I am a devoted soccer fan, but I have never wanted the United States to become one of the world’s great soccer nations, maybe even not win a World Cup, or even to make a deep run. It is not a lack of patriotism. I simply love the sport too much to trust what we might do to it.
Consider cycling. For years it was a beautifully niche pursuit in America, a hipster sport, a European curiosity. Most Americans could not name Milan San Remo, one of the great one day races on earth. Jan Ullrich, once among the most recognizable athletes in Europe, vacationed in the United States precisely because no one here knew who he was.
And then came Lance Armstrong.
The quintessential ugly American seized the sport, dominated it, sterilized it, bullied teammates and rivals, and helped institutionalize a systematic doping culture on his team. When he fell, American interest in cycling largely collapsed with him, and the professional game has arguably never fully recovered, here or abroad. One man Americanized a sport, and the sport is still living with the consequences.
So what would happen if the United States became a true soccer power?
My fear is simple. We would try to remake the sport in our own image, to bend it toward the wealthiest owners, the largest markets, and the most predictable outcomes.
Promotion and relegation would be the first casualty.
To many Americans, relegation seems irrational. Why would owners invest billions only to risk losing their place in the top division? Why would a league tolerate that instability?
The answer is that instability is the point.
Promotion and relegation may be the most democratic mechanism in world sports. Clubs rise because they win, not because they are granted a franchise. Players rise because they perform, not because they were identified as prospects at fourteen.
Jamie Vardy did not need permission to become a star. Leicester City did not need to be awarded an expansion franchise. They played their way to the top of the sport. The ladder remained open, and they climbed it.
That possibility matters.
Late in the season, struggling clubs are not jockeying for draft position. They are fighting for survival. Entire communities live and die with those matches. Relegation breaks hearts. Entire towns mourn. The games between clubs near the bottom of the table often carry more tension than those involving the champions.
That uncertainty is not a flaw. It is the source of much of soccer’s emotional power.
And this is where Americanization becomes dangerous.
American sports are built on closed leagues, protected franchises, and the draft, a system in which the worst teams are rewarded with the best young players, and players must join whichever club selects them, often spending years there before having any real agency. It is a structure designed to protect owners from risk, guarantee stability, and ensure that no club ever truly falls.
Soccer is built on the opposite principle. Players sign with the clubs they prefer. Clubs sign the players they want and compensate the teams that developed them. It is a marketplace of ambition, not a centrally managed distribution system.
If America ever became a soccer superpower, the pressure to rationalize the sport, to make it more predictable, more orderly, more investor friendly, would be immense. And the first things to go would be the very elements that make soccer compelling.
The Champions League would face similar pressure. Its beauty lies in meritocracy. The best clubs qualify because they earn the right. When Europe’s elite attempted to replace that system with a closed Super League, supporters revolted, even fans of the clubs that stood to benefit. They understood something fundamental. Soccer without jeopardy is not soccer.
Americans, far more trusting of large institutions and commercial solutions, might not revolt at all.
I love soccer as it is.
I love promotion and relegation.
I love the Champions League, where Ajax can nearly topple the giants of Europe. I love the FA Cup, where Premier League clubs travel to tiny grounds and face opponents whose entire wage bill equals one star’s weekly salary. The concept is so compelling that American sports have increasingly borrowed from it, creating cups and tournaments of their own in search of the same drama.
I love a sport where the dream remains theoretically available to everyone, even if it rarely comes true.
I admire many American players and wish them success. I admire Mauricio Pochettino, who tormented my Arsenal side during his Tottenham years. I admire the individuals.
But I do not want the United States to reshape the sport.
Hydration breaks are more than enough.
Some things are too beautiful to be optimized.