I always believe that luck and faith will be on my side more than

Host: The stadium lights burned like moons against the cold November sky, pouring their white glow over an empty field. The match had ended hours ago. Only the echo of cheers remained — faint, like the ghost of a storm that had already passed.

A single plastic bag drifted across the grass, catching the wind, tumbling aimlessly before collapsing against the goalpost.

On the sideline, Jack sat on the bench, his hands clasped, his eyes lost somewhere in the distance where the floodlights met the night. His tracksuit was still damp from sweat, his hair pressed against his forehead.

Across from him, Jeeny paced slowly, her boots sinking slightly into the wet turf. The quote she had read earlier still hovered between them, like a challenge neither wanted to face out loud.

“I always believe that luck and faith will be on my side more than the other side.” — Vincent Kompany.

Host: The air was thick with fog, curling around them like the breath of some invisible giant. Somewhere far off, a stadium gate creaked, and a single crow cawed from the goalpost, breaking the silence.

Jack: (rubbing his temples) “Luck and faith. That’s what winners say when they’ve already won.”

Jeeny: “Or what they say to keep winning.”

Jack: (glancing up) “You really think faith changes outcomes on a football field? On any field?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not the outcome. But it changes the person who walks onto it.”

Host: Her voice was calm, but her eyes burned with conviction — dark and alive, reflecting the faint shimmer of the field lights.

Jack: “Faith doesn’t score goals, Jeeny. Hard work does. Strategy. Timing. Training. Believing you’ve got divine backing — that’s superstition, not strength.”

Jeeny: “Then explain why some players rise when everyone else breaks. Why, in the same match, two men can face the same moment — one hesitates, the other believes. Guess who wins?”

Jack: (leaning back, arms crossed) “Belief doesn’t bend physics. A bad kick is a bad kick, no matter how many prayers you whisper.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “Maybe. But a fearful heart can’t strike clean either. Faith steadies the hand, Jack. That’s its physics.”

Host: A gust of wind cut through the stands, scattering a few discarded wrappers across the ground. The scoreboard, still faintly glowing, read 2–1. Another loss.

Jack: “When Kompany said that, he had already lifted trophies. It’s easy to say luck and faith are on your side when you’ve had both.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s because he believed he had them that he earned both. He didn’t wait for evidence — he lived like it was already true.”

Host: Jack’s eyes narrowed. He pulled the whistle from around his neck — a coach’s whistle, silver and old — and rolled it between his fingers.

Jack: “You know what faith looks like to me? Denial. I’ve seen players pray before penalties, touch their chests, kiss the sky. Then miss. Then blame luck. Maybe it’s just math — not miracles.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe faith doesn’t guarantee success. Maybe it just keeps them from breaking after failure.”

Host: Her words hung there — gentle but cutting. Jack looked down at his mud-streaked shoes, and for a moment, his jaw tightened.

Jack: “You sound like one of those motivational posters. ‘Believe and achieve.’ Life doesn’t care how much you believe. It plays by its own rules.”

Jeeny: “And yet, every rule in life was first broken by someone who believed anyway.”

Jack: “That’s idealism. The world doesn’t bend because you hope it will.”

Jeeny: “Then explain miracles, Jack.”

Jack: “Miracles are just probability in disguise.”

Jeeny: “And faith is the courage to stand in front of probability and smile.”

Host: A long silence followed. The fog thickened around them, softening the hard lines of the field, turning the world into a gray, dreamlike blur. Somewhere, the buzz of a broken light hummed faintly.

Jack: “When I was a player,” he said finally, “I used to stand in that tunnel before matches — heart pounding, crowd screaming. I told myself, ‘Luck favors the prepared.’ Then one night, I tore my knee in half. No amount of faith or luck could fix that.”

Jeeny: “But you came back, didn’t you?”

Jack: “Barely. I trained for a year, but I was never the same. That’s not faith. That’s physics, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. That’s faith. You just didn’t name it. You believed the effort still mattered — even when logic said it wouldn’t. You kept going.”

Host: The fog began to thin. The lights flickered once, twice, and steadied again, bathing them in a tired, almost holy glow.

Jack: (quietly) “You think Kompany was lucky because of belief?”

Jeeny: “I think belief made him lucky. The universe doesn’t reward doubt. It meets you halfway — but only if you step first.”

Jack: “That’s not the universe. That’s psychology.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they’re the same thing. Maybe faith is just the mind’s way of aligning with possibility.”

Host: Jack looked at her for a long moment — not dismissive this time, but curious, uneasy. Like someone hearing an old truth for the first time.

Jack: “You ever bet everything on faith?”

Jeeny: “Every day.”

Jack: “And when it fails?”

Jeeny: “I try again. Because faith isn’t about being right — it’s about refusing to stop.”

Host: She knelt slightly, pressing her hand to the wet grass, closing her eyes. The moonlight caught on her hair, turning it almost silver.

Jeeny: “You feel this?” she said softly. “The earth under your hands — cold, real, indifferent. But still, it grows. It doesn’t question the sun. It just trusts it’ll rise again.”

Jack: (after a pause) “You always find poetry in pain.”

Jeeny: “Because pain reveals what’s real. And what’s real is that faith isn’t blind — it’s brave.”

Host: A whistle blew faintly in the distance — another coach locking up, another night ending. Jack stood slowly, looking across the field one last time. The goalposts, white and ghostlike, stood unwavering in the fog.

Jack: “You know, I used to think luck was random. Now I’m not so sure. Maybe you’re right — maybe luck follows belief like a shadow.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Exactly. It’s not about who deserves it. It’s about who dares to expect it.”

Jack: “So faith is just expectation?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s loyalty to hope.”

Host: The words hung between them — soft but firm, like the steady beat of a heart that refuses to quit. Jack slipped his whistle into his pocket, exhaled, and looked toward the faint outline of the scoreboard.

Jack: “Maybe I’ve been coaching them wrong all this time. Teaching them to calculate. To analyze. Maybe they needed someone to teach them to believe.”

Jeeny: “Then start tomorrow. Teach them to play like the universe is on their side.”

Host: He chuckled, low and rough. “That’s a dangerous way to think.”

Jeeny: “All good faith is.”

Host: The fog finally began to lift, revealing the distant city skyline — lights like scattered stars beyond the stadium walls. The field gleamed faintly under the fading glow, as if reborn.

Jack turned toward Jeeny, his eyes softer now, the cynicism loosened.

Jack: “So what if the other side believes just as much?”

Jeeny: “Then it becomes a beautiful game.”

Host: The camera would pull back now — two figures standing on the edge of a damp field, surrounded by fog and floodlights, their silhouettes small against the vastness of belief.

And in that quiet expanse, the truth of Kompany’s words echoed like a heartbeat through the cold November air:

That luck and faith are not gifts granted by chance —
They are alliances earned by conviction.

And that night, as the last light dimmed, both Jack and Jeeny knew — for the first time — that sometimes the only way to win… is to believe the universe is already cheering for you.