Belgium's 1986 team is like the Christmas movie that they bring

Host: The bar was dim, the walls lined with old football posters, their edges curled from years of smoke and stories. A television hummed softly in the corner, replaying grainy footage from Mexico, 1986 — men in red shirts, mud, and glory. Jack sat with his back to the screen, hands around a half-empty pint, his grey eyes reflecting the flicker of nostalgia. Across from him, Jeeny leaned in, her face caught in the amber light of a hanging bulb, listening as though the past itself were whispering through the room.

Jeeny: “You ever notice how memory becomes a kind of religion?” she asked, her voice soft but steady. “Kompany said Belgium’s 1986 team is like a Christmas movie — something sacred, something we keep bringing back, even when we’ve seen it a thousand times.”

Jack: (smirks) “Yeah, well, that’s the thing about nostalgia. It’s good marketing for the past. We sell ourselves the same old dreams, just with dust on them.”

Host: His words hit the air like ash, bitter and light at once. The sound of a cheer rose from the TV — a goal, replayed for the millionth time. The crowd’s roar faded into memory, echoing against the bar’s wooden beams.

Jeeny: “You think it’s just marketing? Maybe it’s more like a mirror. The 1986 team — they gave people hope, Jack. That tournament became part of what Belgium believes it is. Like Kompany said, it’s education. It’s who they are.”

Jack: “Education or indoctrination? You grow up hearing about the same ‘golden generation,’ the same heroes, the same glory days, until you start believing the past is better than anything that’ll ever come again. That’s not hope, Jeeny. That’s nostalgic paralysis.”

Host: The bartender wiped down a glass, half-listening, while rain began to fall outside — a fine, steady drizzle that blurred the neon lights into streaks of color. The bar’s door opened and closed, letting in cold air, footsteps, and the faint scent of wet pavement.

Jeeny: “Maybe. But think about what that kind of memory does. It connects people. When a nation keeps returning to one moment, it’s not always to escape the present — sometimes it’s to remember who they were when they believed they could win.”

Jack: (leans forward, elbows on the table) “So what, you think history’s supposed to be our comfort blanket? That every generation needs its myth just to get by?”

Jeeny: “No, I think every generation needs its roots. The 1986 team wasn’t a myth — it was a lesson. A reminder that greatness isn’t permanent, but it’s possible. That’s why Kompany called it part of our general education. It’s not about reliving the past, Jack. It’s about remembering that the past once made you dream.”

Host: The TV screen glowed behind them — a penalty save, a celebration, a crowd draped in red and yellow, tears, songs, flags waving like flames in the Mexican sun. The rain outside intensified, tapping faster against the windows, as though the sky itself wanted to join the conversation.

Jack: “Dreams don’t pay the bills, Jeeny. You can’t build a future on sentimentality. Look at any country — they drown in their own nostalgia. Argentina still talks about Maradona like he’s a saint. England never shut up about ’66. It’s pathetic. We cling to ghosts because we’re too scared to face that maybe the magic’s gone.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe we cling to them because they show us the kind of magic we’re still capable of. You talk like memory’s a disease, but maybe it’s a kind of compass. You ever think of that?”

Jack: “A compass that always points backward isn’t much use, is it?”

Host: Her eyes narrowed, but there was no anger there — only sadness, the kind that comes from understanding the wound beneath another’s words. Jack took a sip, the glass clinking softly as he set it down.

Jeeny: “When I was little, my dad used to tell me stories about that World Cup. He’d sit on the couch, eyes bright, describing every pass, every goal, like it was yesterday. I didn’t care about football, Jack. But I cared about what it did to him. It made him alive. That’s what stories do — they let us be alive again.”

Jack: “Yeah, but at what cost? You start living through stories instead of your own life.”

Jeeny: “Only if you forget they’re stories. But if you remember — if you carry their meaning — they build you. The 1986 team taught Belgium something about resilience. About being the underdog that fought through to the semis. That’s not nostalgia. That’s legacy.”

Host: The room fell quiet for a moment. Outside, the rain eased. The screen showed the Belgian players embracing, sweat and joy mingled with dust. The camera froze on their faces — youthful, tired, immortalized.

Jack: (sighs) “You sound like a preacher for the Church of Lost Moments. Maybe you’re right, though. Maybe people need their icons. Even if they’re old, pixelated, and stuck in 1986.”

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) “They’re not stuck, Jack. They live every time someone remembers. Every time a kid watches that footage and decides to play football barefoot in the rain. Every time a father tells his daughter about the team that made him believe again.”

Host: Her words softened the air. Jack’s shoulders relaxed, the tension melting into the low hum of the bar. The bartender changed the channel — but only after the anthem played, and the crowd’s cheers faded into static.

Jack: “So you think memory’s fuel.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Fuel, not fetters. The danger isn’t in remembering — it’s in refusing to move forward after. The past should inspire the next step, not replace it.”

Jack: “And if it doesn’t?”

Jeeny: “Then it becomes the warning instead of the wisdom.”

Host: The rain had stopped now. The window glistened with beads of water, catching the light like tiny stars. Jack turned toward the TV, watching the replay one last time. The players lifted their arms; a country once small in confidence but vast in spirit stood behind them.

Jack: “Maybe Kompany’s right. Maybe that kind of memory isn’t just nostalgia. Maybe it’s… education — in believing again.”

Jeeny: (nods, softly) “Exactly. Every generation needs to learn how to believe — and sometimes the best teachers are ghosts wearing red jerseys.”

Host: A slow smile crossed Jack’s face, one he didn’t fight. Outside, the clouds parted, revealing the first thin ribbon of moonlight. The bar grew quieter, gentler, as if even the past had laid itself to rest for the night.

Host: The TV flickered once more, freezing on a frame — a young goalkeeper, a rising star, a moment of eternal hope. The screenlight danced across Jack and Jeeny’s faces.

And there, in the golden hush between yesterday and tomorrow, the two of them sat — believing, for a heartbeat, that maybe the best stories don’t end. They simply wait to be retold.