Indonesian Football: The Gap Between FIFA's Praise and the Reality on the Pitch

Jakarta, the Presidential Palace Complex. Monday, October 5, 2026. FIFA President Gianni Infantino stood before journalists and said Indonesian football had made significant progress in recent years. Hearing such praise from the mouth of a global football leader, many chests swelled with pride. My mind, however, conjured a different scene.

It was 2026. The Independence Cup final at Barishal's Abdur Rab Serniabat Stadium. I was calling Sheikh Russel KC's 2-1 win over Chittagong Abahani on Facebook Live. But I did not narrate the victory. I narrated the 4,000 fans who passed a single thermos of tea hand to hand across the stands. The stream drew 18,000 views, and 37 listeners sent voice notes writing about their fathers. The Facebook Live final ended, but the letter kept writing itself in my hands. That experience taught me one thing: the progress of football can never be measured in press releases. It is measured on a stadium bench, on a school pitch, or in the warmth of a thermos.

Indonesian football has always been Southeast Asia's greatest puzzle. More than 280 million people, a vast market, fans who cry and laugh and rage — everything is there. But on-pitch success has come quietly, like a tide, sometimes rising and falling again. Infantino himself admitted this reality: a few years ago, the football situation in Indonesia was quite complicated. That word 'complicated' is not light. Behind it lie governance crises, stadium disasters, safety questions, and the shadow of FIFA suspension. After the 2026 Kanjuruhan Stadium tragedy, the country's football administration was shaken to its core. The story of climbing back from that shock is precisely what FIFA's voice now praises.

And at the centre of that comeback sits PSSI — the Indonesian football federation. Infantino made it plain: the transformation carried out by the federation is the engine of this development. So the story is not of a club, not of a coach — it is the story of an institution, and that institution is being praised by its own regulator. This is the most intriguing part for me. Because in football politics, when a federation receives verbal praise from its continental or global regulator, it is not merely journalism — it is a political signal, a message of soft power.

One thing must be kept in mind here. Indonesia's domestic league, BRI Liga 1, is already one of the largest and most-watched leagues in Southeast Asia. But a big league does not automatically mean a strong structure. The financial foundations of many clubs remain fragile, dependence on sponsors is high, and a large share of matchday revenue never reaches the club. This financial reality is the most useful key to interpreting Infantino's remarks.

Infantino named three levers to push Indonesian football forward. Examining these three separately reveals where Indonesia's real problems lie and where its real promise lies.

The first lever — school football. Infantino said we need to do more in schools and in football schools. The phrase sounds ordinary, but inside it hides a structural truth. In a country of 280 million, if the root of the talent pipeline does not stand on school pitches, then no matter how many stars arrive at the top, it is a house without a roof. Indonesia has a big market, but its grassroots coaching structure has not yet reached Western standards. Infantino pointed exactly at that root — the lever with the greatest long-term yield. I have spent my life translating the noise of the pitch into meaning, and meaning back into noise. That experience of translation tells me a country's true football strength is never written on the senior team's scoreboard — it is written in the dribbling of a ten-year-old you will never see on any broadcast.

The second lever — clubs operating their own stadiums. Here lies the most immediate financial truth. Infantino said that if clubs can operate their stadiums themselves, matchday revenue will rise, and that revenue can be reinvested in football development. Inside that sentence hides an uncomfortable admission: many Indonesian clubs do not actually own their own stadiums. The stadiums are generally held by municipalities, the military, the police, or state agencies. That means matchday tickets, food stalls, parking — all that revenue flows outside the club. A club is a tenant in its own home. It is this structure that keeps clubs financially fragile, and a fragile club can never make lasting investment in talent.

A comparison can be drawn here that many avoid. A large share of big European clubs' income comes from stadium-centred activity — matchday tickets, hospitality, concerts, museums, restaurants. The club is not just a football team; it is a year-round business. Indonesian clubs have not reached that model because the stadium is not in their hands. Infantino's point is therefore not really football advice — it is almost a question of property rights.

The third lever — ASEAN cooperation. Infantino said Indonesia's progress must go together with football progress in the ASEAN region, and that done together the impact will be greater. This is not mere polite diplomacy. It is the hint of a bloc-level strategy. Regional broadcast rights, competition-slot politics, joint competitions — the future of all these is tangled up here. Vietnam, Thailand, Malaysia — with these neighbours Indonesia competes not only on the pitch but in the broadcast market and in slot allocation. The call to move together is therefore a double-edged sword.

Now to the most sensitive part — squad-building strategy. Infantino said the senior team is performing well, including with players who all have roots in Indonesia. In that single sentence hides the biggest truth of Indonesia's current football strategy: the team is now largely built around diaspora and naturalized players of Indonesian descent.

Young men of Indonesian descent born and raised in Europe — trained in Dutch, Belgian, or Italian youth systems — now wear the Garuda shirt. Thom Haye, Jay Idzes, Ragnar Oratmangoen, Mees Hilgers — these names are now familiar in Indonesian football discussion. This strategy yields quick results. It is an effective weapon for turning the wheels of qualification. But it carries a hidden price: if the domestic talent pipeline is not strengthened in parallel, the team will suddenly weaken once the diaspora pool is exhausted. It is the story of building a palace on a foundation imported from abroad.

Let me add a personal note here. At the 2026 Russia World Cup, I commentated France's 4-3 win over Argentina from a Dhaka studio. But I opened with the story of a 12-year-old boy in Barishal who had painted Messi's No. 10 on his cheek and wept at the final whistle. The producer wanted statistics; I gave him a boy's tears. In Russia, a boy in Messi's No. 10 — Root: Russia 2026 and the Boy with Messi. That experience taught me that the bigger question is not who a player is, but where he comes from and whom he plays for.

For Indonesia, that question cuts sharper. A player raised in a European academy has his blood roots in Indonesia — but his football education's roots are in Europe. That is not a fault, it is a fact. But that fact cannot be hidden behind praise. In football history, many nations have found rapid success with naturalized players, but none has ever built a lasting football culture on naturalization alone.

Now to the place where this news is at its weakest. All of Infantino's praise is opinion. Not one match statistic, not one points table, not one qualification standing. The youth team is performing well, the senior team is performing well — there is no evidence behind that sentence. Nor is the sample size stated. Nor is form measured.

And within it lies a warning. The report says Indonesia's U-15 team will appear at the World Cup next month in Azerbaijan. But FIFA has no U-15 World Cup. FIFA runs U-17 and U-20 World Cups, not U-15. So this fact is either wrong or confused with a regional or invitational youth event. When such an unverifiable fact slips into a news item of praise, the reliability of the whole report comes into question. The first lesson of journalism is to verify facts — not to float away on the emotion of praise.

Even bigger is expectation inflation. When the FIFA President stands at the Presidential Palace and praises a country's football, that praise does not only raise the federation's political capital — it lifts the public's expectations to the sky. And when expectations rise faster than facts, every defeat feels like betrayal. Pressure mounts on the federation, on the coach, on the players. When praise arrives before results, it becomes not a gift but a burden.

I have seen this scene again and again in my career. In June 2026, when European football returned behind closed doors, I commentated Manchester City's 3-0 win over Arsenal on Barishal Community Radio. Where the roar of 55,000 fans should have been at the Etihad, there was emptiness. I read aloud 63 messages from listeners — those who had lost jobs, those who had lost loved ones. My voice cracked on the 63rd. The Etihad had no crowd, so sixty-three messages became my congregation. The producer wanted tactical analysis; I wanted a memorial. That experience taught me: football's greatest moments are never on the scoreboard. They live in the silence of a stand, in a listener's voice, in a boy's tears.

There is another gap worth noticing here. The transformation Infantino speaks of is largely top-down — federation-led. In this model, decisions centralise, and the naturalization strategy is likely managed centrally by the federation rather than emerging organically from clubs. This centralisation helps make quick decisions, but at the same time makes everything depend on the federation's stability. If leadership changes or a crisis arrives, the whole transformation can stall.

And one thing must not be forgotten — Indonesia's recent football history is not only one of ascent but of collapse. Stadium disasters, governance crises, FIFA suspensions — all are part of that story. FIFA's current praise is therefore also a signal of a rehabilitation narrative. FIFA typically praises members that have exited crisis and met reform conditions. It is recognition on one side, and a message of watchful monitoring on the other.

So where do we look for the real proof of Indonesia's football progress? Not in Infantino's voice. We look at the points table of the coming AFC World Cup qualifiers. We look at the number of players rising from domestic academies. We look at the school pitch where the seed of Infantino's words is germinating — or not. We look at the stadium whose gate key has reached the club's hands — or not.

Praise can open a door, but you must walk through it on your own feet. And for me the biggest question remains: can a nation that teaches its boys football in European academies ever learn to write its own story on its own grass? The answer may be written five years from now on some Monday, in a Jakarta stand, in the warmth of a thermos.