Football is a constant act of choosing. Every pass, press, or pause is a decision made in the blur of uncertainty. And yet, in many environments, that freedom has been quietly replaced by instruction. “Press now.” “Play out.” “Don’t lose it there.” We call it structure, but too often it becomes restriction.
Existential philosophy teaches that freedom and responsibility are inseparable — that every choice defines who we are. Jean-Paul Sartre called it the “burden of freedom.” In football, that burden lives inside every young player who has the ball at their feet, surrounded by voices telling them what to do.
Our role as coaches and parents isn’t to take that freedom away. It’s to help players use it wisely — and own it completely.
To let players make decisions doesn’t mean chaos. It means creating environments where their decisions matter. Freedom in football isn’t just “do whatever you want.” It’s the ability to interpret the game, to assess risk, to act with awareness.
Sometimes, not taking a risk is the right decision. A defender choosing to go long rather than play through pressure might be acting with perfect clarity — reading the context, weighing the odds, accepting the consequence. That’s not fear. That’s judgment.
True freedom in football is informed choice. It’s the capacity to think, feel, and act authentically — not simply follow patterns.
We’ve become very good at giving instructions and very poor at giving space. The modern game’s obsession with systems — build-up patterns, automated movements, positional grids — has created a generation of players who can execute but sometimes struggle to improvise.
Systems have value; they offer rhythm, connection, and shared understanding. But when they become rigid, they suffocate the very creativity they’re meant to channel.
Sartre's view of existentialism would call this “bad faith” – when we deny our freedom by hiding behind roles or rules. In football, bad faith looks like a player who passes sideways not because it’s the right choice, but because it’s the safe one – the one that avoids criticism.
The irony is that our systems, designed to produce confident decision-makers, often end up producing compliant followers.
Existential thought insists that meaning arises through choice. We are, as Aristotle put it, “the sum of our actions.” For a young player, this means every decision on the pitch is a chance to grow. Each moment of choice builds identity – not just as a footballer, but as a person.
Coaches can support that process by shifting focus from outcome to ownership. Instead of asking, “Why did you make that mistake?” we can ask, “What did you see? What were you trying to do?”
That shift changes everything. It replaces fear with reflection. It tells the player their mind matters – that their decisions are worth exploring, not just grading.
Every choice carries risk. The pass might be intercepted. The dribble might fail. The clearance might look “safe” but invite pressure. But existential freedom requires courage – the willingness to act without guarantees.
That’s the lesson football teaches better than almost any classroom: you must decide, in real time, with imperfect information. And you must live with it.
We can’t make players brave by shouting “Be brave!” We can only make them brave by giving them space to choose and the safety to fail.
Parents play a crucial role in shaping this environment. The touchline is often full of good intentions but mixed messages. A child hears five voices telling them five different things – none of them their own.
Existential freedom starts when that noise fades. When we trust players to think, reflect, and act, they start to feel ownership of their decisions. It’s not about detachment; it’s about respect – respect for their process, their perspective, their right to learn.
A parent who says, “What did you notice?” instead of “Why didn’t you pass?” gives a gift – the gift of thought.
Existential authenticity is acting in alignment with your own perception and values – not out of fear, imitation, or compliance. The most memorable players, from Iniesta to Bellingham, express their identity through decision-making. They interpret the game in their own way, within structure but never imprisoned by it.
Great coaching nurtures that authenticity. It doesn’t demand robotic execution; it invites intelligent improvisation. It celebrates understanding, not obedience.
In existential football, authenticity beats automation every time.
Systems aren’t the enemy – they’re the stage. But the play still belongs to the players. Structure should liberate, not dictate. The best systems provide reference points, not routes.
As coaches, our challenge is to build frameworks that support free thinkers, not scripts that silence them. Encourage players to recognise when the right decision is the simple pass, when safety is wisdom, when risk is unnecessary – but let that recognition come from them.
True learning only happens when choice is real.
Ultimately, decision-making in football mirrors decision-making in life. We make choices under pressure, with limited information, and learn to live with the outcomes. That’s why the game matters so deeply – it’s a rehearsal for being human.
When we let players decide, we give them more than tactical understanding. We give them agency. We give them ownership. We teach them what it means to be responsible, to think, to feel, to grow.
“The game is a mirror and every decision is a reflection of who we are becoming.”
Football doesn’t need more control. It needs more consciousness. The existential player doesn’t play without structure – they play within it, awake to their freedom, aware of their choices.
Our role, as adults, is to protect that space where freedom lives: the moment before a pass, the instant of uncertainty, the heartbeat between fear and courage.
Because in that small moment – that sacred second of decision — the game still belongs to the player. And that’s where football, in its truest form, is always worth saving.
“What I know most surely about morality and the duty of man, I owe to football.” – Albert Camus