I always had a philosophy which I got from my father. He used to

Host: The stadium lights flickered in the distance, casting long shadows across the empty field. The night air hung heavy with the scent of grass and memory, the faint echo of cheering crowds long since gone. The goalposts, white and gleaming under the half-moon, looked like monuments to past glories — silent witnesses to the poetry and pain of ambition.

Jack sat alone on the sidelines, his hands clasped, eyes distant — the faint hum of floodlights buzzing like the whisper of old ghosts. Jeeny walked toward him, her footsteps soft, the worn ball tucked under her arm. She set it down gently between them.

Jeeny: “You still come here after midnight?”

Jack: “Habit.”

Jeeny: “Or penance?”

Host: Jack looked up at her, a flicker of a smile crossing his face — the kind that hides more than it shows.

Jack: “Pele once said something my father used to quote all the time — ‘God gave you the gift to play football. This is your gift from God. If you take care of your health, if you are in good shape all the time, with your gift from God no one will stop you, but you must be prepared.’”

He paused, picking up a handful of dirt, letting it fall through his fingers like seconds lost. “He called it preparation. My father called it devotion. I call it the burden of being born good at something.”

Jeeny: “It’s not a burden, Jack. It’s a covenant.”

Jack: “A covenant? Sounds holy.”

Jeeny: “It is — in its own way. Every talent is a prayer in motion. It’s not about being chosen. It’s about what you choose to do with what you’re given.”

Host: A faint breeze stirred the net, making it sway like a curtain between worlds — the world of what was, and the world that could have been.

Jack: “You sound like him. My father used to say, ‘Talent is the easy part, discipline’s the miracle.’ But he never told me what happens when the body betrays the gift.”

Jeeny: “Then the miracle shifts — from what you do, to how you endure.”

Jack: “Endure? You think endurance is glory? Ask an athlete past his prime. The world loves gifts but forgets the giver the moment he slows down.”

Jeeny: “That’s because the world confuses fame with purpose. Pele didn’t. He knew the gift wasn’t the applause — it was the health that let him play at all. He revered his body as part of the promise.”

Jack: “A promise to God?”

Jeeny: “No. To himself. To the gift.”

Host: The stadium lights dimmed slightly, as though the night itself leaned closer to listen. The echo of a whistle — distant, ghostly — drifted through the air.

Jack: “So what happens when the gift fades? When the legs give out, when the lungs burn, when the heart isn’t enough anymore?”

Jeeny: “Then the gift changes shape. Maybe it becomes wisdom. Or the ability to teach. Maybe the greatest preparation isn’t for victory, but for letting go.”

Jack: “Letting go feels like betrayal.”

Jeeny: “Only if you believe your worth ends where your performance does.”

Host: The sound of her words hung there — soft but heavy. The ball between them seemed to pulse faintly under the moonlight, as if carrying every match ever played, every heartbeat ever spent chasing a dream.

Jack: “My father used to tell me to always stay ready — to keep the body sharp, the mind sharper. He said opportunity doesn’t knock, it tests your endurance. I lived by that. But it’s exhausting, Jeeny — living like life’s a tryout that never ends.”

Jeeny: “That’s the curse of constant readiness. You mistake vigilance for vitality. But the point of being prepared isn’t fear — it’s freedom. Pele wasn’t warning against rest. He was reminding us that our gifts die when we stop treating them like blessings.”

Jack: “Blessings…”

Jeeny: “Yes. And blessings need balance. You can’t pray with a clenched fist.”

Host: The wind grew stronger, sweeping across the field, carrying with it the faint scent of rain. The grass shimmered, bending under the invisible weight of the coming storm.

Jack: “You know, when Pele played, he didn’t just run — he danced. Every movement looked like gratitude in motion. My father used to say that’s what made him divine.”

Jeeny: “Because grace is gratitude with rhythm. That’s what separates a gift from talent — intention.”

Jack: “You really believe every gift has a divine origin?”

Jeeny: “I believe every gift has a moral weight. You can use it to elevate or to exploit. Pele elevated — not because he won, but because he honored what he’d been given.”

Host: Jack leaned back, eyes tracing the empty stands. Each seat, each echo, held the ghost of a thousand cheers.

Jack: “Funny. I used to think health was just a means to win. Now I see it’s the win itself.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Without health, no gift survives. Without gratitude, no success matters. The body is the altar — not the audience.”

Jack: “So all those mornings I spent training in the rain, bleeding, breaking — that was prayer?”

Jeeny: “If you did it with love, yes. Every repetition, every breath. You weren’t chasing victory — you were talking to God in motion.”

Host: The rain began, soft at first, each drop making the field shimmer like glass. Jeeny stood, spreading her arms as if welcoming it, her hair darkening, her face serene. Jack watched her — then slowly stood too, the rain tracing paths down his cheeks that could have been tears.

Jack: “You know, I used to think success was divine favor. But maybe it’s divine responsibility.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The gift isn’t yours to own — only to honor.”

Jack: “And when you fail?”

Jeeny: “Then you learn. Even failure refines the gift — if you face it honestly.”

Host: The thunder rolled, distant and patient. The goal net swayed harder now, catching raindrops like pearls.

Jack: “You think Pele ever doubted himself?”

Jeeny: “Of course. But doubt isn’t weakness, Jack. It’s humility — the space between human and divine. The point isn’t to never fall. It’s to rise prepared.”

Jack: “Prepared…”

He repeated the word softly, tasting it like a memory he’d misplaced.

Jeeny: “Prepared not just in body, but in spirit. Because when your health and your heart move together — no one can stop you. Not even time.”

Host: The storm broke in full now, the rain pelting the field, washing away footprints, fear, fatigue. The two stood in it — soaked, unshaken — the world reduced to rhythm and heartbeat.

And in that storm, Pele’s wisdom came alive again — not as doctrine, but as music:

That gifts are not owned, but entrusted.
That health is not a condition, but a commitment.
That discipline is not punishment, but reverence.

The lightning flashed, and for a brief moment, the field shone like a cathedral —
and two souls, drenched and breathing, stood within it,
their silence the purest form of prayer.

The storm passed, the air cleared,
and the field — reborn, glistening, alive —
waited for morning to bring new footsteps,
new gifts,
and the next heartbeat ready to honor them.