Red Card Wins

We live in a world that often feels like a game, one where the rules are unclear or, worse, designed to reward the wrong things. Effort and quality are frequently overshadowed by spectacle and noise. It’s not about how well something is done, but how loudly it’s promoted. This distorted dynamic shapes so many aspects of life, and as I reflect on my experiences, I can’t help but see its roots in something as seemingly innocuous as football.

Football, or soccer as it’s called in some parts of the world, has always been a cultural juggernaut. From childhood, it was omnipresent, almost inescapable. On the playground, it was the default activity. Lunchtimes were filled with football matches, and if you didn’t join in, you risked being seen as an outsider. Collecting football stickers, talking about teams, and idolizing players were all part of the social fabric. For those of us who didn’t love football, it felt suffocating, like being swept along by a tide we didn’t choose.

I gravitated toward solo pursuits — fishing, weightlifting, cycling, remote-controlled car racing — activities that were introspective and merit-based, where progress depended on individual effort. Yet in a school culture dominated by team sports like football and rugby, these interests were seen as oddities. This is particularly baffling when you consider the very purpose of an educational environment: to broaden awareness and foster understanding of diverse interests. Instead, the system did the opposite.

This wasn’t just any school, either. It ranked high in England’s league tables, priding itself on academic excellence. And yet, its mentality in this area reflected a narrow and exclusionary mindset. The breadth of human creativity and curiosity was flattened, reduced to conformity. Anything outside of the mainstream was mocked or dismissed outright. You would think that a school with such a reputation would champion individuality, but instead, it entrenched the idea that there was only one way to fit in — through football or rugby, through team sports and shared obsessions.

What struck me as strange was the reverence adults had for football. Even as a child, I could sense their fascination. But I also had an innocent curiosity about adulthood itself. I’d glance at 18-rated movies, forbidden books, and other symbols of grown-up life, wondering what lay behind their mysterious allure. Surely adulthood held deeper, more meaningful pursuits than something as simple as kicking a ball into a net?

When I finally reached adulthood, the reality was disheartening. Football wasn’t just a childhood fixation; it had seeped into every corner of adult life. Grown men, with all the freedoms and responsibilities that adulthood offers, remained consumed by the game. It was baffling. I’d imagined adulthood as a realm of wisdom and complexity, yet I found people still obsessing over football or spending their time on movies like Terminator — juvenile distractions that offered no greater meaning.

It felt like a continuation of school life, just with bigger toys and more expensive hobbies. The same people who once traded football stickers on the playground were now discussing fantasy football leagues and splurging on season tickets. It was as if nothing had changed except the scale. Instead of pocket money, they had credit cards. Instead of schoolyards, they had pubs and stadiums.

What shocked me most was the simplicity of it all. I’d expected adulthood to be about growth, introspection, and progress. Instead, it felt like a larger version of the playground, governed by the same unspoken rules of conformity and superficiality. Football became a metaphor for the wider world — a game that so many play without question, an institution that consumes time and energy without offering anything truly meaningful in return.

This focus on football mirrors the game of life itself. The culture that surrounds us pushes us to conform, to play along, to value spectacle over substance. Whether it’s footballers turning into social media stars or professionals in any field relying on self-promotion to succeed, the emphasis is on noise, not depth. It’s a game where flashy moves win over quiet discipline, and the loudest players dominate, even if they lack the skill or integrity to back it up.

As a Christian, this distortion feels especially grating. Life, as God intended, is about refinement, growth, and purpose. Yet, we’re thrust into a system that demands we play by its twisted rules to survive. It’s exhausting to navigate this world while striving to maintain a focus on God. The tension between living authentically and conforming to the absurdities of modern culture feels like a constant tug-of-war.

For those of us born in the mid-80s, this shift feels particularly stark. We grew up in an analog era where merit and effort mattered, only to be thrust into a digital age that prioritizes appearances and controversy. It’s as if we’ve been forced to play a different game entirely, one where the values we were taught no longer apply.

The title of this essay, Red Card Wins, reflects the absurdity of it all. In football, a red card signifies failure — being sent off for breaking the rules. But in today’s world, it feels like those who play the game recklessly, loudly, and selfishly are the ones rewarded. They get the attention, the accolades, and the success, while those who quietly work with integrity are sidelined.

I don’t have all the answers. But I do know this: I refuse to conform to a system that values noise over substance. I’ll keep pursuing the things that matter to me, even if they don’t align with the mainstream. I’ll strive to live a life grounded in meaning, purpose, and faith, even if it feels like playing a different game entirely. And in doing so, I hope to show that there is another way — one that doesn’t require red cards to win.