My dad's my best mate, and he always will be.

Host: The evening sun dipped behind the hills, spilling amber light across a quiet football field on the edge of town. The grass was wet from the earlier rain, each blade glistening like it remembered something soft and old.

The bleachers stood mostly empty, except for two figures — Jack, sitting with his elbows on his knees, and Jeeny, leaning back with her arms stretched across the metal bench, her dark hair catching the last light.

A faint breeze carried the smell of earth and metal, the kind that lingers after a storm. Somewhere in the distance, a father was teaching his little boy how to kick a ball. Their laughter — that small, sincere kind — floated through the air like a memory that refused to fade.

Jeeny: “That sound never gets old, does it?”

Jack: (half-smiling) “Depends on who you ask.”

Jeeny: “You don’t like it?”

Jack: “It’s… complicated.”

Host: The sky deepened to a shade between orange and blue, like two emotions trying to coexist. Jeeny watched the pair on the field — the boy missing the goal again, the father clapping anyway.

Jeeny: “Cher Lloyd once said, ‘My dad’s my best mate, and he always will be.’ I heard it on the radio today. Simple words, but they hit me. Reminds me of when love was uncomplicated.”

Jack: “Love’s never uncomplicated. Not even between a father and a daughter.”

Jeeny: “You say that like it’s personal.”

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe it is.”

Host: Jack’s grey eyes followed the child on the field, though his thoughts were far away. A pause stretched — long enough for the wind to move through it.

Jeeny waited, her eyes patient, her expression tender.

Jack: “You ever grow up thinking your dad was invincible?”

Jeeny: “Every kid does.”

Jack: “Yeah. Mine was… something else. A carpenter. Hands like iron, heart like smoke. He didn’t say much, but when he did, it stuck. Taught me to build things, fix what’s broken, never waste time talking about feelings.”

Jeeny: “That sounds… lonely.”

Jack: “It was honest.”

Host: The sunlight faded further, leaving only the cool silver of dusk. Jack leaned back, the old bleacher metal creaking beneath his weight. The memories in his voice were heavy but unpolished — raw wood, not varnished.

Jeeny: “You know, my dad wasn’t like that at all. He talked too much. Always asking how I felt, what I dreamed about. He’d say, ‘If you can’t tell me, who can you tell?’ Sometimes I just wanted him to be quiet. But now… I’d give anything to hear his voice again.”

Jack: “He’s gone?”

Jeeny: “Cancer. Quick. Too quick. He used to joke about how the world was changing faster than he could keep up with. Guess he proved himself right.”

Host: The wind stirred between them, gentle yet unkind in the way memories are when they come without warning. The boy on the field finally kicked the ball straight into the net. His father’s cheer echoed across the empty stands — loud, proud, alive.

Jack: “You were lucky.”

Jeeny: “You were too, Jack. You just forgot.”

Jack: “Lucky? My dad barely looked at me after my mom left. He buried himself in work. I’d come home from school, see him sanding a table like it was the only thing keeping him from breaking apart. He didn’t talk — he built. That was his way of saying love, I guess.”

Jeeny: “So he did love you.”

Jack: “He loved in silence. I mistook it for distance.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes softened; her voice lowered like a whisper meant for only the heart to hear.

Jeeny: “You know, silence doesn’t mean absence. Sometimes it’s the loudest form of love. We just don’t always speak its language.”

Jack: “I used to hate him for that. For never saying the words. ‘I’m proud of you,’ ‘I love you,’ nothing. Just a nod. A pat on the shoulder. Then when he died, I found a box in his workshop — letters he never gave me. Every one started with ‘To my son, who’s better than I was.’”

Jeeny: “Oh, Jack…”

Host: His eyes glistened in the fading light, not with tears, but with something older — the kind of ache that stays too long and finally finds permission to breathe.

Jack: “You know what I realized? The man I thought was cold — he just didn’t know how to speak warmth. But he lived it. Every board he cut, every callus on his hands… they were his words.”

Jeeny: “So he was your best mate. You just met him too late.”

Jack: “Maybe I’m meeting him now. Every time I fix something, every time I teach a kid how to use a hammer, I hear his voice — not in words, but in rhythm. Like a heartbeat I didn’t know was still there.”

Host: The field lights flicked on, flooding the green with artificial daylight. The father and son packed up, laughter echoing like a prayer that didn’t need a church. Jeeny smiled faintly.

Jeeny: “You ever notice how we become them? The things we swore we wouldn’t be?”

Jack: “Yeah. I see him in the way I pour coffee. In the way I keep fixing things that don’t need fixing. Like I’m afraid to stop. Afraid to sit long enough to feel.”

Jeeny: “That’s love, Jack. It doesn’t vanish. It just… evolves.”

Host: A long silence followed — not heavy, but whole. The kind of silence that feels earned, not empty. The sky deepened into full twilight, a single star breaking through the blue.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? When I was a kid, I thought the world was full of heroes — fathers, men who never flinched. Now I think the real hero was just the man who kept showing up, even when no one thanked him.”

Jeeny: “That’s every dad, isn’t it? A quiet, invisible kind of courage.”

Jack: “Yeah. I just wish I’d told him that.”

Jeeny: “Maybe he already knew.”

Host: Jack looked down at his hands, calloused from years of work — the same hands that once were smaller, holding tools too big for him. He smiled, the kind that carries both grief and grace.

Jack: “You know, I used to think I was running from him. Turns out I was just running with him, further than he ever got.”

Jeeny: “And that’s the best way to honor him.”

Host: The field lights buzzed faintly as a soft mist began to settle. The night folded around them, tender and wide.

Jeeny: “He’d be proud, you know.”

Jack: “Maybe. But pride’s another word for love he couldn’t say.”

Jeeny: “Then say it for him.”

Jack: (smiles) “My dad’s my best mate. Always will be.”

Host: The wind stilled. The stars gathered overhead. The father and son disappeared down the lane, their laughter fading into the dark, leaving only the echo of love — simple, flawed, unspoken, but eternal.

Jeeny and Jack sat in silence, watching the empty field.

Somewhere beyond words, the world breathed again — soft, familiar, infinite.

And in that quiet, something old healed itself.