If you're a goal scorer, you have to have a certain attitude. I'm

Host: The stadium was empty now, long after the cheering had faded and the lights had begun to dim. The grass still glistened with the dew of effort, boots had left their marks, and in the distance, a flag fluttered half-heartedly in the breeze — a ghost of glory lingering after the battle.

Jack sat on the edge of the pitch, elbows on his knees, staring at the goalposts — white rectangles of memory framed by the dark sky. Beside him, Jeeny walked slowly along the sideline, her hands in her coat pockets, her steps soft, as if she were afraid to disturb the ghosts of the game.

Her voice broke the silence, quoting softly the words that had started their conversation:
“If you're a goal scorer, you have to have a certain attitude. I'm very serious. My missus thinks I'm a bit weird. I'm cold, I don't have many emotions. It's very rare I cry.” — Michael Owen

Jack: (still looking at the goal) That’s the truth of it. People think scoring goals is joy. But it’s not. It’s precision. It’s pressure. You can’t feel too much or you’ll miss the shot.

Jeeny: (smiling gently) So you freeze your heart to keep your aim steady.

Jack: (shrugs) That’s what winning demands. You don’t walk onto the pitch with emotion. You walk on with calculation. Nerves are for amateurs. Coldness is control.

Host: The wind picked up, shivering through the empty stands, carrying with it the faint echo of chants — the sound of devotion from strangers. The stadium, once a roaring temple, now felt like a cathedral after mass — sacred, hollow, haunted.

Jeeny: (softly) You know, it sounds lonely when you say it like that.

Jack: (half-laughs) Maybe it is. But loneliness wins games. You can’t carry a crowd in your chest when you’re facing a goalkeeper. You just carry the silence.

Jeeny: (sits down beside him) And what happens when the goals stop? When the crowd leaves? What do you carry then?

Jack: (after a long pause) The silence stays. You just start hearing it differently.

Host: The floodlights above hummed faintly — a tired heartbeat of the arena. Jeeny’s face was soft, reflective, as she turned toward him, her hair brushing the collar of her coat.

Jeeny: (gently) Maybe that’s the price of obsession. You win the game but lose the warmth.

Jack: (grim smile) Warmth doesn’t score. Focus does. Emotion clouds the edges. You want to be remembered? You learn to sharpen instead of soften.

Jeeny: (quietly) But don’t you see, Jack? That’s what erases you, too. You become so sharp, you cut even yourself.

Host: A long silence fell. The grass whispered, the moonlight pooled on the field, silvering the white of the lines. Somewhere in the stands, a pigeon fluttered, the sound small and startling in the vast emptiness.

Jack: (his voice low, almost distant) You know, when I was younger, I thought being strong meant not feeling. Like if I could stop the tears, stop the nerves, I’d be unstoppable. (pauses) But every goal I ever scored — every one — it ended too fast. It always did.

Jeeny: (softly) Because it wasn’t joy you were chasing. It was release.

Jack: (nods slowly) Yeah. That’s it. The moment the ball hits the net — it’s relief, not happiness. Then it’s gone, and you’re empty again.

Host: The sound of the wind rose and fell — a rhythm like breathing. The sky above them was wide, cloudless, and indifferent.

Jeeny: (gazing at the goalpost) You remind me of soldiers, Jack. They fight so long they forget how to come home.

Jack: (half-smiles) Maybe we’re not so different. The pitch is the battlefield. The whistle — that’s the gunshot. The moment the game ends, the silence feels wrong. You start craving the war again.

Jeeny: (turns to him) But you can’t live in war. Even warriors have to lay down the sword eventually.

Jack: (quietly) That’s the part no one teaches you. How to stop fighting without falling apart.

Host: The lights dimmed further now, leaving only a faint halo around the goal. The net swayed gently, catching the wind as if remembering every ball that had ever torn through it.

Jeeny: (softly) Owen said he rarely cries. You sound like him.

Jack: (shrugs) Crying doesn’t fix anything. It doesn’t make you faster, stronger, better.

Jeeny: (leaning closer) No. But it makes you human. And that’s something better than winning, Jack — it’s surviving.

Jack: (a faint tremor in his voice) You ever notice that people only love you when you’re scoring? The moment you stop, they start looking for someone younger, someone louder. The warmth turns cold so fast, it’s almost funny.

Jeeny: (quietly) That’s not love, Jack. That’s hunger. Don’t confuse the two.

Host: The silence between them grew deep, almost sacred. A moth fluttered near the last floodlight, its small body drawn to the last remaining glow. Jeeny watched it quietly, then looked back at him.

Jeeny: (gently) Maybe wisdom for people like you isn’t learning to score more. It’s learning to live without the scoreboard.

Jack: (a long pause, then nods) Maybe. But that’s the hardest game there is.

Jeeny: (smiles softly) Then maybe it’s the only one worth playing.

Host: The final light went out, leaving only the moon to mark the field — pale, cold, beautiful. The goalposts cast long shadows, like doorways to another kind of world — one where victory and peace were finally the same thing.

Jack: (standing, his voice quiet) You know, I used to think I was cold. That it made me strong. But now I think… maybe I was just scared to melt.

Jeeny: (standing beside him) Then start melting, Jack. It’s the only way to find what’s underneath the armor.

Host: The camera would pull back, rising slowly over the stadium, its vast emptiness glowing under the silver light. Two small figures — one carrying silence, the other carrying compassion — stood side by side at the edge of memory.

The quote remained in the air, echoing like the whisper of a crowd long gone:
“If you're a goal scorer, you have to have a certain attitude. I'm very serious. My missus thinks I'm a bit weird. I'm cold, I don't have many emotions. It's very rare I cry.”

And as the scene faded into darkness, the Host’s voice lingered, low and steady —

perhaps greatness demands a kind of distance,
a stillness in the heart that can strike like thunder —
but when the cheering dies,
what’s left is not the score,
but the quiet ache of a man learning how to feel again.