When I was 10 years old, my teacher got us to imagine our future.

Host: The evening light stretched long across the grass field, its edges soft, its shadows patient. The air was tinged with the scent of wet soil and the faint echo of laughter from a group of children still chasing a ball in the distance. Their voices rose like small sparks, glowing against the deepening dusk.

Jack sat on the sideline bench, a worn leather ball at his feet, its seams cracked, its color faded to a dull brown memory. Jeeny stood beside the fence, her hands resting lightly on the metal wire, eyes following the children with a faraway kind of warmth — the kind that holds both nostalgia and ache.

Jeeny: “You ever think about what you used to draw when you were ten, Jack? What you thought life would be like?”

Jack: (half-smiling) “Yeah. I drew a picture of myself in a suit, holding a briefcase. Thought that meant success. Turns out it just meant paperwork and coffee that tastes like regret.”

Host: The wind whispered through the goal nets, making them shiver like ghosts of old games. One of the kids scored, and the others cheered, a chorus of pure, unfiltered joy that seemed too real for the world they would eventually grow into.

Jeeny: “Theo Walcott said when he was ten, his teacher made them imagine their future. He drew himself as a footballer — and he actually became one. Isn’t that incredible? To draw a dream and then walk into it years later?”

Jack: “Or terrifying. Imagine being trapped by something you dreamed before you even understood what it meant.”

Jeeny: “You think he felt trapped? I think he felt fulfilled.”

Jack: “Maybe both. Childhood dreams are clean — uncorrupted. But when you finally reach them, you realize they come with contracts, cameras, expectations. You stop playing for the joy and start performing for survival.”

Host: A flock of crows passed overhead, cutting across the crimson sky. The light flickered on the field lamps — one by one, they hummed to life, spilling gold over the damp grass. The children were leaving now, dragging their muddy cleats, still laughing, still unaware that one day even laughter might become something they’d have to schedule.

Jeeny: “You always find a way to make even dreams sound tragic.”

Jack: “Because I’ve seen what happens when people chase them too far. They forget why they started. It’s like climbing a mountain to admire the view and realizing you’ve gone blind from the wind.”

Jeeny: “But don’t you see, Jack? That’s not failure. That’s growth. Every dream changes form — it has to. Walcott’s dream began with crayons, not contracts. But he kept it alive long enough to let it evolve. That’s not being trapped — that’s being faithful.”

Host: Jack leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his grey eyes locked on the empty goalpost ahead. A single leaf blew past his feet, slow and deliberate, as if marking the passage of something unseen.

Jack: “Faithful? Or foolish? How many kids draw themselves as astronauts, singers, heroes — and end up in cubicles instead? You don’t build the world on dreams, Jeeny. You build it on adaptation.”

Jeeny: “You’re confusing surrender with adaptation. There’s a difference between changing course and giving up.”

Jack: “Tell that to the millions who were told they could ‘be anything’ and found out the world runs on limits.”

Jeeny: “And yet, every once in a while, someone is what they drew. That’s what Walcott reminds us — that the dream itself isn’t the problem. It’s that we stop daring to keep believing in it once it looks impossible.”

Host: A pause. The light hum from the floodlamps grew louder, filling the space where words couldn’t go. The field glistened, the white lines drawn fresh and clean, like the blank pages of a new notebook.

Jack: “When I was a kid, I used to imagine owning a small garage. Fixing things. Building something with my hands. But the world had other plans — university, career, deadlines. Somewhere along the way, that boy disappeared.”

Jeeny: “He didn’t disappear, Jack. He’s still there — you just stopped listening to him.”

Jack: “And what would he say now, if I did?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Probably, ‘Pick up the damn ball and play.’”

Host: A faint laugh escaped him — low, genuine, unexpected. The kind that comes from somewhere deep and half-forgotten. He picked up the ball, turning it slowly in his hands, feeling the texture of years pressed into its skin.

Jack: “You ever think it’s easier for people like Walcott? Born with talent, guided into purpose. The rest of us stumble, trying to find what fits.”

Jeeny: “No, I think it’s harder for them. Imagine knowing what you love so early and then spending the rest of your life trying not to lose it. That takes courage. The kind most of us never even attempt.”

Host: The last of the children had gone home. The field was empty now — just Jack, Jeeny, the soft whisper of wind, and the lingering echo of childhood. The sky had darkened to deep indigo, the first stars trembling faintly, uncertain whether to appear.

Jack: “You really think a ten-year-old’s drawing can predict a life?”

Jeeny: “Not predict. Reveal. It’s not about accuracy — it’s about honesty. At ten, we haven’t learned to lie to ourselves yet. We draw what makes us feel alive. Everything after that is just negotiation.”

Host: Jack stood, stretching, the old bench creaking behind him. He looked down the length of the field, then back at Jeeny. Something soft flickered in his expression — something dangerously close to longing.

Jack: “You think it’s too late to redraw the timeline?”

Jeeny: “Never. The page is just older. That’s all.”

Jack: “And what if the ink’s already dry?”

Jeeny: “Then find a new color.”

Host: The wind picked up, carrying with it the faint smell of grass and rain, of beginnings disguised as endings. Jack took the ball and set it down at his feet. He stared at it for a moment, then kicked it — not hard, but enough to send it rolling across the empty field, bouncing softly until it came to rest against the far goalpost.

The sound was small. But it echoed.

Jeeny watched it, her eyes shimmering with something between pride and sorrow.

Jeeny: “See? The boy still remembers.”

Jack: “Maybe. Or maybe he’s just saying goodnight.”

Jeeny: “Either way, he’s still alive.”

Host: The lights dimmed slightly as the night deepened. The field, now empty, glowed like a quiet memory. Jack and Jeeny stood side by side, silhouettes framed by the soft halo of the lamps, the distant city lights flickering like faraway constellations of possibility.

And for a brief, eternal heartbeat — the kind that belongs only to those who dare to remember who they once wanted to be — the present and the past touched.

Somewhere inside that moment, the boy with the crayon met the man with the doubt.

And both smiled.