I don't think about numbers. I think more about what I can give

Host: The stadium slept beneath the silver hush of midnight, its floodlights long dimmed, its echoes of cheers still floating like ghosts in the air. The grass was wet, glistening under the moonlight, each blade a memory of glory, defeat, and sweat.

On the empty bench beside the field, Jack and Jeeny sat — two silhouettes framed against the vast quiet. The scoreboard in the distance blinked a faint red zero, as if reminding them that numbers mean nothing when the crowd is gone.

Jeeny: “You ever hear what Alisson, the Liverpool goalkeeper, once said? ‘I don’t think about numbers. I think more about what I can give back to the club for the faith they have invested in me.’”

Jack: “Yeah. I’ve heard that one. Sounds noble, doesn’t it? But numbers — that’s how the world keeps score. Without them, how do you measure anything?”

Host: A gust of wind moved through the stands, rattling the metal railings, echoing like a distant chant. Jack’s grey eyes followed the goalposts, his face tight, reflecting the hard light of reason.

Jeeny: “Maybe you don’t. Maybe not everything that matters can be measured. When Alisson said that, he wasn’t talking about statistics — he was talking about faith, gratitude, trust. About playing for something bigger than your own record.”

Jack: “Faith doesn’t pay your salary, Jeeny. Goals, saves, percentages — those are what decide who stays and who leaves. If he stopped performing, that faith would vanish faster than a crowd after a loss.”

Jeeny: “You’re wrong. Faith doesn’t vanish, Jack — it reveals. When you’ve earned it, it lasts beyond the scoreboard. That’s why people still remember players like Totti, who stayed at Roma his whole career, or Giggs at United. It wasn’t about numbers, it was about devotion.”

Host: The moonlight caught Jeeny’s face, soft yet resolute, her eyes reflecting the stadium lights like embers refusing to die.

Jack: “Devotion’s a luxury, Jeeny. When you depend on numbers, at least you know where you stand. The club doesn’t love you — it calculates you. Loyalty is just sentimentality with a contract clause.”

Jeeny: “You sound like someone who’s forgotten what it feels like to be trusted.”

Host: The words hit, clean and quiet, like a ball striking the net in an empty arena. Jack turned, his eyes darkening, the muscles in his jaw tensing.

Jack: “You think trust is real in this world? You ever work somewhere that measured your worth in anything but results? I did. Every month, a number next to my name — sales, targets, efficiency. And when those numbers dropped, so did their faith.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because their faith was never real. That’s not what Alisson meant. He meant — faith as an investment of the heart, not the ledger. It’s when someone believes in you before you prove yourself. And you want to give back, not out of fear, but out of love.”

Jack: “Love’s not a business model, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “No, but it’s what makes the game beautiful.”

Host: The wind carried her words across the field, stirring the grass, touching the goalpost like a hand on an old wound.

Jack: “You ever wonder, though — how many people get crushed by that kind of faith? The pressure to give back? To repay something you never asked for? That’s not freedom, that’s debt.”

Jeeny: “No. That’s responsibility. The kind that honors what others see in you. Look at Alisson again — he’s not talking about being indebted, he’s talking about being grateful. Faith makes you accountable not because you owe, but because you care.”

Jack: “You care until it breaks you. And when it does, the same people who had faith will turn away.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But if you live always expecting betrayal, you’ll never find meaning in what you give.”

Host: The conversation shifted, the tone lowering, voices softer, as though the night itself leaned closer to listen.

Jack: “You know… there was a kid I coached once. Brilliant player. But the club wanted results, and the numbers didn’t favor him. So they cut him. Destroyed him. He quit the sport altogether. You think faith would have saved him?”

Jeeny: “Yes — if someone had shown it. Sometimes all a person needs is one voice saying, I believe in you, even now. That kind of belief can change a life. Just like Shankly did for Liverpool — he built a family, not just a team. That’s what Alisson’s talking about.”

Jack: “You’re romanticizing it.”

Jeeny: “And you’re reducing it.”

Host: The silence stretched, thick as fog. The stadium stood still, as though it too was weighing both truths.

Jeeny: “Let me ask you this, Jack — do you work for the numbers, or for the people who trust you to deliver them?”

Jack: “For the numbers. Because they don’t lie.”

Jeeny: “They don’t lie, but they don’t care, either. Faith does.”

Host: Jack rubbed his forehead, his breath visible in the cold air, the weight of her words settling like mist on his skin.

Jack: “You make it sound so pure, Jeeny. But this world runs on metrics, not miracles.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But every once in a while, a miracle happens because someone refuses to see only the metrics.”

Host: Her voice broke the quiet like sunlight through fog, tender yet unyielding.

Jack: “You really believe in that kind of faith, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “I have to. Otherwise, what’s the point of giving anything at all? If you only give to be counted, then your heart becomes a ledger, not a gift.”

Jack: “And if you give without limits?”

Jeeny: “Then you become what you’re meant to be — a giver, not a trader.”

Host: The moon slipped behind a cloud, casting the stadium into half-darkness, as if the world itself was holding its breath.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny… maybe that’s what Alisson meant. It’s not about numbers, it’s about repaying something you can never truly repay — faith.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because faith, when it’s real, doesn’t ask for a return. It just hopes you’ll honor it.”

Host: The sky began to brighten at the edges, a thin blue light seeping over the stadium roof, signaling dawn.

Jack stood, hands in pockets, looking at the field one last time.

Jack: “You know, maybe the best kind of score isn’t the one on the board — it’s the one you keep in your heart.”

Jeeny: “That’s the only one that ever matters.”

Host: The first rays of sunlight washed the goalposts, turning them gold. The field, still wet with night, sparkled — like a promise renewed.

And in that moment, they understood:
that faith, once given, is not a number to be counted,
but a gift to be lived —
again and again, in every game, every heart, every dawn.