Thanks to my Buddhist faith, to the positivity that arose from

Host: The soccer field lay empty under a pale evening sky — the kind of sky that carried both light and exhaustion, as if the day itself were kneeling in reflection. The goalposts, white and weathered, stood like old witnesses. The air was cool, the grass damp, and every sound — the distant hum of traffic, the soft flutter of wind — seemed reverent.

Jack sat on the sideline bench, his hands clasped, his gaze fixed on the empty net. His shoes were muddy, his expression unreadable — not anger, not despair, just the kind of stillness that follows trying too hard for too long. Jeeny stood nearby, holding a thermos, her hair tucked under a beanie, watching him with the patience of someone who knows grief wears many masks.

Host: The stadium lights hummed faintly, waiting to be needed. The smell of rain-soaked earth rose up — humble, grounding.

Jeeny: “Roberto Baggio once said, ‘Thanks to my Buddhist faith, to the positivity that arose from prayer, I put the optimism of determination before the pessimism of logic and reason.’”

Jack: (quietly) “He missed that penalty in ’94. The one the whole world remembers.”

Jeeny: “And yet the whole world also remembers how he kept playing after that.”

Jack: “That’s faith?”

Jeeny: “That’s faith.”

Host: The wind picked up, tossing a few stray leaves across the field — remnants of autumn clinging to a green still fighting for life.

Jack: “You know, I’ve always admired logic. It’s clean. Predictable. It doesn’t betray you.”

Jeeny: “It also never forgives you.”

Jack: (looking at her) “You think faith does?”

Jeeny: “Faith doesn’t forgive. It transforms. It doesn’t say, ‘You were right’ — it says, ‘You’re still allowed to try again.’”

Host: Her voice was calm, but there was a quiet fire in it — the kind that doesn’t burn, just illuminates.

Jack: “Baggio was talking about optimism. Determination over reason. But doesn’t that sound reckless? Believing in something when logic tells you not to?”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the only real courage there is — to hope when it’s stupid to hope.”

Jack: “You think he prayed before that kick?”

Jeeny: “Probably. But not for victory. For peace with whatever came next.”

Jack: “And logic doesn’t offer that.”

Jeeny: “No. Logic gives you control. Faith gives you release.”

Host: The lights flickered on now, one by one, flooding the field in soft white — the world suddenly brighter, though nothing had changed.

Jack: “I used to think optimism was naïve. Like choosing sunlight in a storm.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s not a choice of blindness, but of direction. You can walk in the rain and still look toward the sun.”

Jack: “So optimism isn’t denial.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s defiance.”

Host: She walked toward the field, her boots sinking slightly into the wet earth. She turned to face him, her silhouette framed by the glow of the lights.

Jeeny: “You know, faith and logic aren’t enemies. Logic builds the bridge. Faith dares you to cross it.”

Jack: “Even when you can’t see the other side.”

Jeeny: “Especially then.”

Host: He stood, brushing dirt from his hands, his eyes following hers toward the goal — that simple rectangle that had held both his dreams and his failures.

Jack: “When I was younger, I thought strength meant never doubting. Now I think it means doubting, but walking anyway.”

Jeeny: “That’s the optimism of determination — the kind Baggio was talking about. You walk, you fall, you rise. And even if you don’t understand why, you keep moving.”

Jack: “So prayer’s not about asking for miracles.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s about asking for the courage to act without one.”

Host: The field stretched before them, a quiet ocean of green. The lights hummed. Somewhere in the distance, a whistle blew from another pitch — faint, human, grounding.

Jack: “You know, I’ve always envied people who believe in something. Really believe. I’ve spent my life arguing with reality instead.”

Jeeny: “Faith doesn’t end the argument. It just teaches you how to live inside it.”

Jack: “And logic?”

Jeeny: “Logic tells you what can be done. Faith tells you what should be done.”

Jack: “And optimism?”

Jeeny: “Optimism is what gets you out of bed when neither one has answers.”

Host: He smiled — small, tired, but true. The kind of smile that doesn’t pretend things are fine, just that they’re still possible.

Jack: “You know, I think Baggio understood that better than anyone. The whole world saw him fall, but he didn’t let the fall define him. He let the getting up define him.”

Jeeny: “That’s why people still talk about him. Not because of how he kicked a ball — but because of how he forgave himself.”

Jack: “Forgiveness as faith.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Faith isn’t believing the world is kind. It’s choosing to be kind to yourself when it isn’t.”

Host: The rain began again — soft, deliberate, like the sky whispering its approval. Jack walked to the edge of the field, staring at the net.

Jack: “You know, maybe prayer’s just the act of trying again. Standing in the same spot that broke you, and daring to move anyway.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And optimism — that’s what carries you through the doubt between the first step and the next one.”

Jack: “So it’s not about expecting good things. It’s about creating them.”

Jeeny: “And sustaining them, even when reason tells you to give up.”

Host: He turned to her, his face calm now, the exhaustion replaced by something quieter — a strength that didn’t need to announce itself.

Jack: “You think that’s what faith really is? Not blind belief, but determined optimism?”

Jeeny: “Yes. The courage to act as if hope is logical — even when it isn’t.”

Jack: “And reason?”

Jeeny: “Reason can draw the map. But only faith can make you walk it.”

Host: The rain thickened, the sound steady and rhythmic. The field shimmered in the light, a mirror of the sky above — imperfect, infinite, alive.

Jack picked up a stray ball and placed it at the penalty mark. He stepped back, eyes on the goal.

Jeeny: “You’re not going to—”

Jack: (grinning) “No. Not for redemption. For reminder.”

Host: He ran, kicked — not with force, but grace. The ball curved, kissed the post, and slid into the net.

Jack: “Order restored.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “No. Faith renewed.”

Host: The lights hummed on, the world quiet around them, the rain soft as forgiveness.

And as they stood there — two souls beneath a silver sky — Roberto Baggio’s words lived again in motion, not memory:

Host: that faith isn’t the denial of reason, but the defiance of despair;
that optimism born of prayer is not illusion, but will;
and that in the spaces where logic falters,
the determined heart finds its way forward — and calls that journey faith.