I had a lot of anger because I didn't like who I was when I was

Host: The rain had stopped, but the streets still glistened like wet glass beneath the amber glow of the streetlights. In the distance, a faint echo of laughter drifted from a nearby pub, but here—beneath the awning of an old gym—there was only silence and the low hum of neon. Jack leaned against the brick wall, a half-empty bottle of beer dangling from his hand. Jeeny stood across from him, arms crossed, her dark hair still damp from the rain, her eyes soft but piercing.

Jack: “You know, I read something today… Gareth Thomas once said, ‘I had a lot of anger because I didn’t like who I was when I was off the field. I used to relish the chance to try and hurt somebody in a legal way.’ That’s honest. Brutal, but honest.”

Jeeny: “It’s also tragic, Jack. To find peace only in violence, to make pain the only way you feel alive—that’s not honesty, that’s desperation.”

Host: The wind brushed through the alley, lifting loose papers, rattling a metal sign that creaked above them. A single light bulb flickered, throwing shadows that danced across the walls like ghosts of forgotten fights.

Jack: “You call it desperation, I call it truth. People need release. The world’s full of rage we’re not allowed to show. So we bottle it up, let it rot inside us. At least on the field, it’s real, it’s earned. There’s no pretending.”

Jeeny: “But that’s just another cage, Jack. You turn your pain into a weapon, but you still end up a prisoner of it. Violence doesn’t purge the darkness—it just feeds it. Look at the wars, the riots, the endless cycles of revenge. Nobody comes out whole.”

Jack: “You think I don’t know that? But the world doesn’t give you sanctuaries. It gives you battles. Gareth wasn’t just talking about rugby—he was talking about being human. We all have that part of us that wants to strike, to prove we exist. Even you, Jeeny.”

Host: Her jaw tightened. For a moment, her eyes flashed, catching the neon light like a spark. The rainwater from her hair dripped onto her jacket, leaving small dark circles that spread slowly.

Jeeny: “Maybe. But there’s a difference between wanting to fight for something—and wanting to hurt. One is about belief, the other is about emptiness. Gareth said he didn’t like who he was off the field. That’s the confession of a man who used violence to hide from himself.”

Jack: “Or to find himself. You ever think of that? Some people can’t feel alive until they push against pain, until they hear the crack of their own limits. Look at soldiers, boxers, firefighters—people who walk into danger every day. They need the edge. It’s what gives them clarity.”

Jeeny: “Clarity bought with blood isn’t clarity, Jack—it’s numbness. You don’t find yourself in pain, you lose yourself there.”

Host: The sound of a distant train horn echoed, long and hollow. Jack took a slow sip from the bottle, his breath visible in the cold. Jeeny shifted, her shoulders trembling slightly—not from the chill, but from the weight of the words between them.

Jack: “You ever been in a real fight, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “Enough to know it doesn’t fix anything.”

Jack: “Maybe it’s not meant to fix. Maybe it’s meant to reveal.”

Jeeny: “Reveal what? That we’re animals pretending to be civilized?”

Jack: “Exactly. You strip away the politeness, the masks, the rules—and there it is: the raw, beating truth of who we are. Gareth’s words… they weren’t about glorifying the hit. They were about admitting he only felt real when he was bleeding.”

Jeeny: “And that’s the saddest part. That someone as strong as him thought pain was the only way to feel alive. Don’t you see? That’s what the world does—it teaches men to bury their fear under anger, to replace love with combat.”

Host: The rain began to fall again, softly, like a whisper. A car passed, its headlights painting their faces in a brief wash of gold and shadow. For a moment, they both looked away, as if the light had exposed something they didn’t want to admit.

Jack: “You talk like it’s easy. Like you can just choose not to be angry. But what if that anger’s all you’ve got? What if that’s the only thing keeping you from disappearing?”

Jeeny: “Then you’re not living, you’re surviving. And survival without meaning is just another form of death.”

Host: Jack’s hand tightened around the bottle. The glass creaked under the pressure, the veins in his forearm standing out like cords. His eyes were storm-grey, filled with something between defiance and regret.

Jack: “You think meaning comes from love, from peace, from forgiveness. But some of us don’t get that luxury. Some of us were born in conflict. You can’t talk peace to a storm, Jeeny. You ride it, or it drowns you.”

Jeeny: “Then learn to swim, Jack. Don’t become the storm.”

Host: The silence that followed was heavy. Even the rain seemed to pause, hovering between drops. Jeeny stepped forward, her voice lowering, softer now, but carrying the weight of something deeply personal.

Jeeny: “When my brother came back from Afghanistan, he said the same thing you just did. He said he felt more alive under gunfire than he ever did at home. But he wasn’t alive, Jack—he was haunted. Every night he’d wake up screaming, because the thing that made him feel alive was also what was killing him inside.”

Host: Jack looked down, his breath catching. The bottle slipped slightly in his hand, the beer inside sloshing. For a long moment, he didn’t speak.

Jack: “Maybe that’s the price. Maybe being alive means you have to pay in pain.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Being alive means you have to face it—and then choose something better.”

Host: A truck rolled by, its engine growling low. The light from its headlamps passed over them, then vanished, leaving only the neon and the sound of dripping rainwater. The tension between them eased, like a string slowly loosening.

Jack: “You always think there’s a better way.”

Jeeny: “Because there is. Even Gareth found it. He faced himself, Jack. He stopped running from who he was off the field. That’s courage—not the kind you show in a tackle, but the kind that stares at its own reflection and doesn’t turn away.”

Jack: “Courage isn’t always gentle.”

Jeeny: “No. But it can still be kind.”

Host: The words hung in the air, soft and warm against the cold night. Jack nodded, just once, slowly, as if the meaning had finally settled somewhere deep inside. The rain eased to a mist, clinging to the edges of their faces like a quiet forgiveness.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe fighting isn’t about hurting—it’s about trying to feel something when the world goes numb.”

Jeeny: “And maybe healing isn’t about forgetting—it’s about remembering without breaking.”

Host: They both stood there, breathing, the city around them still alive with distant sounds—a siren, a train, a dog barking somewhere far away. The neon light flickered once more, and this time it stayed steady, casting them both in a gentle glow. Jack set the bottle down on the curb. Jeeny smiled, small and tired, but real.

Host: The camera would have pulled back then—two silhouettes beneath the rain, no longer divided by anger, but joined by understanding. The storm had not passed, but they had learned how to stand in it without drowning.