Football: now available in new, genuinely heartwarming flavour. There was a lovely moment at London’s Palladium theatre, with the clock creeping towards 11pm at the end of a startlingly shrill and bloated evening of never-ending awards and never ending award-related excitement. Not just for Harry Kane, who is now the 2026 men’s Ballon d’Or winner, and in the process placed indelibly in that lineage of elite footballers.
But also, frankly, for anyone watching, as Kane stood on stage gazing a little shyly at his golden orb, and kicked off his speech by thanking everyone, paying tribute to everyone, everywhere, then finally cracking into tears and a strangled croak as he thanked his parents for sacrifices made, his wife for always being there, and even, in slightly jarring vibe-shift from the warm honeyed tone, José Mourinho. Even Kane’s biggest advocates will rarely claim their man is one of a kind, sui generis, in the mode of the Ronaldo-Messi godhead. But Kane is exactly this in his own admirably humble way.
Not just an exceptional footballer, the best, most deserving men’s player in the world this year, a European golden boot, scorer of 89 goals since August 2025, Bundesliga champions, World Cup semi-final captain, model of extreme professionalism and care. He’s also quite clearly the nicest man, if not just in football, then possibly the world. Or at least it felt like that as he walked off in that very dear and tender way, the centre of the world in that moment, but also just keen to get off the stage and let everyone get on with clearing up.
It would be wrong to say Kane’s victory in the final vote of the night redeemed the grotesqueness of the ceremonies itself. There was a roomful of hugely deserving winners here. But Kane hits particularly hard.
And the Ballon d’Or is, let us be clear, a horrendous event, albeit a supremely popular horrendous event. There was the usual pomp around the ceremony, staged this year at a fancy theatre close to Oxford Circus. It’s celebrity culture, red carpet fawning, the worship of images and people, and fame.
Football isn’t supposed to be cocooned this way, to send the message that there are barriers and ropes and special people. Yeah, well, good luck with that. The night kicked off with French Montana in spotless white tuxedo performing on an open-air double-decker bus.
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