Somewhere between folding polyester and trying to remember why I bought a Port Autonome jersey, I came across a shirt I hadn’t seen in years. It was a 2008–09 Liverpool grey away top made by Adidas. I loved this shirt. It looked amazing then, and it still does. And on the back: Torres, 9.

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That stopped me for a second. I loved Fernando Torres when he was at Liverpool. Not just in the normal, rational “he’s a good striker” way, but in the full commitment, slightly embarrassing, early-20s way. The pace, the power, the finishing, and the hair. Especially the hair.

Between September 2007 and September 2008, I didn’t cut mine. I grew it out like Torres and wore a headband like he did. I was playing for a team called Lokomotiv Goyang at the time and, in my head at least, there were probably some similarities. There weren’t.

That shirt dragged me straight back to that year, to a time that didn’t feel particularly significant while I was living it but clearly was. I had just taken a job teaching English in South Korea, fresh out of university, with no real plan and even less understanding of what I was getting into. It turned out to be one of the best decisions I’ve ever made, not because I knew it would be, but because I didn’t.

The routine

I was living on my own for the first time, on the opposite side of the world, with too much time on my hands and not enough structure to know what to do with it. There was, however, one constant: football. More specifically, Liverpool.

South Korea is nine hours ahead of the UK in winter, which meant kickoffs landed at times that were inconvenient. So, I built a routine. The alarm would go off at 2:45am, I’d stumble around a small studio apartment, switch the TV on, turn the lights off, and get back into bed.

Then I’d watch. FA Cup, Premier League, UEFA Champions League, it didn’t matter. If Liverpool were playing, I was watching.

At full-time, I’d try to drift straight back to sleep, usually with limited success, before the next alarm dragged me up again so I could go and teach a classroom full of kids who, quite reasonably, had no interest in my sleep schedule or Liverpool’s title challenge. Looking back, it makes absolutely no sense, but at the time it felt completely non-negotiable. I couldn’t not watch.

It’s one of those things that only really makes sense in your 20s, like going out until 4am and still thinking you’ll be productive the next day. Technically possible, practically questionable. Now, it’s out of the question. I’ve aged out of it, and my body has made that very clear. Indeed, staying up past 10pm is difficult. If I’m not in bed by then, I’m already writing off the next day.

But it wasn’t just about football. Those nights were a connection to something familiar in a place that wasn’t. I’m not scouse and I’m not even from the UK, but somehow watching Liverpool at 3am in a dark room made everything feel a bit closer to home.

The games

This isn’t one of those “football was better back then” pieces. I don’t have the energy for that argument, and more importantly, I don’t believe it. Football now is faster, sharper, and more global. Players are paid what they’re worth, and the game is in a good place, even if everyone insists on pretending it isn’t.

What this is about is a version of my life that doesn’t exist anymore. Back then, football wasn’t something I fitted into my day; it was the thing. It dictated my sleep, my mood, and my routine. It was something I had to work for, physically, in the most literal sense of dragging myself out of bed in the middle of the night. Because of that, it felt bigger.

I remember those nights more clearly than most full weekends now. That Liverpool FC team from 2008–09 is probably my favourite ever, not necessarily because they were the best, but because of where I was when I watched them. Gerrard, Torres, Kuyt, Alonso, Carragher, Reina. It was a team that always felt like it was on the edge of something.

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I remember the Champions League games against Chelsea and the FA Cup defeat to Everton, when Dan Gosling scored in the 118th minute, a goal I didn’t even see because the coverage cut out just before it went in. In hindsight, that was probably for the best.

The one that sticks most, though, is April 21, 2009. Arsenal at Anfield, title race on, hope still intact, which should have been the first warning sign. It finished 4–4, a match that somehow felt like everything. Andrey Arshavin scored four goals, running through Liverpool’s defence like it was Swiss cheese, and Yossi Benayoun equalised late. I was lying there, fully awake, aware that it probably wasn’t enough to win the league. But I was naive enough to still hope.

A few weeks later, I was in a bar with my Lokomotiv Goyang teammates, a skin full of beer, watching Manchester United edge closer to the title. One of my teammates, a United fan, put an arm around me in consolation. I always thought he hated me, so I’m still not entirely sure whether it was genuine, the beer talking, or just a shared understanding of what it feels like to come close and fall short.

What changed

I don’t wake up at 3am to watch matches anymore, not because I can’t, but because I won’t. Life is different now, with responsibilities, routines, and a much lower tolerance for sleep deprivation.

Putting those shirts away today wasn’t about wishing things were better back then. The beer didn’t taste better, the girls weren’t prettier, life wasn’t simpler, and I certainly wasn’t wiser. I was just younger, with more time and less sense.

It was about recognising that there was a version of football that existed for me once, a version built around 3am alarms, half-sleep, and an absolute commitment. There are fans around the globe that wake up at silly times to watch games these days. I’m certainly not one of them. Fortunately, I don’t have to. But that shirt made me think. How fortunate I was to have the memory of those Korean nights lying in bed, watching football on the other side of the world.

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I’ve not lived with my parents for nearly two decades, but you can still walk into the closet of my old bedroom and find boxes stuffed full of sports trading cards. Most of them are probably worth nothing. Some aren’t in great condition, others feature no-name players, and even the cards of players who went on to have long careers are largely worthless due to how many remain in circulation.

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Back in the 1990s, sports card and memorabilia shows were a regular part of my childhood. There were also dedicated sports memorabilia shops around my hometown, which I frequented using the money I earned working on our family dairy farm. I’d buy cards of my favourite players or Starting Lineup action figures, and trade unwanted cards with friends at school. One summer around 1995, I became obsessed with collecting as many baseball cards as possible of Jim Thome, Manny Ramirez, and Albert Belle; three of my sporting heroes at the time. I few years ago, I found some Gary Carter baseball cards at my parents house. The cards were from the late 1980s, when Carter (my favourite all-time baseball player) played for the New York Mets (I’ve been a Mets fan since 1985).

Like many collectors, I eventually grew out of the hobby. The cards weren’t thrown away, just boxed up and forgotten. Fast forward to today, and I now live in England, a country with a very different relationship with sports trading cards.

Soccer Cards and Their Origins

While Americans went wild for sports trading cards throughout the 20th century, especially during the 1990s, the same culture never truly took hold in England. Soccer cards (I’ll use “soccer” throughout to differentiate them from NFL football cards) have a very similiar origin story.

Soccer cards began life as promotional items placed inside cigarette packets more than a century ago. Like baseball cards in the US, they were designed to build brand loyalty and encourage people to buy tobacco products. They also served a practical purpose: stiffening the packet so cigarettes wouldn’t snap when placed in a pocket.

Everything changed in 1961 when Panini launched its first ever soccer sticker album. Soccer collecting was transformed overnight. Sticker books remain hugely popular to this day. During Euro 2024, my son and I completed our own tournament sticker book together. Eighteen months later, I still have unopened packets scattered around the house; some of which I found this very morning sitting in an empty vase on the kitchen windowsill.

Why Soccer Cards Lag Behind in Value

Despite their global appeal, modern soccer trading cards still lag behind their North American counterparts when it comes to eye-watering prices. To put things into perspective, in August 2025 the 2007-08 Upper Deck Exquisite Collection Michael Jordan–Kobe Bryant Dual Logoman Autograph 1/1 sold for $12.932 million. In comparison, the iconic 1952 Topps Mickey Mantle baseball card (often wrongfully called Mantle’s Rookie Card) sold for $12.6 million in 2022.

There’s also an interesting footnote to that Mantle card. Topps reportedly dumped pallets of unsold 1952 baseball cards into the Atlantic Ocean to clear warehouse space. Some say the story is fact and some say it is an urban legend. Either way, it is a wild way to get rid of unwanted baseball cards.

These sales highlight just how expensive the very top end of sports memorabilia has become. Trading cards, at their highest level, function like fine art. Unlike the madness of NFTs (are those even a thing anymore?), physical cards can be held, displayed, and treasured. Scarcity, history, and cultural relevance all play a role in long-term value.

Lionel Messi and Soccer’s Million-Dollar Moment

In 2025, a Panini Mega Cracks Lionel Messi Rookie Card sold for $1.5 million in a private auction, making it the most expensive soccer trading card ever sold. To someone like me, that is an absurd amount of money, but it’s still only a fraction of the price paid for elite basketball or baseball cards.

The card comes from the 2004-05 season, Messi’s professional debut year with Barcelona. According to ESPN, only 838 copies of the card have been graded, adding to its rarity. Prior to this sale, the most expensive soccer card was Pelé’s 1958 Alifabolaget #635 Rookie Card, which sold for $1.33 million in 2022. It was the first soccer card to break the $1 million barrier.

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Interest in Messi memorabilia exploded after Argentina’s 2022 World Cup win. In 2023, I wrote about the surge in football shirt prices after Messi’s match-worn World Cup shirt sold for $10 million. Cue Dr Evil.

The Messi Rookie Card proves that soccer’s greatest players can stand alongside legends from basketball, baseball, and American football. So why don’t soccer cards command the same prestige and value as those other sports trading cards?

The Structural Problems Holding Soccer Cards Back

There are several reasons why soccer trading cards struggle to match the status of North American sports cards. First, the collecting history is shorter and less standardised. Soccer lacks a universally accepted “rookie card” tradition, which makes defining key cards difficult.

There’s also high market volatility driven by rapid player turnover. Add in dozens of domestic leagues across multiple continents, and production and collecting become far more fragmented. By contrast, American sports benefit from closed leagues and deeply embedded collecting traditions.

Perhaps most importantly, sports trading cards are woven into the fabric of American sports culture in a way they never quite have been in England or Europe. At least, that was the case before cards became financial instruments rather than childhood collectibles.

Nostalgia, Collecting, and the Joy of the Hobby

As you get older, nostalgia plays a huge role in collecting. That’s one reason I still buy packs of cards today. Of course, I dream about pulling a rare card worth hundreds, thousands, or even hundreds of thousands of dollars. Although I know that’s unlikely, and I’m fine with that.

At its core, I simply love soccer. Trading cards are another way to connect with the sport and preserve memories. They sit alongside shirts, programmes, and other pieces of memorabilia that chart my relationship with the game.

The Future of Trading Cards: Game-Worn Everything

Sports trading cards continue to evolve, becoming increasingly focused on investment rather than youth engagement. Topps and Upper Deck are now pushing heavily into “game-worn” authenticity.

On January 12, it was reported that LeBron James will wear a commemorative patch on his LA Lakers jersey for each game of his 23rd NBA season. Those patches will be removed after games and inserted into Topps basketball cards. Upper Deck is doing something similar with the NHL, using jersey pieces from rookies debuting in the 2025-26 season.

Personally, if I were an NHL rookie, I’d want to keep my jerseys. That said, players go through multiple sets of uniforms each season, so there’s no shortage of material. In an increasingly digital world, jersey patch cards—complete with photo-matched proof—offer collectors something genuinely tangible and exclusive. Game-worn cards are the current obsession, and who knows what’s next. Hair? Skin? Used toilet paper? You may one day get Patrick Mahomes jockstrap in a pack of Upper Deck cards.

Back to the Shop, Back to the Dream

I still remember when the price of a pack of trading cards jumped from $1 to $5. Suddenly, my mum became far less enthusiastic about buying them during supermarket trips. By the mid-1990s, $5 felt outrageous (nearly $11 in 2026 money). Today, base packs are priced similarly, but premium products cost far more.

Writing all of this has made me itch to buy a couple of packs. So I’m off to my local Co-op Supermarket, where I’ll ask the 20-something behind the till for two packs of soccer trading cards. I’ll then rush back to my car, rip them open, and hope against all logic for a pull that makes me rich beyond my wildest dreams. I’ll then take a sip of may Fanta, bite into my Snickers and feel the nostaglia was over me. Then, I’ll pull out of the car park and return to my mid-40s.

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If you’d like to support my work and independent writing, please consider upgrading to a paid subscription. It helps keep this independent, thoughtful, and rooted in genuine love for the game. You can also subscribe and simple enjoy the free content. But by all means, please like and share.

Either way, thanks for reading. And if you do pop into a shop today and buy a pack of cards, I hope you pull something special.

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While I can think of more worthwhile things to do with $10m, I assume the eventual buyer will either A) buy the shirt as an investment for the future, or B) fulfil a dream of wearing Messi’s sweat-soaked jersey.  

Since Netflix’s 1990s nostalgia-fest documentary, “The Last Dance” was released, the sports collectables market has seen a new lease on life. When I was a tweener in the early 1990s, I loved going to sports card stores and conventions, looking to buy baseball, basketball, or football cards of my favourite players. I also sought out Starting Lineups, the old collectable sports figures that were sold in toy stores but were marked up to incredible sums by unscrupulous collectors trying to create a false economy.  

I wonder if those figures are worth anything today? I assume in the packaging they are still worth a decent amount, but what is the fun in buying something and leaving it in the packaging? 

The David Beckham documentary, which I wrote about previously on Drew FC, could spark another love affair with fans clamouring for sports collectables. We’ve already seen the Beckham love affair thanks to the Netflix documentary, with Edward Norton and The Rock dressing up like Beckham for Halloween. One of those actors did it far better than the other.   

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But Messi’s shirt being auctioned off for $10m got me thinking about football jerseys. I, myself, have a healthy collection of shirts, in the triple digits. I love football shirts and routinely purchase them from various outlets. This is the ideal time for Classic Football Shirts to endorse me.   

My collection, which is partly made up of Liverpool shirts from over the last decade-plus, doesn’t feature any classic shirts or previously worn tops. It is mostly just shirts I see and fancy. Right now, my main interest is buying jerseys from lower-league American soccer teams. I recently added an Oakland Roots Black Panthers special release. It sits nicely next to my Forward Madison reversible jersey. I’ve also got my eye on a special release from New Amsterdam FC.   

I’m just one of many people around the world who regularly buys football shirts. I live my life much like I did when I was a kid and teenager. I collect sports jerseys, WWE wrestling figures, and play video games. But one thing I don’t do when buying a football shirt is pay full price (unless it is a Liverpool top). Thanks to websites like Classic Football Shirts (another plug!) I typically add shirts from previous seasons to my collection that are discounted in price.   

Football shirts are outrageously priced these days. Although buying a sports jersey has always been expensive. Unfortunately, despite advances in appearance and technology, you can only wear a football shirt on a limited number of occasions. Personally, I want to wear mine out and about for everyone to see. Wearing a football shirt around the house just doesn’t do it for me. So, when buying a shirt, I take into consideration how often I will wear it.  

With so many football shirts just hanging in my wardrobe, sitting in dressers, or packed in storage, I’m often reminded how much money I’ve spent on my collection.  

In the summer of 2023, it was reported that the price of Premier League teams’ kits rose 10%. Arsenal and Manchester United sold their kits to fans for £80 ($100) ahead of the season. An NFL jersey available from Fanatics costs £60 to £80 currently, so the two sports tops aren’t too far off in price.   

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But how much does it cost for a Premier League team to have their shirts manufactured? Well, the price will hopefully surprise you, because it doesn’t cost very much at all.   

Footy Headlines did a great breakdown of the cost of a Premier League football shirt, which gives great insight into where the money goes. As Detective Lester Freamon famously said on The Wire, “You follow drugs, you get drug addicts and drug dealers. But you start to follow the money, and you don't know where the fuck it's gonna take you.” So, let’s follow the money to see where it takes us but with football shirts and not drugs.  

The cost of a football shirt to be produced in a factory in Asia is £8. Manufacturing often takes place in a factory in Asia, but it can be done elsewhere, like South or Central America.  

The football club will earn between £4 and £6 per shirt as part of their licensing fee. The retailer will get around £26 and the brand (Adidas, Nike, Puma) gets just over £23 per sale. Tax makes up a little over £13 of the price. Approximately £2.40 per shirt is for marketing, and another £1.60 is paid for local distribution.   

Clubs can benefit in another way financially from shirt sales. If the club’s retail store, for example, the Liverpool FC megastore or online shop, sells the shirt to a buyer, then they will receive the retailer’s portion.  

This can take their total per shirt sold to more than £30. That money adds. So, if a club sells 1,000 shirts from their retail shop, they can earn £30,000. But if a club is massive, for example, Man United, they may sell 10,000 shirts from their retailer, which is £300,000. Sure, this would only pay Marcus Rashford for one week of work, but it could pay the salaries of other employees for months. Just image if they sell more shirts.  

You may wonder, who sets the price of a football shirt? The manufacturer (Adidas, Nike, Puma) will set the price of the shirt, so when you buy your next shirt from the Chelsea megastore, you can curse Nike for the cost.  

This is sometimes why we see shirt prices differ depending on the size of the brand. For example, Nike’s shirts are often at the top of the price range. However, tops from brands that are relatively small and/or unheard of may fetch lower prices. For example, eco-friendly club Forest Green Rovers are selling their Umbro-made shirts for just £45 this season on their webstore. Want to support a cool lower-league team and wear a cool shirt? Then pick up an FGR’s top. 

Looking at the price broken down is eye-opening but consider the price of a Premier League jersey compared to the price to make a pair of Air Jordan shoes. According to my research, the materials to make the shoes cost $10.75, the labour is $2.43, the overhead to produce them is $2.10, and the factory earns a profit of $0.97 per pair of shoes. The final product, a pair of adult-sized Air Jordans, is then sold for $125 or more.   

Despite the prices increasing, sports fans won’t stop buying football shirts, or Air Jordans for that matter. Why? Because we will find another way to save money, allowing us to keep adding to our collections, supporting our teams, or keeping up with the Joneses.   

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