Patrice Motsepe wants to be remembered as the architect of a great African football renaissance
Is Patrice Motsepe a madman or a genius? Item 1 in the “madman” column is the news that Motsepe is officially the ANC’s biggest on-the-record donor, having recently tossed a R10-million cheque into the howling vortex of avarice otherwise known as Luthuli House.
Presumably Motsepe’s ANC donations did not form part of his 2013 pledge to give away half his money to the poor. Yes, ruling party may well be broke, but as individuals, the ANC’s leadership are decidedly not poor.
As for the strategic wisdom of funding a power vacuum, the jury is very far out. But in Motsepe’s defence, political donations to any party should not be stigmatised. Democracy is not cheap, and open donations are much better than secret bribes. Also, there remains a faint hope that the ANC might show some interest in rediscovering its soul, which was last seen wafting about in the catacombs below Luthuli House. And if a search operation is ever undertaken, the party will need cash to buy garlic and torches.
But in which column do we mark down Motsepe’s African Super League (ASL) project – which he hopes will be his defining legacy as president of the Confederation of African football?
Whisper it, but the ASL could actually work. It’s conceivable that the project could deliver what it says on the tin: generate north of $100-million of sponsorship and broadcast revenue every year, thus recapitalising Africa’s elite clubs and – in theory – pumping much-needed funds into the continent’s development infrastructure.
Big corporations love to fund a big idea, and the new regional group stages will appeal to regional giants. If you’re a leading South African bank or mobile group with offices in Nairobi and Dar Es Salaam, for example, you would fancy buying into the Eastern and Southern group stage.
At the very least, the lavish prize-money pot of the ASL – vastly bigger than the CAF Champions League currently offers – would make participation in African competition a viable endeavour for those big clubs whose owners don’t want to lose money in the process, such as Kaizer Chiefs or Orlando Pirates. Each club will receive upfront payments of $3.5-million to offset travel and other costs. And the winners would bank a cool $11.5-million.
Such a juicy pot could also spur some European-style spending rivalries between owner-tycoons such as Simba FC’s Mohammed Dewji, the Tanzanian mogul worth around R20-billion, and Motsepe himself. Marquee signings from Europe and South America could bump up the glamour factor.
The obvious worry is what the ASL will do to the existing continental competitions. Fixture congestion would be horrific if they do continue as normal – the winner would play 21 ASL games. There is talk of ditching the CAF Champions League group stages, but the truly logical step would be simply to merge the CAF Champions League with the CAF Confederation Cup, creating a new tournament for all the best clubs in Africa who are outside the ASL elite.
But this would be politically impossible: it would imply to backers that the Super League is merely the old CAF Champions League, flashily rebranded and reorganised – which would of course be kind of true.
Such honesty would also mean sacrificing existing revenue from the legacy competition in order to make the new competition stronger. This is not how football suits think: the principle of quality over quantity is alien to the instincts of modern football administrators. They cannot bring themselves to leave any money on the table. Hence the morass of tediously meaningless tournaments in Europe these days – from the Nations League to the Uefa Conference League to the European Super Cup.
But there is the possibility that Motsepe and CAF make a real success of the ASL – especially if they merge and/or radically downsize the legacy competitions.
And if so, will he be remembered as the architect of a great African football renaissance?
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