Football is big business - you can't get away from it. But you

Host: The stadium lights glared against the midnight sky, flooding the empty seats with a pale, artificial glow. The echoes of the crowd had long faded, leaving behind only the whisper of the wind brushing across the grass. The scent of mud, sweat, and rain still hung in the air — the aftermath of a game that had ended hours ago.

Jack sat alone in the dugout, his boots still caked with dirt, staring at the silent field like it was a battlefield after the war. Jeeny stood nearby, her hands in her coat pockets, watching him quietly. Her breath came out in small, visible clouds.

The scoreboard still glowed faintly: 2–1. Victory. Yet Jack’s eyes looked as though he’d lost something.

Jeeny: “George Best once said, Football is big business — you can’t get away from it. But you have to separate that side from the playing.”

Jack: (lets out a dry laugh) “Separate it? That’s easy to say when you’re George Best. The game’s not just about playing anymore, Jeeny. It’s about contracts, sponsors, cameras — a bloody circus.”

Host: The wind howled softly through the stadium tunnels, carrying the distant hum of city lights beyond the gates. A piece of discarded tape fluttered across the pitch like a ghost.

Jeeny: “You sound like a man who’s forgotten why he plays.”

Jack: “I remember why. I just don’t know what it’s worth anymore. You give everything — your youth, your bones, your heart — and in the end, it’s numbers on a spreadsheet. Market value. Endorsements. The joy gets sold.”

Host: He kicked at the turf with his boot, sending a spray of wet earth into the air. His voice was low, but sharp — like a blade dulled by overuse.

Jeeny: “But the game itself, Jack… the way the ball moves, the roar when the goal hits — that’s still real. Money can’t buy that feeling.”

Jack: “Maybe not, but it can kill it. You think the roar is real? It’s choreographed. Cameras zoom in, replay in slow motion, commentators scream rehearsed lines. Even emotion’s been branded.”

Jeeny: “You’re wrong. The fans in the stands — the ones crying, the ones screaming, the kids who dream just to touch the ball — they’re not branded. They don’t care about deals. They care about what happens on the grass.”

Host: The floodlights flickered, dimming to half power. The field looked softer now, almost tender in its quiet.

Jack: “You talk like football’s still sacred. But look at it — the agents, the billionaires, the transfers. Players don’t even belong to teams anymore, they belong to portfolios. The heart’s gone.”

Jeeny: “The heart’s gone because you let it go. You can’t blame the business for stealing what you stopped protecting.”

Jack: (snaps) “You think it’s that simple? Try walking into a locker room after losing a game, knowing one mistake cost you not just points but millions in endorsements. Try feeling free then.”

Jeeny: “Freedom doesn’t mean escape, Jack. It means playing despite it all. That’s what Best meant. You can’t control the business — but you can protect the soul of the play.”

Host: A distant echo from the tunnel — the sound of a door closing, metallic and hollow — cut through the silence. Jeeny took a few steps forward, her shoes pressing softly against the damp grass.

Jeeny: “Remember when you were fifteen, playing on that cracked neighborhood pitch? No crowd. No scouts. Just you, the ball, and the smell of rain? You played like the world didn’t exist.”

Jack: (his gaze softens) “Yeah… and I also walked home barefoot because I couldn’t afford new boots.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You had nothing — and yet you had everything. That’s what I mean, Jack. The business might own the game, but it doesn’t own your reason for playing.”

Host: A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, though his eyes stayed shadowed. The stadium clock blinked — 12:47 AM. Time kept moving, even when dreams didn’t.

Jack: “You talk like purity’s still possible. But every kid now grows up wanting fame, not football. They post their tricks on TikTok, not the pitch. The game’s changing.”

Jeeny: “So let it change. Every era corrupts what came before, but truth always finds a way through. Remember Maradona? Drugs, scandals — yet people still weep when they see that goal from ’86. The Hand of God — and the hand of humanity. That’s the paradox of greatness.”

Jack: “Or maybe that’s just proof that corruption wins.”

Jeeny: “No. It proves that art survives even inside corruption. Football isn’t just sport. It’s theatre, poetry, rebellion. Business can wrap it in gold, but it can’t touch the fire inside it.”

Host: Her voice trembled slightly, and the sound of it echoed through the empty stands like an anthem sung for no one but ghosts.

Jack: (leans back, sighs) “You really believe there’s still poetry in this mess?”

Jeeny: “I do. Every time a player dives to block a shot, knowing it could break his ribs — that’s poetry. Every time someone scores and falls to their knees, crying — that’s faith. Tell me money can buy that.”

Host: The moon emerged from behind the clouds, washing the field in pale silver. Jack’s face softened under it, the hard lines of cynicism easing for a moment.

Jack: “Maybe faith’s a luxury for those who can afford to lose.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe faith’s all you have when you’ve lost everything else.”

Host: The wind shifted. Somewhere in the distance, a plastic cup rolled across the stands, the sound oddly human. Jack looked at the grass, then at the goalposts, then at his own hands — rough, scarred, calloused.

Jack: “You know, I used to think winning was the point. But lately, I can’t even feel victory. Just pressure — like the next game is already clawing at me.”

Jeeny: “That’s the trap of the business, Jack. It teaches you to see the game as debt — not joy. To play for survival, not soul. But if you can remember even one moment that still feels pure, that’s enough.”

Host: Silence. Only the soft hum of the floodlights. The air between them felt charged — not with anger now, but something quieter, deeper.

Jack: “When I was a kid, after scoring, I used to close my eyes and listen to the wind. No crowds. No noise. Just the sound of the ball still rolling. That… that was peace.”

Jeeny: “Then that’s where you find it again. Separate the noise, Jack. The contracts, the cameras, the circus — leave them at the gate. The field is still yours.”

Host: The lights began to dim completely, one by one. The stadium grew darker, but something about the darkness felt comforting — a return to silence, to origins.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what Best meant all along — the business is unavoidable, but the game… the game is still sacred ground.”

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) “And as long as you play like that’s true, it will be.”

Host: The final light flickered out, leaving only the moonlight spilling over the goal net, turning the threads into strands of silver. Jack stood, brushed the dirt from his knees, and looked once more across the field.

Host: In the silence, he imagined the echoes — the cheers, the rhythm of the ball, the heartbeat of a thousand dreams stitched into one patch of earth. And for the first time in years, he didn’t feel owned. He felt alive.

Host: The wind carried away their words, gentle and forgiving. Somewhere, in that vast emptiness, the spirit of the game — the one untouched by business, by greed — stirred quietly, still breathing beneath the grass.

Host: And Jack walked away from the stadium, the sound of his boots against concrete marking the rhythm of something older, purer — the music of the game itself.