Last July, when the International Olympic Committee announced that Los Angeles would host the 2028 Olympic games, the Trump administration immediately seized on the political opportunities posed by the good fortune. Not only did the occasion mark the first time in some two decades that the games would be held on American soil, but Trump’s predecessor, Barack Obama, had also publicly tried and failed to help Chicago host the 2016 Games. Moreover, Trump found in the I.O.C. exactly the sort of deference that he most cherishes. “Since his election, President Trump has been personally involved in helping to make L.A.’s bid a truly American bid,” the committee noted in a statement, “and the White House Office of American Innovation and the U.S. Senate and House of Representatives have been true partners throughout.”

The Office of American Innovation, of course, is Jared Kushner’s treehouse within the West Wing—a small, enigmatic, nebulous coterie tasked with everything from solving Middle East peace to government I.T. The Office of American Innovation is generally derided as sort of a punch line within Washington, but Trump’s decision to hand the White House's work for the Olympic bid to Kushner suggests his diminished faith in the rest of his organization. As one person familiar with the situation described to me, “Who else in the administration outside of that office could take a project from start to finish?”

Around the time of the Olympic success, a handful of interested parties, including Trump booster Robert Kraft, who owns the N.F.L.’s New England Patriots and Major League Soccer’s New England Revolution, reached out to the president, urging him to get involved with an effort to bring the 2026 World Cup to North America. Trump agreed, and, again handed the lift over to Kushner and O.A.I. Kushner headed a group of about five people—some from O.A.I., others from the White House Counsel’s office and the Staff Secretary’s office—to help lead the effort. Almost immediately, Kushner hopped on his first conference call to discuss what the administration could do to help.

By that July, the United States Soccer Federation, along with the corresponding groups from Canada and Mexico, had already confirmed its intentions to bid for the games in North America, and had since become the overwhelming favorite on account of its advanced infrastructure, facilities, and transportation options. North America’s chances were also buoyed by FIFA’s effort to rotate the tournament around the world, blocking any of its six continental confederations from bidding if they had hosted a World Cup within the previous eight years. Since Russia and Qatar had locked up the games in 2018 and 2022, Asia and Europe were eliminated from consideration. By August, on the final day countries were allowed to announce their intentions, Morocco announced its intention to bid for the games.

Morocco had previously sought the World Cup in 1994, 1998, 2006, and 2010, but had been passed over each time on account of skepticism about its infrastructure capacity and capital. In any year, it would seem like an overmatched competitor against North America. But this year was different. The travel ban put in place by the Trump administration was not only politically appalling to members of the international community, but it might also restrict players from a couple of the countries likely to compete for spots in a tournament—a major consideration since the 2026 World Cup would increase to 48 teams. Several of Trump’s public comments about North America’s bid were also perceived as threats or undue pressure. In April, for example, he tweeted that it “It would be a shame if countries that we always support were to lobby against the U.S. bid. Why should we be supporting these countries when they don’t support us?”