Your best ability is availability and if you're not on the field

Host: The stadium had emptied, the roar of the crowd reduced to a faint echo swallowed by the night. The scent of grass, sweat, and rain lingered — a perfume of exhaustion and effort. Floodlights hummed above, casting a sterile glow over the empty field, where the marks of cleats still scarred the ground like small, glorious wounds.

Jack sat alone on the bench, tape around his wrist, mud on his jersey, his breath visible in the cold. Jeeny walked across the field toward him, hands tucked into her jacket, her footsteps soft against the turf.

She stopped a few feet away, looking at him — the image of a man who had given everything he could, and maybe a little more.

Jeeny: “George Kittle once said, ‘Your best ability is availability and if you’re not on the field, they can’t use you and you don’t play. So, I try to play as much football as I can.’”

Jack: “Yeah. And he meant it. The guy plays through broken ribs, torn muscles, and still smiles. That’s not just grit — that’s religion.”

Jeeny: “Or addiction.”

Host: A gust of wind swept through the field, rattling the goalposts, carrying with it the faint sound of a city still awake.

Jack: “You call it addiction. I call it devotion. You don’t get to the top by sitting on the sidelines.”

Jeeny: “But what’s the cost, Jack? You can’t play forever. The body breaks, the engine stalls. At some point, you’ve got to know when to rest.”

Jack: “Rest is for the retired.”

Jeeny: “That’s not strength — that’s denial.”

Host: The lights flickered briefly, then steadied. The grass glistened under their glow, a field both sacred and scarred.

Jack: “You don’t understand. When you’re out there — when the ball’s snapped, and the world narrows to the sound of footsteps and breath — you feel real. The field makes sense. Out there, you either show up or you disappear. And disappearing terrifies me.”

Jeeny: “So you’d rather destroy yourself to prove you still exist?”

Jack: “Maybe. Because when I’m on the field, pain has purpose. Off it, it’s just… pain.”

Host: Jeeny walked closer, her eyes soft but unflinching. She crouched down in front of him, meeting his gaze head-on.

Jeeny: “You think George Kittle means ‘play through everything’? Maybe he does. But maybe what he’s really saying is — show up. Don’t vanish when it’s hard. Being available doesn’t mean invincible, Jack. It means present.”

Jack: “There’s no difference when you’re built to compete.”

Jeeny: “There’s every difference. Competing is surviving. Being available is belonging.”

Jack: “You think the game cares about belonging?”

Jeeny: “No. But people do.”

Host: Her words hung there, heavy and kind. The scoreboard lights blinked faintly in the distance — a hollow reminder that the numbers were already forgotten, but the bruises would last.

Jack: “You ever think maybe the field’s the only place that feels like home because it demands everything from you — and nothing else?”

Jeeny: “Yeah. But home isn’t supposed to take everything from you. It’s supposed to give something back.”

Jack: “It does. It gives me identity.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It gives you distraction.”

Host: The wind carried the sound of the flag flapping at the far end of the field — steady, rhythmic, lonely.

Jack: “You make it sound tragic.”

Jeeny: “It is. Because you think your worth is measured by endurance. But sometimes, showing up means saying I can’t today.”

Jack: “That’s weakness.”

Jeeny: “No. That’s honesty. And honesty is harder than any tackle.”

Host: Jack laughed softly, the kind of laugh that hides defeat behind humor. He dropped his helmet beside him, the metallic thud echoing through the quiet.

Jack: “You know, I get what Kittle meant. He’s not glorifying pain. He’s talking about reliability. In football, in life — if you can’t be counted on, you’re nothing. Every team needs someone who’ll walk onto that field no matter what.”

Jeeny: “Sure. But there’s a thin line between dedication and disappearance. If you give everything, who’s left when the cheering stops?”

Jack: “You find out.”

Jeeny: “And if you don’t like the answer?”

Jack: “Then you keep playing.”

Host: The rain began again, light and cold, streaking the floodlights. Jack didn’t move. The drops collected on his shoulders like medals, or maybe penance.

Jeeny: “You ever think the reason athletes love the game so much is because it’s simpler than life? On the field, everything’s defined — win or lose, play or don’t. There’s no in-between.”

Jack: “That’s exactly why I love it. No politics, no guesswork — just execution.”

Jeeny: “But that’s not real life, Jack. Out here, there are no clear lines. Sometimes the game isn’t about winning; it’s about not losing yourself.”

Jack: “Tell that to the scoreboard.”

Jeeny: “The scoreboard doesn’t remember your name.”

Host: Her words landed like truth wrapped in mercy. The rain grew heavier, and still, they didn’t move. The field glistened — half glory, half grave.

Jack: “You know what scares me more than injury? Irrelevance. Sitting on the bench while someone else takes your spot. Watching the game go on without you.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you need to learn that life’s not a team sport. Sometimes, you’ve got to let yourself sit out to heal.”

Jack: “You think Kittle sits out?”

Jeeny: “I think Kittle knows the difference between playing through pain and pretending it doesn’t exist.”

Host: The light shimmered in her eyes, equal parts reflection and defiance.

Jack: “You make it sound like quitting.”

Jeeny: “No. I’m saying survival isn’t quitting. It’s strategy.”

Jack: “Strategy doesn’t win championships.”

Jeeny: “It wins longevity.”

Host: The rain softened again, turning to mist. The world seemed smaller — just the two of them and the field that had taken so much, given so much.

Jack: “So you’re saying being available isn’t just showing up?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s showing up whole — even if that means less often.”

Jack: “You sound like a coach.”

Jeeny: “No. Just someone tired of watching you play hurt and call it heroism.”

Host: The silence that followed was tender, but sharp. Jack looked down at his hands — scarred, swollen, familiar.

Jack: “You know, maybe Kittle’s right. The best ability is availability. But maybe availability isn’t just physical. Maybe it’s emotional, too. Maybe I’ve been playing games where I never showed up.”

Jeeny: “Now you’re starting to sound like him.”

Jack: “Yeah.”

Host: The lights began to fade as the groundskeeper switched them off, one by one. The field dimmed, the night reclaiming it.

Jack stood, his figure framed in the fading light. He picked up his helmet, then looked at Jeeny — not as an opponent, but as someone who had been waiting for him to step off the field, just once, to breathe.

Jeeny: “You coming?”

Jack: “Yeah. For the first time, I think I am.”

Host: They walked together across the wet grass, their footsteps soft but certain. The scoreboard loomed in the dark, its numbers gone, its lights cold.

And as they disappeared into the tunnel, George Kittle’s words echoed quietly in the night — no longer about football, but about life itself:

That your best ability is not just being present,
but being available —
in body, in spirit,
in love, in loss.

Because in the end, it isn’t about how long you play —
it’s about how deeply you show up
for the game that never ends.