I don't know where football will take me because in football, you

Host: The morning light seeped through the tall windows of an empty pub on the outskirts of London. Outside, the streets were wet from a night’s rain, and a thin fog still clung to the cobblestones. The pub was quiet — only the hum of a coffee machine and the faint murmur of a radio playing an old football commentary filled the air.

At a corner table, Jack sat hunched over a newspaper, a cup of black coffee cooling beside him. His coat was draped across the chair, and his grey eyes were half-lost in thought. Across from him, Jeeny arrived, shaking off her umbrella, her long dark hair damp from the mist. She smiled faintly, sliding into the seat opposite him.

Jeeny: “You still read the papers like it’s 1999?”

Jack: (grinning slightly) “Old habits die hard. The ink feels more honest than the pixels.”

Host: Jeeny laughed softly, her voice like a gentle breeze over the dim room. She sipped from her tea, then looked down at a headline on the open page:
“Jose Mourinho: ‘I don’t know where football will take me, because in football, you never know, but for sure, as a family, our home will be in London.’”

Jeeny: “He said that last week, didn’t he? Mourinho. The man’s like a storm — never stays still, but somehow always circles back home.”

Jack: “Home. That’s a funny word for a man who’s been fired from half the clubs in Europe.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “And yet, still, London is his anchor. That says something, doesn’t it?”

Host: The sunlight shifted, cutting a narrow beam across the table, catching the steam rising from their cups. The radio crackled again — a voice recalling one of Mourinho’s “special one” moments, that mixture of arrogance and faith that had made him both loved and loathed.

Jack: “You know what I think? It’s all theater. Every word he says. The humility, the bravado, the drama — he’s like a poet in a tracksuit. He doesn’t love football; he loves control.”

Jeeny: “You always reduce passion to strategy, don’t you?”

Jack: “Passion is strategy. Ask any manager. Every move, every substitution, every word to the press — it’s a game of chess. You can’t survive two decades at that level by following your heart.”

Jeeny: “But you also can’t lead people without one. Mourinho may play chess, but he bleeds for it too. You can’t fake that kind of devotion.”

Host: The light dimmed as clouds drifted over the sun, and the room grew softer, heavier. The sound of rain returned, tapping gently against the windows.

Jack: “Maybe. But don’t mistake stubbornness for devotion. Every time he fails, he returns to London, like he’s chasing something he lost — maybe reputation, maybe redemption. But home? Home is just where the noise stops.”

Jeeny: “That’s one way to see it. But maybe London isn’t about reputation for him. Maybe it’s about belonging. Even wanderers need a ground they can call theirs.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes softened, her fingers tracing the rim of her cup. Jack looked at her, expression unreadable.

Jack: “Belonging’s overrated. You spend your whole life trying to find a place that feels like home, and when you finally get there, you realize it’s just geography. The real cage is in your head.”

Jeeny: “And yet, the first thing every lost soul does is search for home. You call it a cage; I call it gravity.”

Jack: “Gravity drags you down.”

Jeeny: “Gravity keeps you from drifting away.”

Host: A pause. The radio fell silent; only the rain spoke now. The tension between them hung like mist in the room.

Jack: “You think Mourinho’s loyal to London? No — he’s loyal to movement. To unpredictability. That’s what keeps him alive. He said it himself — he doesn’t know where football will take him. That’s the point. He thrives in uncertainty.”

Jeeny: “And yet he still needs a home base. That’s the paradox of every restless heart. Even the most ambitious need something — someone — to come back to.”

Host: Jack looked down, his hand tightening slightly around his coffee cup. His jawline tensed, a shadow crossing his expression.

Jeeny: (softly) “You used to be like that too, didn’t you? Always running. Always chasing something new. But you never stopped long enough to see what you were running from.”

Jack: (quietly) “I wasn’t running. I was searching.”

Jeeny: “And did you find it?”

Jack: “Maybe. For a moment. But like football, you never know.”

Host: A train horn wailed faintly in the distance, echoing through the wet streets. The moment lingered — two souls caught between motion and memory.

Jeeny: “You sound like him more than you realize — Mourinho. Always moving, always trying to outsmart fate. But even he admits that in the end, there’s one city he calls home.”

Jack: “London.”

Jeeny: “Not London. The feeling London gives him. Familiar chaos. Predictable unpredictability. That’s home — not the walls, but the heartbeat.”

Host: Jeeny leaned back, her eyes shining in the half-light, her voice steady but tinged with something tender.

Jeeny: “I think that’s what home really is — not a place, but a rhythm you recognize, even after you’ve been away too long.”

Jack: “And what if you forget the rhythm?”

Jeeny: “Then you listen until you remember.”

Host: Jack smiled faintly, the first genuine smile of the morning. The rain outside began to ease, turning into a soft drizzle. The light returned — pale and forgiving.

Jack: “You ever think Mourinho’s just afraid to stop? That maybe he doesn’t want to find peace, because peace feels like retirement?”

Jeeny: “Of course. That’s every dreamer’s fear — that stillness means the story’s over. But maybe home isn’t where you stop. Maybe it’s where you start again.”

Host: The words settled between them, like dust catching light. Jack’s gaze drifted to the window, where a young boy was kicking a ball through the puddles, laughing each time it splashed.

Jack: “You know… maybe that’s what keeps us human. The not knowing. The trying anyway.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The uncertainty is the point. Football, life, love — none of it’s about guarantees. It’s about motion, about belonging even when the ground keeps shifting.”

Host: The boy outside fell, then stood, soaked but smiling, the ball rolling back toward him. The camera would linger there — on the movement, the laughter, the resilience.

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe London’s not just Mourinho’s home. Maybe it’s a metaphor for all of us — the place we return to after every failure, every victory, every detour.”

Jeeny: “And maybe that’s what makes it beautiful — not that it never changes, but that it always welcomes you back.”

Host: Jack looked up, meeting Jeeny’s eyes, the noise of the city creeping back in — the buses, the laughter, the life beyond the glass.

Jack: “So, home isn’t the place where you stop moving. It’s the place that lets you keep moving.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The rain stopped completely now. The streets glistened, reflecting the grey-blue sky and the soft glow of the pub lights. The world outside felt new, alive, and restless — just like the man they’d been talking about.

Host: As they stood to leave, Jack pulled on his coat, his eyes lingering on the street beyond the window. He whispered, almost to himself:

Jack: “You never really know where the game will take you… but maybe, just maybe, you know where you’ll come back to.”

Host: Jeeny smiled, and together they stepped into the London morning — the fog thinning, the city stretching awake, unpredictable and eternal — a living metaphor for every heart that dares to chase the unknown and still call somewhere home.

Host: And above the soft hum of the awakening city, Mourinho’s words echoed — quiet, steady, human:

“I don’t know where football will take me, because in football, you never know. But for sure, as a family, our home will be in London.”