I love the English league. I think it's the best in the world

Host: The stadium was empty now. The last of the fans had gone home, the last echo of chanting had been swallowed by the night. Only the floodlights remained — tall and solemn, washing the pitch in an unnatural daylight that no longer belonged to anyone.

The grass, damp with rain, shimmered faintly under the silver glow. The stands — silent now — looked like a cathedral abandoned after mass, its seats empty pews that had held the faithful just hours before.

In the middle of it all, on the touchline, two figures lingered.

Jack leaned against the barrier, hands in his coat pockets, his face unreadable beneath the shadow of the lights. Jeeny sat on the bench beside the field, her boots resting on the wet turf, a steaming cup of tea between her hands.

Between them, resting on a crumpled sports page, were the words that had sparked the quiet conversation:

“I love the English league. I think it's the best in the world, but I have a problem with Christmas and New Year's Day because you have to play.” — Carlos Tevez

Jeeny: (with a soft chuckle) “Imagine that — millions watching, lights blazing, everyone cheering, and all you can think is: I’d rather be home for Christmas.”

Jack: (shrugs) “He’s not wrong. Even kings deserve rest. But football doesn’t care about sentiment. It’s a business that wears a soul.”

Host: A gust of wind swept across the field, carrying the faint scent of mud, grass, and loneliness. The goalposts stood tall at each end, gleaming like white skeletons under the light.

Jeeny: “You make it sound tragic. He wasn’t complaining — just honest. I think what he meant was that even love needs boundaries. He loves the game, but not at the cost of being human.”

Jack: (gruffly) “Boundaries don’t exist in greatness. You think Messi or Ronaldo ever said, ‘I need a break’? No — they kept moving. Because legends don’t rest.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Or maybe legends are the ones who forget they’re human. That’s the tragedy. Even gods get tired, Jack.”

Jack: “Then they stop being gods.”

Host: The rain began again — soft, rhythmic, almost musical as it tapped against the empty seats. The pitch glistened darker now, its lines blurring, the white chalk mixing with earth.

The sound of distant church bells drifted through the night — twelve low notes marking midnight. Somewhere, a world away, families sat around fires, exchanging gifts and laughter, while the field remained — cold, devoted, awake.

Jeeny: (gazing across the pitch) “You know what I love about this quote? It’s about loyalty — to passion and to life. Tevez is saying, ‘I’ll give you my heart, but not my soul.’ That’s balance.”

Jack: (shakes his head) “Balance doesn’t build empires. Sacrifice does. You can’t love something halfway. If you step on this grass, it owns you. Ask any player — they live for the roar, even when it’s killing them.”

Jeeny: “And yet, when the noise stops, what’s left? Knees that ache, hearts that forget why they started, memories that belong more to the crowd than to themselves. Sometimes walking away is braver than staying.”

Jack: (bitter laugh) “You sound like someone who’s never wanted anything badly enough.”

Jeeny: (eyes narrowing, voice calm) “No, Jack. I sound like someone who’s learned that wanting isn’t the same as living.”

Host: The lights flickered once — a mechanical sigh. A fox darted across the field, quick and silent, vanishing into the shadows beneath the bleachers. Nature reclaiming what obsession forgot.

Jack: (after a pause) “You think the world would stop spinning if footballers took Christmas off?”

Jeeny: “No. But maybe their hearts would start beating again.”

Jack: (grinning) “You’re romanticizing exhaustion.”

Jeeny: “I’m humanizing it. What’s the point of loving a game if it forgets how to love you back?”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying the distant sound of laughter — maybe from the pubs down the street, where fans still rehashed the match over warm beer and colder memories.

Jeeny tilted her head, listening, her breath visible in the chill.

Jeeny: “You know, football used to be about community. Now it’s about consumption. Once upon a time, it was a way for the poor to feel rich for ninety minutes. Now even the players are prisoners of the schedule.”

Jack: “They’re paid to be prisoners. Don’t pity them.”

Jeeny: (gently) “Money doesn’t erase fatigue, Jack. It just buys better beds to collapse on.”

Jack: “And yet, they keep running. That’s what separates them — they don’t need to, but they still do.”

Jeeny: (smiling sadly) “Because running is all they’ve ever been allowed to do.”

Host: The rain stopped as suddenly as it had begun. The floodlights buzzed louder now, the hum of electricity filling the silence like a held breath.

Jeeny stood, stepping onto the pitch. The grass flattened under her boots with a faint, wet sound.

Jeeny: (looking up at the lights) “You ever wonder what it feels like — Christmas morning, a thousand miles from home, knowing the world is celebrating while you’re warming up under this glare?”

Jack: (from the sideline) “That’s the price of greatness. You trade normal for immortal.”

Jeeny: (turning to him) “Immortal for whom? The fans who forget your name ten years later? The tabloids that chew your life and spit it out? Even immortality gets lonely.”

Jack: (quietly) “So what do you do?”

Jeeny: “You remember why you loved it in the first place. Before the cameras, before the contracts — when the ball was just joy.”

Host: The lights dimmed one by one, each click echoing across the vast emptiness. The stadium fell into shadow, leaving only the soft glow of the scoreboard — blank, but alive.

Jack walked out to join her, their figures small against the massive field.

Jack: (murmuring) “You know, maybe Tevez wasn’t complaining. Maybe he was just… tired of being worshiped.”

Jeeny: (nods) “Exactly. Even heroes want to be human for a night.”

Jack: (half-smiles) “You think that’s allowed?”

Jeeny: “It should be. Even gods need days off. Even legends deserve holidays.”

Host: The camera pulls back slowly — the two of them standing at midfield, their silhouettes caught in the dim light, surrounded by the vast loneliness of the game they’re both trying to understand.

The sky above them was vast and black, the stars faint, as if even they were exhausted by watching humanity chase perfection.

Jeeny: (softly, almost to herself) “Maybe that’s what he meant — that love isn’t real if it doesn’t let you rest.”

Jack: (quietly, after a long pause) “Then maybe football — like faith, like fame — needs to learn how to rest too.”

Host: The last light clicked off. The stadium disappeared into darkness, except for the faint gleam of the wet pitch under the moon.

Somewhere far away, carolers were singing — voices rising through the night like the echo of something pure and unbroken.

The field, for the first time all year, was still.

And in that stillness — that rare, impossible stillness —
the game finally remembered what it had always been about:

not performance,
not glory,
but joy —
and the quiet grace of being allowed,
for one sacred night,
to rest.