Part 1 : Vinicius, Prestianni and Racism In Football

In terms of Racism, I have come to believe that football reveals more about society than it pretends to. For ninety minutes, stadiums become concentrated theatres of identity. National pride, local rivalry, masculinity, class tension, and racial hierarchy(and often by extension, racism) are compressed into chants, gestures, and spectacle. The game is marketed as the “Beautiful Game,” a unifying force that crosses borders and languages. Yet repeatedly, it exposes something far less beautiful.

When I watch Vinícius Júnior stand in hostile stadiums, subjected to chants and gestures while millions watch live, I do not see an isolated incident. I see a mirror. The abuse does not erupt in darkness. It happens under floodlights, in front of cameras, with security present and governing bodies on standby. The contradiction is stark. If fireworks are thrown, a match can be stopped immediately. If there is crowd violence, the response is swift. But when racism unfolds, the game often hesitates. It pauses. It investigates. It resumes. That hesitation is the problem.

Football has anti-racism campaigns, slogans, gestures, and pre-match statements. The branding is polished. The language is firm. Yet the enforcement rarely alters the competitive structure of the match itself. The teams continue. The table remains unchanged. The points remain intact.

My argument is simple. Racism persists in football not because rules are absent, but because enforcement rarely changes outcomes. Until racist incidents lead to automatic forfeits, meaningful points deductions, and consistent criminal prosecution, anti-racism policy will remain symbolic. And symbolism does not deter behaviour that carries no real competitive cost.

To understand the present, I have to acknowledge that racism in football is not a modern glitch. It is woven into the sport’s historical development. Football was globalised during the height of European imperial expansion. Physical education in the nineteenth century was not politically neutral. It was often framed as a civilising tool, a way to discipline bodies and demonstrate hierarchy. The idea that certain races were physically strong but intellectually inferior did not emerge from stadium terraces. It was embedded in broader social ideology.

That logic filtered into sport. Leadership positions, tactical intelligence, and authority were historically coded as White. Physicality and instinct were coded as Black. Those stereotypes still echo today. When I hear commentary describe a Black player as “raw,” “explosive,” or “emotional,” while a white counterpart is labelled “composed” or “intelligent,” I recognise the continuity.

Institutional exclusion is not theoretical, across other sports even. The NFL’s so-called “Gentlemen’s Agreement” between 1933 and 1946 effectively banned Black players without formal documentation. It was quiet, coordinated, and deliberate. In South Africa, apartheid policies led to FIFA suspending the Football Association of South Africa in 1961 for refusing to desegregate. That moment matters to me because it proves governing bodies can act decisively when political will exists.

The pattern is clear. Racism in football has historically been structural, not accidental. It has operated through policy, through narrative framing, and through selective enforcement. When modern officials treat racism as spontaneous misbehaviour from a few fans, I see a refusal to confront that deeper continuity. The present crisis is not new. It is inherited.

When I assess racism in modern European football, I resist the temptation to isolate moments. The media cycle encourages that. One scandal, one headline, one apology. But the story of Vinícius Júnior is not a single eruption. It is a sequence. And sequences reveal systems.

Since his arrival in Spain in 2018, Vinícius has faced racist abuse across multiple stadiums. Monkey chants have followed him from city to city. Sections of crowds have mimicked primate gestures. Before a Madrid derby, an effigy wearing his shirt was hung from a bridge. That image was not spontaneous. It was coordinated, deliberate, and public. The symbolism was unmistakable.

The Mestalla incident in Valencia marked a turning point in visibility. Cameras captured the exchange between Vinícius and sections of the crowd. The match was briefly halted. Stadium announcements were made. Eventually, prison sentences were handed down to several offenders. That legal development mattered. It proved that criminal accountability is possible. But what I notice is how long the pattern had persisted before the legal system intervened. The sentences felt exceptional precisely because so many previous episodes had produced little structural consequence.

The 2026 Champions League flashpoint in Lisbon reinforced the same dynamic. After Vinícius reported being subjected to a racist insult, play was stopped for ten minutes under UEFA’s anti-racism protocol. Allegations emerged that Gianluca Prestianni had covered his mouth with his shirt while speaking, complicating lip-reading and evidence collection. Whether the accusation is ultimately upheld or not, the detail itself is revealing. If true, it suggests awareness of surveillance and an attempt to evade detection. That is not ignorance. That is calculation.

The rhetorical aftermath follows a familiar script. Defences of “linguistic misunderstanding” emerge. The distinction between racist and homophobic slurs becomes legally strategic because sanctions differ. Technical debates about wording overshadow the underlying hostility. I find that shift deeply telling. The conversation becomes about classification rather than harm.

Then there is the more subtle form of deflection: the reframing of Vinícius himself. Commentators question his celebrations. They describe him as provocative, theatrical, emotional. The implication is rarely explicit, but it is present. He incites. He agitates. He fuels reaction. In that framing, racism becomes response rather than origin.
I reject that logic.

Celebration is not incitement. Confidence is not justification. When responsibility begins to drift toward the victim’s personality, the structural issue dissolves into individual temperament. That rhetorical move is one of the most effective ways to preserve the status quo.

There is also a psychological dimension that statistics cannot capture. Performing at elite level while repeatedly targeted requires sustained emotional labour. Each away match carries the anticipation of hostility. Each goal risks triggering another wave of abuse. Yet resilience becomes the expectation. He is praised for strength, for maturity, for focus. Rarely do we interrogate why that resilience is demanded in the first place.

What convinces me that this is systemic is not the severity of one episode. It is the recurrence across competitions, cities, and seasons. The response pattern is equally consistent: condemnation, investigation, fine, partial sanction, resumption. The matches continue. The standings remain intact. The structure absorbs the scandal.

When I look at Vinícius’ experience as a whole, I do not see a player repeatedly encountering rogue individuals. I see a sport repeatedly failing to impose consequences that meaningfully alter incentives. That is why I describe this era not as a crisis moment, but as a pattern. And patterns, unlike incidents, demand structural change.