Football’s reckoning: governance, race and the battle for English sport’s soul

Manchester United’s Lisandro Martínez did not set out to become the whistleblower of English football’s existential crisis. Yet when the defender, dressed in a hot dog costume for an Amazon Prime segment, mocked his own defensive errors while pointing to the deeper rot at Old Trafford, he inadvertently exposed a truth that has been festering for years. The club’s struggles on the pitch are now inseparable from its off-field turmoil—a crisis of ownership that has left fans, players and even casual observers questioning whether the sport’s financial model has become irredeemably broken.

Martínez’s comments, made after United’s 2-0 defeat to Atlético Madrid in the Champions League, were not just about poor performances. They were a rare public acknowledgment of the disconnect between a club’s identity and its owners, the Glazer family, whose leveraged buyout in 2005 has saddled United with debt and stagnation. The defender’s frustration—“We’re all trying to find the guy who did this,” he joked—resonated because it mirrored the broader search for accountability in a sport where money has long trumped tradition. As Jonathan Liew wrote in The Guardian, Martínez’s critique “goes to the heart of what has gone wrong at the club,” but it also reflects a wider disillusionment with football’s direction. The question is no longer whether the Glazers will sell, but whether anyone can—or should—step in to fix what they have broken.

The racial fault lines in England’s lower leagues

If Manchester United’s crisis is a story of financial mismanagement, the Championship has become the frontline of English football’s racial reckoning. This week, Millwall manager Alex Neil found himself at the centre of a storm after complaining that a stoppage in play for alleged racist abuse “killed the momentum” of his team’s match against Swansea City. The incident, which saw the game halted for seven minutes after reports of abusive chants targeting Swansea midfielder Eom Ji-sung, has reignited debates about how seriously football takes racism in its lower tiers.

Neil’s comments, which he later clarified were not intended to dismiss the severity of the abuse, were met with immediate backlash. Kick It Out, football’s anti-racism campaign group, issued a statement urging managers to “set the tone” in such situations, arguing that their reactions shape how players and fans perceive the issue. The incident is the latest in a series of racial abuse cases in the Championship this season, raising uncomfortable questions about whether the league’s governance is equipped to handle the problem. Unlike the Premier League, where high-profile players and global audiences force a more robust response, the Championship often operates in the shadows—where accountability is weaker and the consequences for offenders are less severe.

The contrast with the Premier League’s handling of similar incidents is stark. When Manchester City faced allegations of racial bias in their financial dealings earlier this year, the league’s response was swift, if ultimately inconclusive. But in the Championship, where clubs operate on tighter budgets and the spotlight is dimmer, the fight against racism has been slower and more uneven. Neil’s frustration with the stoppage may have been tactical, but it inadvertently highlighted a deeper issue: in English football, the severity of racism is still measured by its disruption to the game, not its impact on those who endure it.

Manchester City and the illusion of accountability

Manchester City’s 3-2 defeat to Paris Saint-Germain on Wednesday was more than just a Champions League match—it was a spectacle of defiance in the face of football’s governance crisis. The club, which was found not guilty of 115 alleged breaches of financial regulations by an independent commission last month, has become a symbol of the Premier League’s struggle to enforce its own rules. Pep Guardiola’s return to the Etihad as a spectator, seated behind City’s chairman Khaldoon al-Mubarak and CEO Ferran Soriano, only underscored the surreal nature of the moment. The club that was accused of systemic financial misconduct is now back to business as usual, its reputation largely intact despite the damning evidence presented against it.

The match itself was a microcosm of City’s resilience. Trailing 2-1 at half-time, they staged a second-half comeback, with PSG’s Warren Zaïre-Emery scoring an own goal to level the scores before Julián Álvarez sealed the win. But the real story was the atmosphere in the stadium—a mix of relief and defiance, as if the verdict had exonerated not just the club, but the entire financial model of modern football. As Barney Ronay noted in The Guardian, this was “the most interesting Manchester City have ever been,” not because of their football, but because of what they represent: a club that has bent the rules to breaking point and emerged unscathed.

The implications of City’s case extend far beyond one club. If the Premier League cannot enforce its financial regulations against a team backed by a sovereign wealth fund, what hope is there for smaller clubs operating on tighter budgets? The verdict has emboldened critics who argue that English football’s governance is fundamentally broken—a system where the richest clubs can outspend, outmanoeuvre and outlast any regulatory challenge. For now, City’s victory over PSG feels like a metaphor for their legal triumph: a reminder that in football, as in life, the rules are often written by those with the deepest pockets.

The battle for football’s future

English football is at a crossroads, and this week’s events have laid bare the contradictions at its heart. On one side, there is the sport’s cultural significance—a game that remains the UK’s greatest soft power export, played by rules drawn up in London in 1863. On the other, there is the reality of a Premier League dominated by sovereign wealth funds, private equity and billionaires who treat clubs as trophies rather than community assets. The Manchester United ownership saga, the racial abuse scandals in the Championship and Manchester City’s legal victory are not isolated incidents. They are symptoms of a sport that has lost its way, where the pursuit of profit has eroded the values that once made it special.

The question now is whether football can reclaim its soul. The Glazers’ potential sale of Manchester United offers a glimmer of hope, but it is far from certain that any new owner would prioritise the club’s long-term health over short-term gains. In the Championship, the fight against racism requires more than just statements—it demands systemic change, from stricter punishments to better education for fans and players. And in the Premier League, the City verdict has exposed the limits of financial regulation, raising doubts about whether the league can ever truly hold its biggest clubs to account.

For fans, the frustration is palpable. Football was never meant to be a playground for the ultra-rich, nor a battleground for racial abuse. Yet as Martínez’s hot dog costume moment showed, even the players are beginning to question what the game has become. The challenge for English football is not just to fix its governance, but to remember why it matters in the first place. If it fails, the sport risks becoming a hollow spectacle—a game played in empty stadiums, watched by disillusioned fans, and controlled by those who see it as nothing more than a financial asset. That would be the real tragedy.