Mark Winter leaned back in the leather-padded booth at Only Booze, his tie loosened just enough to signal he wasn’t ready to go home yet. John Ellis sat across from him, nursing a pint of ale with the contented air of a man at peace with his life choices. Mark, however, had the look of a man itching for a fight—not with John, but with the world.
“Here’s the problem, John,” Mark said, pointing at him with his glass. “Everyone thinks they’re Kevin Costner.”
John raised an eyebrow. “Costner? Like Dances with Wolves Costner or...?”
“Field of Dreams Costner,” Mark interjected, taking a long sip. “You know, ‘If you build it, he will come.’ Except in the real world, if you build it, no one comes, and you go bankrupt. That’s what I’m talking about.”
John chuckled softly. “You’ve had this one in the chamber all day, haven’t you?”
Mark smirked, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. “Listen, it’s not just today. It’s every time I hear about these so-called entrepreneurs who think all they need is ‘the perfect product.’” He used air quotes as if the phrase physically pained him. “Like the universe owes them a line of customers just because they exist.”
John leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Alright, I’ll bite. What’s got you riled up this time?”
Mark gestured dramatically, nearly sloshing his drink. “I had this guy at work—well, not a guy I work with, thank God. He’s a friend of a friend. He’s all hyped up about launching this app that’ll ‘revolutionise fitness.’” Mark’s tone dripped with sarcasm. “No market research. No validation. Just vibes.”
John winced sympathetically. “Let me guess—he’s planning to bootstrap it, too?”
“Oh, of course,” Mark said, rolling his eyes. “He thinks it’s as simple as slapping together a shiny UI and 'bam!' people will be throwing money at him.”
John took a sip of his beer. “Maybe he’s got a point. People like shiny things.”
“Sure,” Mark said, leaning forward, “but shiny doesn’t solve problems. It’s the Field of Dreams trap, John. These guys think if they just build it, the customers will appear like ghosts out of the cornfield. But in reality, they’re plowing under perfectly good corn without asking anyone if they even want a baseball field.”
John chuckled again. “You’re mixing metaphors now. But go on.”
Mark settled back into his seat, warming to his rant. “Here’s the thing. Building something is the easy part—relatively speaking. What they don’t do is the hard stuff. Talking to customers. Asking them if they’d pay for it. Validating the idea before they throw their savings—or someone else’s—into it.”
John nodded slowly. “It’s a fair point. But isn’t there something to be said for passion? For taking risks? I mean, Costner’s character did build the field, and it worked out in the end.”
Mark snorted. “That’s because it’s a movie. In real life, Ray Kinsella would’ve lost the farm and been sued by creditors. His wife Annie would be like, ‘Nice dream, Ray, but our kid needs shoes.’ Passion’s great, but you can’t feed your family with it.”
John took another sip of his beer, considering. “I see your point. So what would you do? Let’s say you’re Costner, standing in that cornfield, hearing voices. What’s your move?”
Mark grinned, his eyes gleaming. “Glad you asked. First, I’d ignore the voice. Or at least ask it some hard questions. Like, why a baseball field? Why my cornfield? Then I’d go into the village, gather a focus group—neighbors, local baseball fans, anyone who might care—and I’d pitch them the idea. If they’re not throwing money at me or at least showing interest, no way am I plowing under my corn.”
John laughed. “You’d run a Kickstarter campaign for a ghost baseball field?”
“Exactly!” Mark said, slapping the table. “And if it flops, guess what? No harm done. I’ve still got my corn.”
The two sat in comfortable silence for a moment, the hum of conversation and clinking glasses filling the space. Finally, John broke the quiet.
“You know,” he said, “you’re not wrong. But there’s something to be said for blind faith, isn’t there? I mean, not everyone’s wired like you, Mark. Some people need to take that leap.”
Mark sighed, swirling the last of his drink. “I get it, John. I really do. But blind faith without validation? That’s not bravery—it’s gambling. And most of the time, people lose.”
John smiled faintly. “So your advice to these dreamers is...?”
“Dream. Absolutely. But then validate. Talk to your customers. Build a proof of concept. See if anyone cares. And only then”—he paused dramatically—“plow the corn.”
John raised his glass. “To cornfields and customer talks.”
Mark clinked his glass against John’s. “And to never ending up in a Kevin Costner metaphor again.”
They both laughed, the weight of the day momentarily lifted by the shared absurdity. For all their differences, Mark and John both knew that somewhere between blind faith and ruthless pragmatism lay the sweet spot of success. And if you could find it, maybe—just maybe—you wouldn’t have to lose the farm.