get the scheme into shape before it would have to be revealed in detail to the world. FIFA was about to open the bidding process for the hosting of the 2018 and 2022 World Cups, and countries who wanted to enter the race would have to register their formal bids by 16 March 2009. Speculation had been mounting for months as to which nations would throw their hats into the ring. Would England put together a credible bid? Would the United States enter the fray? Unsurprisingly no one had even considered that Qatar might be a contender, until Blatter had let the cat out of the bag in Sydney.
Once the candidates were formally declared in March, Bin Hammam would have just over 20 months to persuade his executive committee colleagues to back his country’s unlikely bid. The secret ballot to host the next two tournaments would be held at FIFA headquarters on 2 December 2010. Bin Hammam had an intimate understanding of the murky world of football politics learnt at the heel of his mentor, Blatter. He understood what made his colleagues tick and more crucially how to strike deals with them. It took only junior school maths to calculate what was required for victory. Persuade 13 of his brothers – a simple majority – and the glittering prize would be his. The ballot could take several rounds depending on how many countries had entered the race. After each round, the bid with the fewest votes would be eliminated until one of the contenders notched up the 13 or more ballot papers needed to win. In the event of a tie between two final bids, the FIFA president would have the casting vote.
Despite all the difficulties he faced, Bin Hammam had to admit that Blatter had given him a leg-up. The FIFA president had announced in Sydney that for the first time ever he would propose the rights to host two World Cups should be awarded at the same time, meaning the bidding process for the 2018 and 2022 tournaments would be run side by side. In the same congress speech when he outed Qatar as a potential bidder, Blatter had also revealed that England, Spain, the Netherlands, Russia, Japan, Australia and the United States were potential contenders. These were some fearsome rivals, but all the big guns from Europe would surely rush for the closest prize – the 2018 World Cup – splitting the field and leaving the contest for the 2022 tournament relatively open.
The Exco had also sanctioned a new rotation policy which would prevent a country from bidding to host the tournament if the World Cup had been held in their continent in the previous eight years. Since Brazil had already been selected for 2014, the new rules meant that the whole of South America – one of the world’s most football-obsessed regions – would be excluded from both ballots. If all went to plan, Europe and South America, the two continents which had produced all the World Cup-winning teams since the competition began in 1930, would not be in the running for 2022. Also, Qatar had only a handful of small stadiums and the 12-year gap between the vote and the 2022 tournament would give the country time to build the requisite eight or nine world-class venues from scratch. Even more crucially, the dual bidding process paved the way for the novel possibility that bidding nations for the respective tournaments could broker deals to rig the ballot by trading blocs of votes. No one was more adept at that sort of politicking than Bin Hammam. There was a glimmer of hope.
Best of all, the ballot was secret, providing the perfect cover for any backroom deals the bidders cared to strike. Secrecy was part of FIFA’s culture. While the world of business had moved into a new era of transparency and accountability since FIFA was formed as a gentlemen’s club of seven nations in 1904, it suited the men who ran football to cling onto its status as a mere nonprofit association in secrecy-obsessed Switzerland. That country’s regulators have the tenderest of touches with such bodies, demanding no taxes and placing only the lightest requirements upon them to file annual accounts. The laws are intended to shelter national yodelling clubs or homeless charities from cumbersome bureaucracy, but FIFA is one of several multi-billion-dollar enterprises which have benefited from the peaceful impunity they afford.
The Swiss association is structured in such a way that it allows Blatter, as president, a free hand to run the administration of world football more or less as he likes. There are two checks on his power: one is the congress of all the member associations, which meets only once a year, and the other is the FIFA Exco. A supine committee suited Blatter very well, and in turn the president appeared more than willing to turn a blind eye to anything which did not directly threaten his own position.
A handful of times each year, FIFA’s ruling committee waft into Switzerland on first-class flights and are put up in the elegant splendour of the Baur au Lac Hotel, with its lawns rolling down to Lake Zurich. They are treated like royalty. Since 2006 the meetings have been held in a cavernous chamber in the bowels of FIFA’s new headquarters where the participants are shielded from prying eyes by huge black-out blinds. Blatter sits at the head of the table and dictates the agenda while the other 23 men eye each other across a big oblong table in a scene eerily similar to the war room in the Cold War satire Dr Strangelove.
Many of the men stay silent and simply nod through Blatter’s proposals before heading off for dinner in one of Zurich’s numerous Michelin-starred restaurants. These were the people that Bin Hammam would have to win over if he was going to fulfil the Emir’s wish and deliver the World Cup on a plate to Doha. He would need to call in favours, cut some deals and grease the palms of those who had influence with the voters. There had been a commercially successful World Cup in Germany two years earlier where the final had been watched by more than 700 million people worldwide. The next tournament in 2010 was going to be held in Africa for the first time, fulfilling a long-standing promise from Blatter, whose grip on FIFA depended on his support from the continent’s power-brokers. Then Brazil would take its turn in 2014. After that, everything was up for grabs.
A reader of pure heart might be forgiven for thinking that the decision on where FIFA’s prize money-spinning tournament should be held might be judged on the quality of the country’s stadiums, transport infrastructure and accommodation for the fans. Surely the bidders ought to be assessed on how capable they are of holding a first-class World Cup? Bin Hammam knew it was far more complicated than that.
Previous ballots have been littered with tales of intrigue and skulduggery. A FIFA Exco member was likely to vote for his own country if it happened to be in the running, although even this was by no means certain. Other members would be swayed by regional loyalties, football politics and alliances offering some kind of advantage. Anyone who spent enough time in FIFA’s corridors of power would have heard the stories about large cash sums being offered and accepted in the witching hour before the ballot. A sizeable bung, however, was not always a guarantee of support. Since the ballot was secret, an Exco member could take the cash, then sneak off
to vote for someone else. Nobody would be any the wiser. Broken promises and double-dealing were the dark heart of a World Cup ballot.
Bin Hammam was a little distracted that evening as he sipped his coffee in the majlis while his guests lounged on his sofas, glued to the football on the television. Perhaps the task set by the Emir wasn’t completely impossible after all, he thought. But he needed to devise a way to win over his fellow Exco colleagues, and fast.
For any World Cup bid to be successful, it had to have the support of FIFA Exco member number one: the president, Sepp Blatter. Given his proposal over dinner with the Emir back in February, and considering all that Qatar had done to help him get elected in 1998 and 2002, Bin Hammam could surely count on Blatter’s vote. Or could he? While Blatter had blithely uttered the words ‘We are going to bring the World Cup to Qatar,’ as though the tournament was entirely within his gift and there might as well be no ballot at all, his duplicity over the 2007 presidential election showed he was a man who could not be trusted.
The FIFA president had the charm of a kindly grandfather and could often seem slightly bumbling in public, with his platitudinous utterances about his ‘FIFA family’ and the ‘beautiful game’. But behind the scenes, Blatter’s FIFA lair was a world apart from the football pitch that he so frequently eulogised: that open arena where fair play was prized and cheats were punished with a referee’s whistle. This was the ugly game. It was not sufficient to be merely an accomplished football administrator, although Blatter was certainly that. You had to be a prince in the style of Niccolò di Bernardo dei Machiavelli. If this meant surrounding yourself with sycophants, purging your opponents and being all things to all people while quietly taking a course which secured your position, then Blatter was eminently capable of it all. He had told the Emir he wanted to see the World Cup come to Qatar. Did he really mean it?
