When I see the kind of passion Sir Alex shows, it is hard to

Host: The stadium lights were dim now, their white glare fading into the mist that rolled across the empty field. The faint smell of grass, sweat, and rain still hung in the air—a ghost of the day’s glory. Rows of seats, once roaring with life, now sat in perfect silence, like witnesses after a storm.

Jack stood near the sideline, his hands in his coat pockets, watching the groundskeeper push the last streaks of mud into order. His face was lined, not from age, but from years of watching things rise and fall—teams, dreams, people.

Jeeny approached quietly from behind, a scarf wrapped around her neck, her breath visible in the cold night. She carried two cups of coffee, one of which she handed to him.

Jeeny: “You ever notice how empty a stadium feels after the noise dies?”

Jack: “Yeah. Like a cathedral after the prayers are done.”

Host: He took the cup, his fingers brushing hers, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

Jeeny: “I read a quote earlier. Edwin van der Sar talking about Sir Alex Ferguson. He said, ‘When I see the kind of passion Sir Alex shows, it is hard to believe he is about to celebrate his 71st birthday.’”

Host: Jack chuckled, low and rough, the sound breaking the silence like gravel underfoot.

Jack: “Yeah. The man’s a volcano in a suit. Passion like that doesn’t come with age—it burns right through it.”

Jeeny: “You admire that, don’t you?”

Jack: “Admire? Hell, I envy it. Most people his age are looking for peace. He’s still looking for victory.”

Host: The wind swept across the field, rustling the scattered banners still clinging to the stands.

Jeeny: “But isn’t that what keeps him young, Jack? That hunger? That fire?”

Jack: “Maybe. Or maybe it’s what stops him from ever resting. There’s a fine line between passion and obsession.”

Jeeny: “And maybe obsession is just another word for purpose.”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes gleamed, reflecting the stadium lights. Jack turned, studying her face with quiet curiosity.

Jack: “You really think purpose keeps you alive?”

Jeeny: “I think it keeps you awake. Look at him—Sir Alex. Decades in the game, still roaring from the touchline like it’s his first match. That’s not just ambition. That’s love.”

Jack: “Love?”

Jeeny: “Yes. The kind that doesn’t fade with time. The kind that doesn’t need trophies to justify itself. The kind that says, ‘I’m still here because this is who I am.’”

Host: Her voice softened, the echo of her words floating through the stadium’s hollow air.

Jack: “That kind of love costs something though. You give your life to it—and then what’s left?”

Jeeny: “Legacy.”

Jack: “Legacy doesn’t hold your hand when you’re old, Jeeny. It doesn’t keep you company.”

Jeeny: “No. But it keeps your spirit alive in others. Isn’t that better than peace?”

Host: A long silence. The field lights flickered, one by one, until only a soft halo remained over the center circle. Jack’s gaze fell on it, as if he could still see players running, shouting, fighting for glory.

Jack: “You know, when I was younger, I used to think passion was just adrenaline. That it burned bright and then faded out. But Ferguson—he’s proof it can last a lifetime. Still, there’s something tragic about it too.”

Jeeny: “Tragic?”

Jack: “Yeah. Imagine giving your whole life to a game. To the point that without it, you’d disappear.”

Jeeny: “But maybe that’s what makes it beautiful—that total surrender. That willingness to belong to something larger than yourself.”

Host: The wind picked up again, carrying faint cheers from somewhere distant—a recording perhaps, or just memory playing tricks.

Jack: “You sound like one of those motivational speeches they play before a match.”

Jeeny: “I sound like someone who believes passion doesn’t have an expiration date. Sir Alex doesn’t roar at 71 because he’s holding on to youth. He roars because he never stopped feeling alive.”

Host: Jack’s eyes softened, his breath visible as he exhaled slowly.

Jack: “You know what scares me, Jeeny? Not losing what I love. Losing the fire to fight for it.”

Jeeny: “That’s why people like him matter, Jack. They remind us it’s possible to burn without burning out.”

Jack: “You make it sound so easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. But it’s worth it. Every person who ever changed the world—artists, coaches, scientists, even ordinary workers—they all had one thing in common: they cared too much. The world tells you to calm down. Passion says, ‘No, get louder.’”

Host: The rain began again, light and rhythmic, soaking into the field. Jack tilted his face upward, letting the droplets hit his skin.

Jack: “You know, my father used to say passion fades when life gets heavy. Maybe he was wrong.”

Jeeny: “He was half-right. Passion doesn’t fade—it hides, waiting for something worth waking it up again.”

Host: The lights dimmed another notch, and their voices felt smaller against the vastness of the empty arena. Yet there was warmth in the quiet—the kind that lingers between two people who’ve stopped arguing and started listening.

Jack: “So what do you think keeps a man like Ferguson going? Pride? Legacy? Fear of stopping?”

Jeeny: “None of that. It’s joy. Pure, unstoppable joy. When you love what you do, time just becomes a bystander.”

Jack: “Joy.” He repeated the word slowly, as if testing its weight. “That’s a rare thing these days.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But when I see someone still chasing it after seventy years, I start to believe it’s possible for the rest of us too.”

Host: Jack’s gaze drifted to the stands once more. He could almost hear the ghosts of applause, the thunder of victory, the trembling silence of defeat. He smiled, just slightly.

Jack: “You think he ever feels tired?”

Jeeny: “I think he feels alive. There’s a difference.”

Host: She said it quietly, almost to herself. The rain had turned to mist, and the moonlight slipped through it like silver dust.

Jack: “You know, maybe that’s the secret. Not chasing immortality—but staying present enough to live fully.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Passion isn’t about how long you live—it’s about how deeply you do.”

Host: They stood together, steam rising from their coffee, the field before them glistening like a mirror to the stars. Somewhere, far off, the echo of a whistle cut through the air—a sound both ending and beginning.

Jack: “Maybe one day we’ll find something we can love that much.”

Jeeny: “Maybe we already have.”

Host: Their eyes met, the unspoken truth between them soft but undeniable. The lights finally shut off, leaving only the faint glow of the city in the distance.

The field, the stands, the night—everything seemed to breathe with quiet reverence for those who still dared to care too deeply.

Host: And as they walked away, the echo of Edwin van der Sar’s words lingered in the dark air—an ode not to youth, but to endurance.

That the flame of passion, once lit, can defy both time and age—and that some hearts, like Ferguson’s, never learn how to stop beating for the game.