Christmas to me, obviously, basketball is very important to me

Host: The gymnasium was dark, except for the faint glow of the scoreboard, still blinking zeroes like the heartbeat of a tired machine. The smell of sweat, wood, and old rubber lingered in the still air. A single basketball sat abandoned at midcourt, catching a thin beam of moonlight streaming through the high windows.

The world outside was quiet — snow falling in slow spirals, coating the streets in peace. The faint sound of distant carols drifted through the cracks of the doors.

Jack sat alone on the bench, his elbows resting on his knees, the faint squeak of his shoes echoing softly as he shifted his weight. His hands were clasped, head bowed — not in prayer, but in something close to it.

Jeeny entered through the side door, wrapped in a long coat, her breath visible in the cold. She paused by the entrance, watching him with a smile that mixed amusement and concern.

Jeeny: “I figured I’d find you here. Even on Christmas Eve, you can’t stay away from the court.”

Jack: smiles faintly without looking up “Habit, I guess. The ball doesn’t argue. The hoop doesn’t judge. It’s simple here.”

Jeeny: “Stan Van Gundy once said — ‘Christmas to me, obviously, basketball is very important to me, but there are some days of the year where it's got to take a back seat to something.’”

Jack: chuckles softly “Yeah. He’s right. But it takes a while to learn that.”

Host: She walked toward him, her footsteps light, the sound of her heels echoing faintly against the polished floor. She sat beside him on the bench, the two of them framed by the dim glow of the scoreboard.

Jeeny: “So what’s taking the back seat tonight?”

Jack: shrugs, his eyes on the court “Everything, I guess. The game. The grind. The noise. It all stops for a night. Or at least it’s supposed to.”

Jeeny: gently “And does it?”

Jack: after a pause “I’m trying to let it.”

Host: The basketball rolled slightly across the floor, the sound breaking the silence like a heartbeat returning to rhythm. Jeeny leaned back, watching it spin slowly to a stop.

Jeeny: “You’ve always been married to this place. The court, the game, the endless pursuit of getting better. Doesn’t it ever get lonely?”

Jack: smiles faintly “It does. But that’s the price of obsession. You tell yourself it’s worth it — the victories, the recognition. Then you blink, and it’s December again, and you’re sitting in an empty gym realizing the only thing listening to your thoughts is the echo.”

Jeeny: “That’s why Van Gundy said what he did. Because even passion has to make room for presence.”

Jack: “Presence?” He turns toward her, raising an eyebrow. “You mean family, right?”

Jeeny: “Family, yes. But also… stillness. Gratitude. Those rare moments when you stop chasing and just exist.”

Host: A faint light flickered through the windows as a passing car went by — its headlights sweeping across the court like a spotlight on a forgotten scene.

Jack: quietly “I used to think I’d die without this game. That if I ever stopped, I’d lose who I was. But lately…” he exhales slowly “…lately, I think I’ve already lost enough just trying to hold onto it.”

Jeeny: softly “Then maybe it’s time to remember what’s behind the jersey.”

Jack: looks at her “And what’s that?”

Jeeny: “The person who fell in love with it in the first place — before the stats, the pressure, the expectation. The kid who played because it felt like flying.”

Jack: smiles faintly, almost wistful “That kid’s somewhere under all this.”

Jeeny: “Then Christmas is the night to find him again.”

Host: A silence followed — comfortable, reflective. The kind of silence that only old friends share when words aren’t needed to explain what’s been lost or found.

The gym creaked softly as the heating system clicked on, a low hum filling the emptiness.

Jack: after a long pause “You ever notice how life’s a lot like this game? Everyone’s racing, everyone’s trying to score. But when the buzzer sounds, it’s not the points you remember — it’s who was in the stands.”

Jeeny: smiling softly “Exactly. That’s the ‘something’ Van Gundy was talking about. The people who stay when the season ends.”

Jack: nods slowly “And the moments you didn’t schedule.”

Jeeny: “The ones you can’t replay, only feel.”

Host: Jeeny reached into her pocket and pulled out a small ornament — a simple glass ball with a tiny painted snowflake inside. She handed it to him.

Jeeny: “You left this at my place last year. Thought it might look better on your tree.”

Jack: taking it carefully, his fingers brushing hers “I didn’t put up a tree this year.”

Jeeny: smiling softly “Then maybe this is where it starts.”

Host: He turned the ornament over in his hands, watching the faint light catch in its curves — fragile, reflective, whole.

Jack: quietly “You ever wonder why we only remember to slow down on holidays? Like we need permission to feel human again.”

Jeeny: “Because holidays are reminders, not miracles. They don’t fix what’s broken — they just give us a reason to look at it differently.”

Jack: “And what if you don’t have anyone to look with?”

Jeeny: softly “Then you find someone. Or you sit with the silence until it becomes something sacred.”

Host: The snow outside grew heavier now, muffling the sounds of the city, wrapping the world in peace. Inside, the gym felt warmer, alive again. Jack stood, walked to the center of the court, and picked up the basketball.

He dribbled it once — the echo deep, rhythmic, steady.

Jeeny watched him from the bench, a small smile forming.

Jeeny: “Can’t help yourself, can you?”

Jack: grinning faintly “Old habits die slow.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s okay — as long as you don’t forget to live between the dribbles.”

Host: He stopped, holding the ball under his arm, looking up at the hoop — that familiar circle of hope and frustration. He smiled, shaking his head.

Jack: “Yeah. Maybe some nights the scoreboard doesn’t matter.”

Jeeny: “Especially on Christmas.”

Jack: turns toward her, his voice low, warm “Merry Christmas, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: smiling “Merry Christmas, Jack.”

Host: The camera would linger on him as he tossed the ball gently toward the hoop. It arced through the air — slow, graceful — and dropped clean through the net with a satisfying whisper.

The sound echoed once, then faded into the hush of the snow outside.

And as the lights dimmed, the meaning of Van Gundy’s words settled like snowfall in the quiet —
that even passion must learn to bow to peace,
that life is more than the score,
and that sometimes, the greatest victories
happen off the court,
when we finally remember to let the game rest
and let the heart play instead.