A powerful American legal tool is a weapon of choice in a brewing legal battle between two of the world's most powerful transnational sporting organizations.
Soccer might not be on the minds of Americans on a daily basis, but that won't stop the global corporate landscape from shifting under our feet as two behemoths of football governance wage world war on one another. Battles in that war erupted in three U.S. federal courts at the end of August.
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| RJ Peltz-Steele with Google Gemini CC0 1.0 |
First, some context. Americans might remember from the waning days of the World Cup news cycle—and thus the waning days of Americans caring about soccer, despite the summer hype, and owing significantly to the self-inflicted wound of allowing profit-thirsty NBC to fragment Premier League matches across disparate network bundles, but that's another story—that FIFA chief Gianni Infantino, apparently intoxicated by the refined air inside his mega-millionaire bubble, proposed selling shares in the people's game to private investors.
The proposal was akin to a company going public, except not at all public and, being above the laws of nations, hardly regulated. After schmoozing States-style, Infantino wanted to do his part to firm up the global wealth gap and to locate himself at its rich-ward extreme. No joke: Infantino's vision looks like it was modeled on President Trump's Board of Peace, with which Infantino's FIFA in fact formally partnered. Infantino would have set himself up as the head of a World Cup company, sidestepping the inconveniently quasi-democratic and term-limiting features of the FIFA presidency, and shaken down private investors and member associations for minority stakes.
There apparently is some limit to what even the supra-national, mega-rich can do, as Infantino's plan drew worldwide rebuke. Of course there was objection from watchdogs, such as Reboot FIFA, a campaign I signed on to that holds out hope for socially responsible sporting governance and issued a July statement condemning the Infantino plan. But tellingly, FIFA's member associations led the chorus of boos; UEFA pledged a boycott of FIFA. The limit might be when rich people step on the toes of other rich people, because UEFA is no stranger to the profit-engine-masquerading-as-for-the-commoner MO of professional football governance.
Longer memories will recall when Swiss police raided FIFA headquarters in 2015 at the behest of U.S. investigators, and the U.S. Department of Justice filed a 47-count federal indictment in Brooklyn targeting top FIFA brass. Mighty FIFA President Sepp Blatter fell from grace, and it looked for a moment like democracy might be bigger than corporatocracy.
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| Infantino shows Trump the World Cup trophy in the Oval Office, 2025. U.S. Government (public domain) photo from the White House |
Infantino backed off of the private-investment plan. Yet hell hath no fury like a sporting cartel scorned. UEFA persists, demanding that FIFA oust Infantino and threatening legal action.
Meanwhile, because there's a grain of truth to the offensive assumption that all rich people know each other, there's a U.S. connection to the FIFA scandal that runs even deeper than Trump and Infantino's mutual social grooming. New York-based Thrive Capital, a venture capital firm, was set to pour $4.2 billion into Infantino, Inc. And the co-founder and soul of Thrive Capital is Joshua Kushner.
You think I mistyped Jared Kushner, the President's son-in-law who solved the Middle East. No. Josh is the other Bennet sister, an entirely different offspring of tax fraud, etc., convict Charles Kushner. Not that I'm judging a book by its author; a billionaire deserves a chance to write his own story.
Since the Infantino deal went up in glorious flames, Josh Kushner has tried to distance Thrive and himself from it. He says he never would have gotten involved had he known, and that he thought the deal would funnel more capital to promote socioeconomic development. Shoulda coulda woulda.
Well, UEFA wants to know more about that. Which is why its breathtaking range of documents filed in the U.S. District Court for the Southern District of New York includes, very much inter alia, a proposed subpoena for the deposition of one Joshua Kushner.
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| RJ Peltz-Steele with Google Gemini CC0 1.0 |
This is important, because U.S. discovery is famously more expansive than production in other legal systems. Fittingly, U.S. civil procedure takes a sort of free-market approach to discovery, upon a truth-will-out philosophy. The system, articulated in the relevance-and-proportionality standard of Rule 26(b) of the Federal Rules of Civil Procedure, does not grant carte blanche for fishing expeditions, especially since 2015 amendment tried to rein it in a bit. But it goes a lot farther than the they-didn't-ask-so-don't-tell approach that is the norm in Europe.
Section 1782 on its face requires that (1) the domestic respondent can be found in the U.S. district in which discovery is sought, (2) the discovery is for use in a foreign or international tribunal, and (3) the section 1782 requester has an interest in the foreign proceeding. The statute won some notoriety in 2022 when the U.S. Supreme Court resolved a circuit split by deciding that arbitral panels are not eligible tribunals under the second element.
Section 1782 compliance by U.S. district courts is discretionary, not required, by the statute. So the U.S. Supreme Court in 2004 set out factors to guide court discretion: (1) whether the domestic respondent is subject to the foreign proceeding, so discovery might rather be sought against the respondent there; (2) whether the foreign tribunal is receptive to U.S. court assistance; (3) whether the requester is trying to circumvent an intended limitation on discovery in the foreign system; and (4) whether the request is especially intrusive or burdensome. The third factor especially tends to be a contested point, and it is sometimes difficult for U.S. courts to find the line between a foreign limitation on discovery by design and the mere happenstance that the foreign discovery system is more conservative than the U.S. system.
In a 2020 empirical study, Penn Carey Law Professor Yanbai Andrea Wang concluded that section 1782 is an "increasingly pervasive practice that is transforming civil litigation worldwide." With 90% of ex parte 1782 requests granted, Wang found that the law raises due process concerns. Potential adversaries in the home litigation are not always given proper notice of their right to intervene in the United States and object to the discovery. In the instant matter at least, the 1782 petition is part of UEFA's public relations strategy. And FIFA had no trouble intervening in New York and mounting a public relations offensive of its own, accusing UEFA of a "smear campaign."
Properly employed, section 1782 does open the door for a foreign actor to poke around in the business of an adversary or potential adversary, to bolster a legal theory back home, in a way that it could not without the U.S. hook. Sometimes what the requester can discover with the aid of U.S. law is valuable enough to shift public opinion or a case on its merits so significantly as to obviate or dispose of the matter back home. It's not a stretch to figure that UEFA hopes to find Infantino-Kushner correspondence so damning or embarrassing as to compel Infantino's ouster.
Watching the battles unfold in UEFA vs. FIFA, and In Re Union Des Associations Europeennes de Football (S.D.N.Y. filed Aug. 27, 2026) in particular, is a bit like being on a rowboat between battleships. But the stab at arrogant corporate impunity, even if thrust by a fellow titan, is nonetheless prone to induce a satisfying schadenfreude, especially if UEFA can bring Infantino down.
RIP, football transparencist Andrew Jennings. Your mouth would be watering.
