In a candid interview in 1991, when he was 60, Jacques Derrida let the cat out of the bag. For all his academic achievements and popular acclaim, his abiding dream for himself remained that of his youth “becoming a professional footballer.” In this mere aside, Derrida revealed as much about himself as both philosopher and person (if they can be separated) as in almost all his voluminous writings, speeches, reviews, and interviews. How fitting, therefore, that this passing remark should take us from the expressive margin into the subversive heart of this man of thought and reveal him as a frustrated man of action; the philosophical life was only a consolation for a more fulfilled life as sporting hero. Yet, in so many ways, so much can be learned and understood about the Derridean oeuvre by treating its author as a footballer, as someone who plied his trade on the fields of sporting endeavour than in the classrooms and libraries of the world. Indeed, if Derrida had played football, both philosophy and life might have been the better for it. Not because he would have spared the world his philosophical interrogations, but because he might have made even more of an impression on the sensibilities and senses of his times. It is as a footballer of attacking flair, not as an intellectual of defensive legend, that I will remember Derrida best. While it is hard to imagine the suave Derrida in the garishly-coloured synthetic shirt of his favourite team with a number “7” and “Derrida” emblazoned on the back, there is a genuine excitement at the prospect of him tantalising and tormenting the opposition in his own version of “the beautiful game.” He knew that those who knew nothing of football knew nothing of life.