When I was 13, my parents bought me a mini snooker set for my

Host: The air inside the bar was thick with cigarette smoke and the soft clatter of pool balls colliding. A dim light hung low over the table, casting a perfect circle of focus — green felt, chalk dust, silence before the strike.

It was nearly midnight, and the city outside slept, but inside, two souls were awake — not for the game, but for what it meant.

Jack stood at the edge of the table, lean, focused, the cue in his hand like an extension of his arm. Jeeny sat nearby, her hands folded around a cup of tea, her eyes following every movement with quiet wonder.

Jack had just read Stephen Hendry’s words from his phone, his voice low and reflective.

Jack: “When I was thirteen, my parents bought me a mini snooker set for my birthday. From the moment I first held a cue in my hands, I was transfixed.”

Jeeny: smiling softly It’s beautiful, isn’t it? That moment when something finds you — before you even understand why.

Jack: lining up a shot Beautiful, sure. But rare. Most people never find that kind of obsession. And when they do, it usually consumes them.

Host: The ball clicked sharply, rolling into a pocket. Jack didn’t even watch it. He was thinking — his mind somewhere between the felt and the past.

Jeeny: Maybe that’s what makes it sacred. When something calls you that deeply, it’s not just a hobby. It’s a vocation. A conversation between your soul and something infinite.

Jack: snorts Infinite? It’s a game, Jeeny. Precision, geometry, angles. It’s math on velvet.

Jeeny: grinning And yet, people cry over it. They lose sleep, they lose marriages, they lose themselves — for that math on velvet. Why? Because it’s not just the game. It’s the meaning they find through it.

Host: Jack leaned the cue against the table, his grey eyes narrowing in thought. The light above them buzzed, its faint hum merging with the sound of rain outside.

Jack: Meaning’s overrated. Kids get obsessed with things all the time. I wanted to be a soldier once — until I realized war wasn’t a video game. Hendry just got lucky that his obsession turned into a career.

Jeeny: leaning forward But isn’t that the point, Jack? Luck favors the ones who listen to their obsession — who nurture it instead of dismissing it. Hendry didn’t become the greatest snooker player by luck. He followed that thirteen-year-old fascination all the way to mastery.

Jack: grinning faintly You’re talking about destiny again, aren’t you?

Jeeny: gently I’m talking about devotion. The kind that doesn’t come from ambition, but from love.

Host: The rain tapped gently on the windows, a rhythm almost like a metronome. The bar was empty now, except for them and the echo of their words.

Jack: Love? For a game? That’s a dangerous word to throw around. You start loving something that much, and it starts owning you. Ask any artist, athlete, or genius. Obsession feeds success — and then devours it.

Jeeny: pauses, thoughtful You sound afraid of devotion, Jack.

Jack: I’m afraid of dependency. When something outside of you defines who you are, it owns your soul. Hendry might’ve been “transfixed,” sure. But how many people have been transfixed by a dream that later destroyed them?

Jeeny: softly But isn’t that what makes it human? To risk being destroyed by what you love?

Host: The words hung in the air, heavy as the smoke. Jack’s jaw tightened, his eyes distant, remembering something unspoken.

Jack: You ever watched a man lose his purpose? It’s like watching a house burn from the inside. I knew someone — a pianist. Brilliant. Played until his fingers bled. When he lost his hand in an accident, he stopped living. Not just playing — living. That’s what obsession does when you let it define you.

Jeeny: her voice breaking softly And yet, he lived once — fully, deeply, passionately. You call that destruction; I call that proof that he existed.

Host: The air between them crackled, not with anger, but with the ache of truth. The bar’s last light flickered, as though listening to the fragile debate between reason and faith.

Jack: You sound romantic.

Jeeny: Maybe. But I think Hendry’s story isn’t about snooker — it’s about awakening. At thirteen, he touched something that most people never do — a pure, innocent clarity. Before fame, before pressure. Just him, a cue, and the quiet click of truth.

Jack: leans back, arms crossed Clarity? Or ignorance? When you’re thirteen, everything feels pure. That’s because you don’t yet see the price. Every gift comes with one.

Jeeny: nodding slowly True. But we still have to accept the gift. Even if the price is heartbreak. Hendry’s cue wasn’t just a stick — it was his first dialogue with destiny. Don’t you remember that feeling? The first time you found something that made the world disappear?

Host: Jack’s gaze drifted to the table again. He remembered — though he wouldn’t say it — the first time he’d written something that mattered. The rush, the silence, the fire in his chest.

Jack: quietly Yeah. I remember.

Jeeny: smiling Then you understand him.

Jack: sighs Understanding doesn’t mean agreeing. Passion blinds people. Look at child prodigies — Tiger Woods, for example. His father put a golf club in his hand before he could walk. By thirteen, he was already a brand. It gave him greatness — and loneliness. You think that kind of devotion is healthy?

Jeeny: I think it’s real. And reality isn’t always kind. Passion doesn’t promise happiness, Jack. It promises purpose.

Jack: And what’s purpose without balance?

Jeeny: What’s life without passion?

Host: Their voices had risen — not in anger, but in fire. The cue lay forgotten between them now, a silent symbol of everything unspoken.

Jack: You really think a child can choose that kind of path consciously?

Jeeny: No. But sometimes the path chooses the child.

Host: Jack looked at her then, really looked, his defenses slowly crumbling under the gentleness of her faith.

Jack: softly Maybe Hendry wasn’t transfixed by the cue. Maybe he was transfixed by control — by the illusion that the world could be predictable if you aimed right, thought sharp, and moved steady.

Jeeny: Or maybe, Jack, he was transfixed by beauty — the beauty of mastery, of rhythm, of stillness before motion. Some people find God in temples. Others find Him in the sound of a ball falling into a pocket.

Host: The room was utterly silent now. Even the rain had stopped, as though the world were listening to that quiet revelation.

Jack: after a long pause You make obsession sound holy.

Jeeny: Maybe it is — when it’s born from love, not ego. The danger isn’t in being transfixed. It’s in forgetting why you were.

Host: Jack’s hand brushed over the cue again, his fingers tracing the smooth wood, the faint smell of chalk still in the air. For a moment, he smiled — small, reluctant, but real.

Jack: You know, when I was a kid, I used to take apart radios just to see how they worked. My mother hated it — said I’d never learn to leave things whole. Maybe I wasn’t curious about the radios. Maybe I just wanted to understand sound.

Jeeny: softly That’s the same thing Hendry felt. The first time he held the cue, he wasn’t holding wood and felt — he was holding silence waiting to be shaped.

Host: A single neon light outside blinked twice, then went out, leaving only the faint glow of dawn beginning to spill through the window.

Jack: quietly, almost to himself So maybe the point isn’t what transfixed him — but that something did. Maybe that’s all we’re looking for. Something to hold, even for a moment, that makes time stop.

Jeeny: smiling gently Exactly. Because in those moments, we stop existing for the world — and start existing for ourselves.

Host: The camera would have pulled back then — the green felt glowing like an island of calm in a chaotic world, two souls silhouetted against the first light of morning.

The cue rested between them, untouched now — no longer a tool, but a bridge.

And in that quiet pause, as rainlight and dust danced in the air, it was clear that both had learned something unspoken:

To be transfixed is not to be trapped — it’s to be awakened.