When you play, of course you want to win, but the most important

Host: The stadium lights were still on, bathing the empty field in a pale, artificial glow. The grass, wet with dew and the remnants of evening rain, shimmered like a thin sheet of glass. Beyond the stands, the night stretched quiet and endless — only the hum of the floodlights and the faint echo of distant traffic broke the silence.

Jack stood near the center line, hands on hips, his breath visible in the cool air. His shirt clung to his back, sweat drying in the breeze. Jeeny sat on the bleachers, a notebook on her knees, her hair tied up, her eyes following him like she was watching something more profound than training.

On the first page of her notes was scribbled the quote:
“When you play, of course you want to win, but the most important thing about pre-season is improving your fitness.” — Bojan Krkic

Jeeny: (calling out) “So tell me, Jack — what’s your pre-season?”

Jack: (glancing up, grinning faintly) “Life doesn’t have one. It’s all finals. You lose once, and the game’s over.”

Host: His voice, low and husky, carried through the still air, echoing faintly against the metal stands. Jeeny smiled, shook her head, and stood, walking down toward the pitch.

Jeeny: “That’s not true. Everyone needs a pre-season. The time to rebuild, to catch your breath. To remember why you even play.”

Jack: “Sounds like something a coach says after a loss.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But it’s also what keeps people from breaking before the real match even begins.”

Host: Jeeny’s boots crunched lightly against the gravel as she reached the edge of the turf. She stopped a few feet from him, her breath fogging in the chill. The scoreboard, still lit, read 0–0, as if frozen in eternal possibility.

Jack: (sighs) “You know, I used to believe that. That training, patience, process — they mattered. But in this world, nobody remembers how well you practiced. They remember if you won.”

Jeeny: “That’s because winning’s loud. Growth is quiet.”

Jack: (pauses) “You think Bojan believed that when he was benched in Barcelona? When the world stopped calling him a prodigy and started calling him a disappointment?”

Jeeny: (softly) “Maybe that’s when he started to really understand it.”

Host: The lights flickered, a few moths spiraling toward their brightness. A faint wind stirred the flags hanging limp at the far end of the field, carrying the faint scent of wet earth and cut grass.

Jack: “You ever notice how people only talk about improvement when they’re not winning? Like it’s some consolation prize?”

Jeeny: “No. I think it’s the opposite. People who can still talk about improving after losing — they’re the real players. They haven’t quit the game; they’re still becoming.”

Host: Her words fell softly but hit like truth. Jack dropped his gaze, scuffing the turf with the tip of his shoe.

Jack: “You know, I remember my first match as a kid. I missed an open goal. Thought the world ended. My coach said, ‘Relax, Jack — you’re not playing to win yet. You’re playing to remember how to love the ball.’”

Jeeny: “Smart coach.”

Jack: “Yeah. He quit two years later. Said the system sucked the love out of the game.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s what fitness really means — not the body, but the heart. Staying strong enough to love what you do even when it stops loving you back.”

Host: The wind shifted, bringing the faint whistle of the goalpost wires, a lonely metallic hum. Jack lifted his gaze, studying her — that same mix of tenderness and defiance that always made him uneasy.

Jack: “You make it sound poetic. But it’s just football.”

Jeeny: “Everything’s poetic if you listen long enough.”

Jack: (smiles) “You’d romanticize a penalty kick if you could.”

Jeeny: “I’d romanticize anything that shows a person trying.”

Host: She took a few steps forward, into the center circle, her boots sinking slightly into the soft ground. She bent down, touched the turf, as though feeling for pulse.

Jeeny: “You train because you’re human. You rest because you’re wise. Pre-season isn’t a break from the game, Jack — it’s part of it. The invisible part that decides if you’ll last the full ninety minutes.”

Jack: “And what if the crowd doesn’t care?”

Jeeny: (looks up at him) “Then you play for something that does.”

Host: The scoreboard flickered off suddenly, plunging the field into near-darkness. Only the moonlight remained — pale, uncertain, but real.

Jack: “You know what I hate about pre-season? It feels like pretending. Running drills, hitting targets that don’t matter, sweating for something invisible.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what makes it sacred — you work when nobody’s watching. Improvement that doesn’t need applause.”

Jack: “That’s not how the world works, Jeeny. Nobody claps for unseen effort.”

Jeeny: (gently) “That’s why you need to learn to clap for yourself.”

Host: A moment of stillness. The night felt larger now — the kind that makes even cynics pause. The city lights twinkled faintly beyond the stands, and somewhere far off, a dog barked — a tiny, grounding reminder of life moving beyond the field.

Jack: “You always manage to turn something ordinary into philosophy.”

Jeeny: “That’s because I think ordinary things are where philosophy hides.”

Host: He laughed, just a little, and shook his head. The sound echoed faintly — a small, human noise in a vast, quiet space.

Jack: “You know what? Maybe that’s what Bojan meant. Maybe he wasn’t talking about football at all.”

Jeeny: “He never was.”

Jack: “He meant life’s pre-season. The times we lose quietly, work silently, build slowly. The parts nobody claps for.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The training before the triumph.”

Host: The floodlights finally went dark, one by one, until only the moon illuminated them — two figures standing in the middle of the empty pitch. Their breath misted in the cold, their voices quiet now.

Jack: (softly) “So maybe we’re all still in pre-season.”

Jeeny: “Maybe we always will be. And maybe that’s not failure — maybe it’s faith.”

Host: A long silence followed, not empty but alive. The camera pulled back, framing the vast stadium, silent but still charged with memory, with potential — with the ghost of every game that had ever been played and every one still to come.

As Jack and Jeeny walked toward the exit, their shadows trailed long across the grass, two lines converging slowly toward the tunnel of light.

Host: And perhaps that’s what Bojan meant — that victory isn’t found in the roar of the crowd, but in the quiet breath before it, when you train, when you falter, when you prepare your heart for the game you haven’t yet begun.

The field faded into darkness, the last sound being their footsteps — steady, sure, alive — like the rhythm of people still learning how to play, not to win, but to endure.