I am not disturbed by criticism or insults. It's all about having

Host: The stadium lights had long gone dark, but the echo of the crowd still seemed to linger — a ghostly hum that refused to die. The air smelled of wet grass and iron, the field glistening under the faint glow of the moon. Rows of empty seats stretched into shadow, like silent witnesses to the wars that had been fought there — not with weapons, but with will.

At the edge of the pitch, Jack sat on the bench, his boots untied, his breath steady but heavy, as if the weight of the night still clung to his lungs. Across from him, Jeeny leaned against the goalpost, her arms crossed, her eyes soft but unyielding. Between them, the silence of exhaustion — the kind that doesn’t come from running, but from trying too hard to stay standing.

Jeeny read aloud from a worn notebook she had brought with her — the page creased, the ink faint but still proud:
“I am not disturbed by criticism or insults. It's all about having faith in yourself.” — Gonzalo Higuaín.

Jack: smirking faintly “Easy for him to say. He’s scored goals in front of thousands. When you win, people call it confidence. When you fall, they call it arrogance.”

Jeeny: gently “And when you rise again?”

Jack: “They forget you ever fell.”

Host: The wind swept across the field, rattling the bleachers, carrying a single plastic cup tumbling end over end — the debris of devotion. Somewhere, the city buzzed faintly, but here, the world felt paused, suspended between pride and peace.

Jeeny: “You know what I think? Faith in yourself isn’t born from applause. It’s born in the silence after failure — when you have to clap for yourself.”

Jack: chuckling darkly “I’ve heard that kind of talk before. From coaches, from friends. It sounds noble — until you’re the one walking off the field after a loss, listening to the crowd boo your name.”

Jeeny: “That’s the test. Whether the voice inside you can outshout the crowd outside.”

Host: The moonlight caught her eyes, turning them to liquid gold. Jack looked away, his jaw tightening, hands flexing restlessly.

Jack: “You ever been hated for something you gave everything to? I mean, truly hated — not because you failed them, but because you reminded them how fragile they were?”

Jeeny: “Yes. That’s what faith feels like — walking through hate and not shrinking.”

Jack: “Faith isn’t a shield. It’s barely armor. It’s a bruise you learn to wear.”

Jeeny: smiling softly “And still — you wear it.”

Host: The stadium lights flickered, one by one, failing completely, until only the stars above remained — small, bright reminders that persistence has its own kind of glory.

Jeeny: “Higuaín knew something about that. People mocked him after he missed those finals — called him weak, cursed his name. But he kept playing. Kept showing up. That’s not confidence — that’s courage disguised as repetition.”

Jack: “You make it sound poetic. But to me, it sounds like punishment.”

Jeeny: “It’s both. Every time you rise, the world will ask, ‘Why?’ And the only answer worth giving is, ‘Because I still can.’”

Host: Jack stood, his shadow stretching across the field, the grass wet beneath his boots, his breath visible in the chill.

Jack: “You ever wonder what it costs to believe in yourself that hard?”

Jeeny: “Everything. That’s why so few people do it.”

Jack: “Then maybe faith in yourself is just stubbornness in disguise.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But stubbornness has built more miracles than doubt ever has.”

Host: The sky shifted, the clouds breaking, a faint line of starlight spilling over the pitch. The world felt cleaner, sharper — as if each blade of grass had forgiven the footsteps that crushed it.

Jack: “You know, when you spend long enough trying to prove yourself, you forget who you’re proving it to.”

Jeeny: “And that’s when the real game begins.”

Jack: “The one against yourself.”

Jeeny: nodding “The one where no one’s watching — but you still have to score.”

Host: He laughed softly, the sound low, tired, real. The kind of laugh that comes from someone who’s finally stopped fighting the truth.

Jack: “You make faith sound exhausting.”

Jeeny: “It is. But peace isn’t for the untested.”

Host: A faint breeze moved through the seats, whispering like a long-forgotten crowd. Jack looked out at the goal, the net barely visible in the darkness.

Jack: “You ever think we chase approval because we’re afraid of silence?”

Jeeny: “No. I think we chase approval because we mistake noise for love.”

Jack: “And faith?”

Jeeny: “Faith is loving yourself in the quiet.”

Host: The sky deepened, violet fading into black, the stars sharp and infinite. Jeeny walked forward, her footsteps soft, turning back only once.

Jeeny: “You don’t need to prove them wrong, Jack. You just need to prove you still believe.”

Jack: after a pause “In what?”

Jeeny: “In the part of you that keeps standing when the noise dies.”

Host: He watched her go, the echo of her words mingling with the whisper of wind. Then he turned toward the empty field — the vast silence before dawn.

He took a deep breath, and in that stillness, for the first time,
he didn’t hear the crowd, or the critics, or the ghosts.

He heard only his own heartbeat — steady, patient, alive.

And he smiled, not out of triumph, but peace.

Because now, he understood.

Faith wasn’t a finish line.
It was the courage to walk onto the field — again and again —
unshaken, unashamed, and unafraid.

Host: Above him, the stars glowed, indifferent but eternal.
And somewhere deep within, he whispered — not to the world, but to himself:

“I am not disturbed. I believe.”

And the night, for once, believed him back.