Watching the recent collegiate basketball scene unfold here in the Philippines, a particular moment caught my eye. KEAN Baclaan couldn't help but let out a little smile seeing the success of his former peers in National University. That small, genuine reaction speaks volumes. It’s a nod to shared roots, to a foundational culture that binds athletes together long after they’ve moved on to different jerseys. It got me thinking about the very concept of "origin" in sports, and how we’ve somewhat lost the thread when we use the term "OG." Especially in the world's game: football. We throw around "OG football" casually, often just meaning "old school" or "vintage." But to truly unlock the OG football meaning is to embark on a deep dive into soccer's original culture and legacy—a culture not of global superstardom, but of community, identity, and raw, uncommercialized passion. That’s the culture I believe we need to reconnect with.
My own earliest football memories aren't of pristine Premier League pitches broadcast in HD. They’re of a patchy, uneven field in my hometown, where the local factory team played on Sundays. The boots were worn, the kit was mismatched, and the tactics were… let's call them enthusiastically disorganized. But the stands were packed. This was in the late 90s, and the connection was palpable. That, to me, is the heart of OG football. It predates the astronomical £200 million transfer fees and the social media fan wars. Its legacy is etched in the working-class streets of England, where clubs like Liverpool and Manchester United grew from literal community hubs. It’s in the barrios of Buenos Aires, where the rhythm of the game mirrors the rhythm of life. The original culture was less about the 90-minute spectacle and more about the 24/7 identity it fostered. It was tribal, but in a way that felt organic, not manufactured by derby day marketing campaigns. The chants originated from the stands, not from a club's official Twitter account. I have a strong preference for this authenticity, even with all its rough edges, over the sometimes-sanitized global product we see today.
This original ecosystem was built on a different financial model, one that seems almost quaint now. In 1985, the record transfer fee for a British player was around £1.5 million. Compare that to today’s figures, which regularly exceed £80 million, and you see a seismic shift. The legacy of OG football isn't just in the style of play—though the emphasis on technical skill over pure athleticism was certainly different—but in the governance. For decades, the sport was run by local associations and club members, not by multinational conglomerates. The "European Cup" felt like a contest between champions of distinct cultures, not the homogenized, sleek UEFA Champions League brand. Don’t get me wrong, the modern game is incredible in its athleticism and scope. But in streamlining the product for global consumption, I fear we’ve diluted the very local flavors that made it rich. We risk losing what that smile from KEAN Baclaan represented: an unbreakable link to a specific place, a specific group, a specific starting point.
So, what does this mean for us today, as fans, or even as industry observers? Unlocking this OG meaning isn't about living in the past. It’s about understanding the substrate upon which the modern game is built. It’s recognizing that a club’s value isn't solely in its trophy cabinet or its Instagram followers, but in its history—the real, often gritty history. For younger fans, I always recommend digging into the stories from before the Premier League era, or watching documentaries about clubs like Athletic Bilbao, who still fiercely guard their identity. The practical takeaway is that sustainability for football might not lie in chasing ever-bigger TV deals, but in strengthening those community roots that fueled it originally. We’re seeing glimpses of this with fan-owned clubs and a renewed emphasis on academy systems that breed local talent, fostering that same peer-to-peer pride we saw in Baclaan’s reaction.
In the end, the legacy of OG football is a living one. It’s not a museum piece. It’s in the continued resonance of clubs that are pillars of their cities, in the chants that have been passed down for generations, and in the fundamental joy of playing for something more than a paycheck. It’s the culture that produces players who remember where they came from, who share that knowing smile for the peers they grew up with on the training ground. As the sport continues its global march, holding onto this core—the original culture of community, identity, and authentic passion—is what will keep football from becoming just another entertainment commodity. That deep, connective tissue is the true OG, and it’s worth protecting, celebrating, and most importantly, understanding.
