The people you choose to have around you make all the difference.

Host: The stadium lights glowed like white suns against the night sky, pouring brilliance across the empty cricket pitch. The air hummed faintly with leftover echoes — the chants, the drums, the heartbeat of a crowd that had long gone home. The grass still shone with dew, the faint scent of earth and sweat lingering in the silence that follows glory.

Jack sat alone on the wooden bench near the boundary line, his hands clasped loosely, his eyes fixed on the pitch as if it were a living thing, still whispering the names of those who had conquered it. Beside him, Jeeny arrived quietly, carrying two steaming cups of tea. She handed one to him without a word, her gaze tracing the faint outlines of footprints in the turf.

Jeeny: “Virat Kohli once said, ‘The people you choose to have around you make all the difference. My family and close friends keep me grounded. You have to have a mind of your own and a strong head on your shoulders. Cricket is the most important thing to me, so the rest of it pales in comparison.’”

Jack: smirking faintly “That sounds like someone who’s learned the cost of focus — and the price of fame.”

Jeeny: “And how to balance both without losing the ground under his feet.”

Jack: looking out at the pitch “Grounded — funny word for a man who spends his life hitting balls into the sky.”

Jeeny: smiling softly “Exactly why he needs grounding. The higher you rise, the more you need roots that hold you down.”

Host: A soft wind rustled through the stands, carrying the flutter of flags still hanging from the railings. The scoreboard stood blank now, but its emptiness felt reverent — like an altar after prayer.

Jack: “You know, I’ve always admired athletes like him — people who manage to live in chaos and still find clarity. It’s not just talent. It’s discipline sharpened into identity.”

Jeeny: “And protected by the people they trust.”

Jack: “That’s the part that gets me — he doesn’t talk about fame, or money, or legacy. Just his circle. The ones who remind him he’s human.”

Jeeny: “Because when the world turns you into a symbol, it’s the people around you who keep you from believing it.”

Host: The lights flickered once, a brief dimming before returning to full brightness. Across the field, a groundskeeper walked slowly, dragging a net behind him, collecting the stray cricket balls that lay forgotten in the dark corners of the pitch.

Jack watched him for a moment, then spoke quietly.

Jack: “You think it’s possible to stay that grounded when your life’s constantly on stage?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not always. But you can build small worlds inside the big one — spaces of honesty. Family dinners, old friends who don’t care about your trophies, people who call you by your first name, not your headlines.”

Jack: nodding slowly “The antidote to applause.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Applause is fleeting. Loyalty isn’t.”

Host: The night deepened, the sky above vast and unblemished. The city lights beyond the stadium shimmered faintly, distant and indifferent. Jeeny sipped her tea, the steam rising in slow, delicate tendrils.

Jeeny: “When he says cricket is the most important thing — it’s not obsession, it’s devotion. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “Devotion asks for balance. Obsession demands sacrifice.”

Jeeny: “And devotion feeds you. Obsession consumes you.”

Jack: after a pause “So maybe what keeps him sane isn’t the sport — it’s the people who help him remember who he was before the records, before the roar.”

Jeeny: “Before the world expected him to be more than human.”

Host: The sound of a distant horn drifted from the highway beyond the walls — faint, lonely. Inside the stadium, it was peaceful now, sacred almost. The same place that hours ago had been wild with noise now stood like a temple emptied after prayer.

Jeeny: “You ever notice how people like him — the truly great ones — always come back to the same truth? That success means nothing without grounding.”

Jack: softly “Because roots are the only things that don’t retire.”

Jeeny: smiling “That’s beautiful.”

Jack: “It’s true. You can lose the form, the fame, even the hunger — but the people who kept you steady, they’re the foundation beneath it all.”

Host: The groundkeeper waved from across the pitch, his work done. He disappeared through the gate, leaving the two of them alone with the quiet pulse of the night.

Jeeny: “You know, his words make me think — maybe being grounded isn’t about staying still. Maybe it’s about remembering what moves you, and who moves with you.”

Jack: “And remembering what doesn’t matter.”

Jeeny: softly “The rest of it pales in comparison.”

Jack: grinning faintly “Exactly.”

Host: The lights began to dim, one section at a time, until the field was half-shadowed, half-silver under the moon. Jack stood, brushing dust from his jeans, and looked out over the empty pitch — a space that had held centuries of ambition, failure, triumph, and silence.

Jack: “You think we all need something like cricket in our lives? Something worth building everything else around?”

Jeeny: “Not something — someone, maybe. Or a purpose. A craft. A faith. Whatever keeps you honest.”

Jack: “And the people who guard that honesty.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The ones who remind you to keep your head steady while your heart’s on fire.”

Host: The last of the lights flickered off, leaving only the soft blue glow of the moon washing over the field. The two stood there for a moment longer, the night stretching vast and endless around them.

And in that hush, Virat Kohli’s words lingered — no longer about cricket, but about the architecture of integrity itself:

That greatness is not just built on talent,
but on temperament,
on the company you keep,
and on the quiet conviction that what you love defines you
more than what you win.

And as they turned to leave, Jack whispered into the stillness — a truth spoken like a prayer, soft but certain:

“Stay humble, stay hungry — and never forget who handed you the bat.”