I have to work hard. I have to get fitness back. If I get game

Host: The morning fog hung low over the football field, curling through the metal bleachers like smoke from a dying fire. The grass was wet, glistening under the dull silver sky. A single goalpost stood like a sentinel in the mist.

Jack sat on the bench, his hands buried in the pockets of his worn jacket, his breath visible in the cold. Jeeny stood near the edge of the field, her hair tied back, her face flushed from the chill and the echo of something unspoken.

The sound of a ball being kicked — dull, heavy, rhythmic — filled the space between them. It wasn’t a match. It wasn’t even practice. Just an empty morning with echoes of discipline.

Jack: “Emre Can said, ‘I have to work hard. I have to get fitness back. If I get game time — which is always different to training — I have to work hard on my game and get confidence again.’ You know, it’s strange. Everyone talks about hard work like it’s some sacred cure. But sometimes you can work until your bones break and still feel like nothing’s enough.”

Jeeny: “That’s because hard work isn’t just physical, Jack. It’s emotional. It’s mental. You can train your body every day and still lose the fight inside your head. What Emre meant wasn’t just about fitness — it was about rebuilding faith in yourself.”

Host: The wind picked up, tossing the faint smell of mud and cold iron through the air. Jack’s eyes narrowed, following the lazy roll of the ball across the wet turf.

Jack: “Faith. That word again. You make it sound like every struggle’s a spiritual journey. Sometimes it’s just exhaustion. Sometimes it’s survival.”

Jeeny: “Maybe survival is a spiritual act. Maybe that’s what makes it human.”

Jack: “Or maybe it’s just persistence. You keep going because stopping feels worse.”

Host: A distant whistle blew — some other team, some other dream — and faded back into the fog.

Jeeny: “You’re missing the point. When Emre Can talks about working hard and getting confidence back, he’s not bragging. He’s admitting fragility. That’s rare — especially for athletes. He’s saying, ‘I’ve fallen, but I’ll climb again.’ There’s humility in that.”

Jack: “Humility’s overrated. The world doesn’t reward honesty about weakness. You show cracks, and people walk all over you.”

Jeeny: “Then why do we admire those who rise after falling? Because they showed the cracks and still stood tall. Confidence isn’t arrogance, Jack — it’s earned through repetition, pain, failure. You can’t train that kind of resilience in a gym.”

Host: The ball rolled toward Jack’s foot. He nudged it back with the toe of his boot, the sound of leather against grass soft and precise.

Jack: “You talk like it’s noble to suffer. Like pain is a teacher instead of a thief.”

Jeeny: “It’s both. Pain steals comfort, but it gives clarity. Ask any athlete after an injury, any artist after rejection, any worker after burnout. When you’re stripped of ease, you find what’s left — your will.”

Jack: “And if your will’s gone?”

Jeeny: “Then you start smaller. Like Emre — you rebuild. Step by step. Fitness before game time. Form before glory. Confidence before fame.”

Host: The mist thinned just enough for the first pale line of sunlight to fall across the field. Jeeny’s voice softened, but her eyes held steady.

Jeeny: “You know, when I was younger, I used to dance. I trained until my feet bled. I thought discipline was enough. Then one day I fell during a performance — right in front of everyone. I froze. After that, I couldn’t go back on stage for months. My teacher told me something I never forgot: ‘You can rebuild muscles, but belief takes longer.’”

Jack: “So how’d you get it back?”

Jeeny: “By failing again. By walking back onto that stage, even when I felt like an imposter. That’s what Emre’s talking about. Confidence isn’t restored by comfort — it’s rebuilt in discomfort.”

Host: Jack’s fingers tightened around the edge of the bench. His voice, when it came, was quieter.

Jack: “You make it sound simple.”

Jeeny: “It isn’t. That’s why it matters.”

Jack: “You know, I used to play. Semi-pro. Before the knee went out. I thought I’d get back in shape, get back in the game. But the truth is — once you lose rhythm, it’s hell trying to find it again. Your body forgets, your mind doubts. Training isn’t the same as playing. He’s right about that.”

Jeeny: “It never is. Training is rehearsal. The game is faith.”

Jack: “Faith again.”

Jeeny: “Always faith. Because every comeback begins with belief — not in others, but in yourself.”

Host: The sun finally broke through, scattering gold across the wet grass. The world looked raw and clean — like something that had just survived the night.

Jack: “So what you’re saying is, confidence is a consequence, not a starting point.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You don’t wait for it. You earn it by doing the thing that scares you while you still doubt yourself.”

Jack: “Even when you feel like a fraud.”

Jeeny: “Especially then. Because that’s when the work is real.”

Host: A long silence followed. The only sound was the steady drip of water from the bleachers and the quiet breath of the morning.

Jack finally stood, stretched his shoulders, and looked out over the field.

Jack: “You ever notice how empty fields still feel alive? Like they’re waiting for something to happen.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what resilience looks like — waiting without giving up.”

Jack: “You think I could still play?”

Jeeny: “You’re asking the wrong question.”

Jack: “What’s the right one?”

Jeeny: “Do you still want to?”

Host: The words hung in the air like sunlight caught in mist — brief, bright, and heavy with meaning. Jack didn’t answer right away. He looked down at the ball, at his worn shoes, at the silent goalpost across the field. Then he smiled — faint, unsure, but real.

Jack: “Yeah. I think I do.”

Jeeny: “Then start there. Work hard. Not because you need to prove anything — but because you still care.”

Host: She walked toward him, picked up the ball, and rolled it gently his way. The echo of its bounce filled the air like a heartbeat.

Jack caught it under his foot and stood still for a moment, feeling the weight of it — the weight of beginnings.

Jack: “Funny. Feels heavier than I remember.”

Jeeny: “That’s because it’s real this time.”

Host: The fog had lifted now, leaving the field wide and open. The sunlight caught on the wet grass like fire. Jack took a step back, eyes on the goal. Then, without another word, he struck the ball.

It flew straight, cutting through the cool air, landing just beneath the crossbar — not perfect, but true.

Jeeny clapped once, softly.

Jeeny: “See? It’s not about perfection. It’s about trying again.”

Host: Jack smiled, breathing hard, his chest rising and falling in the quiet rhythm of effort and relief.

Jack: “Maybe that’s what Emre meant after all — you don’t chase confidence. You build it, one shot at a time.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The two of them stood there, side by side, the world stretching wide around them — a vast, patient field of possibility.

And as the light warmed the air and the last threads of fog dissolved, the meaning of hard work became clear:

Not punishment.
Not penance.
But a promise — to yourself, to the game, to the part of you still brave enough to begin again.