Do the right things, respect your elders, respect your teachers

Host: The sunset stretched long and golden across the football field, spilling its light over the bleachers, the worn goalposts, and the dust that hung in the air like memory. A faint breeze stirred the flags, and somewhere in the distance, a dog barked, echoing down the empty streets of a quiet town that once dreamed too loudly.

Jack sat on the bench, a cigarette burning low between his fingers, his face shadowed by the brim of his cap. His hands were rough — the kind of hands that remembered work — and his eyes were fixed on the field like he was watching the ghosts of younger men chase their own futures.

Jeeny stood behind him, her arms crossed, the wind teasing strands of her black hair loose across her face. She looked out at the same field, but her eyes saw something else — not ghosts, but beginnings.

The sound of a whistle blew somewhere nearby — a coach ending practice. The kids jogged off the field, their laughter sharp and hopeful.

Jeeny: “Ha Ha Clinton-Dix once said, ‘Do the right things, respect your elders, respect your teachers, continue to work hard, and if you are religious and you have some type of faith... pray.’”

Host: Her voice carried easily through the cool air, soft but deliberate, like a teacher reciting a lesson she half believed and half doubted.

Jack: “That’s easy for him to say,” he muttered. “He made it out. The world listens to men who already won.”

Jeeny: “You think he’s wrong?”

Jack: “No,” he said, flicking ash into the dirt. “I think he’s right in a world that doesn’t exist anymore.”

Host: A moment passed. The sun dipped lower, slicing light through the fence, scattering shadows like bars across their faces.

Jeeny: “You sound like an old man, Jack.”

Jack: “Maybe I am,” he said with a faint, bitter smile. “Look around, Jeeny. People don’t respect their elders anymore. They mock their teachers. Faith is a hashtag now. And hard work? It’s what the rich tell the poor to do while they sleep easy.”

Jeeny: “That’s not fair,” she said, stepping closer. “There are still people who believe in those things. Maybe not loud people — but they’re there. My students pray before every exam. They work two jobs and still show up for class. You can’t tell me that doesn’t count.”

Host: Jack looked up at her, eyes narrowing — not in anger, but in a kind of weary disbelief.

Jack: “You think that’s enough? That praying before a test and saying ‘yes ma’am’ to your elders fixes the world? Respect doesn’t buy you a roof. Faith doesn’t pay rent.”

Jeeny: “Neither does cynicism,” she shot back. “You think tearing everything down makes you wiser? Maybe it just means you forgot what it feels like to believe.”

Host: The wind picked up, rustling the grass at their feet. The goalposts cast long, thin shadows over the field — like fingers pointing toward something distant and unreachable.

Jack: “Belief is a luxury, Jeeny. It’s easy to talk about doing the right thing when you’ve never had to break a rule to survive.”

Jeeny: “And what does survival mean without honor?” she asked. “Without respect? My father worked construction for thirty years. He didn’t make much, but he taught me to stand when an elder entered the room, to shake hands, to keep my word. That’s the kind of wealth that doesn’t fade.”

Jack: “And did it pay his medical bills?”

Host: Her eyes flinched — just slightly — but she didn’t look away.

Jeeny: “No,” she said softly. “But it made me who I am. And that’s worth something.”

Host: A silence fell. The kind that feels like the world catching its breath before the truth lands.

Jack: “You know what I think, Jeeny? I think faith — all of it — is just a way to make pain polite. We tell people to pray instead of fixing what’s broken. We preach respect while the powerful spit on the weak.”

Jeeny: “You’re mistaking people’s failures for faith’s failure,” she said. “Ha Ha wasn’t preaching — he was reminding. It’s not about religion; it’s about discipline. About doing the right thing even when no one’s watching.”

Host: The sky dimmed, sliding into a deep blue, and the first stars began to blink above the field. The kids had all gone home now. Only the hum of the streetlights remained, soft and distant.

Jack: “Discipline doesn’t save you when the system’s rigged.”

Jeeny: “But without it, you’re already lost.”

Host: She walked toward the sideline, her shoes crunching over gravel. For a long time, she said nothing. Then:

Jeeny: “Do you remember Marcus, that boy from my class?”

Jack: “The one who dropped out?”

Jeeny: “He came back. Two years later. Said he couldn’t stand who he was becoming. He started working nights, taking care of his grandmother, studying on the bus. He told me he remembered what his grandfather used to say — ‘Do the right thing, even when no one claps.’ He said it felt old-fashioned, but it kept him steady.”

Jack: “And where is he now?”

Jeeny: “In college. Studying social work.”

Host: Jack’s eyes softened. For the first time, a small hint of something — maybe respect, maybe memory — passed through his features.

Jack: “He’s lucky.”

Jeeny: “No,” she said, shaking her head. “He’s faithful.”

Host: The word hung there, between them, like a fragile bridge made of light and stubbornness.

Jack: “You think prayer changes anything?”

Jeeny: “I think it changes people,” she said. “And people change everything else.”

Host: The wind stirred again, carrying the faint smell of rain — or maybe sweat, maybe effort. The kind that comes from trying to hold the world together with both hands.

Jack: “You really believe all that? Respect, elders, faith, hard work — like some ancient recipe for a world that doesn’t cook like it used to?”

Jeeny: “Yes,” she said simply. “Because the ingredients haven’t changed — only the appetite.”

Host: A pause, then Jack laughed — low, almost embarrassed.

Jack: “You always talk like a poet, Jeeny. Like you think decency’s contagious.”

Jeeny: “It is,” she said, with a small smile. “But so is despair.”

Host: The lights above the field flickered off one by one, leaving them under a wide sky painted with stars.

Jack: “You know,” he said finally, “when I was a kid, my coach used to tell us the same thing — respect your elders, work hard, pray before the game. I used to think he was just old. But maybe he was trying to teach us how to lose without becoming lost.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly it,” she said. “Faith isn’t about winning. It’s about how you hold yourself when you lose.”

Host: The night deepened. The field was empty now, but the echo of the young players’ footsteps still seemed to hum in the air, like the world remembering its promise.

Jack looked out across the grass, where the goalposts stood like two open arms waiting for something unseen.

Jack: “Maybe doing the right thing is the only rebellion left.”

Jeeny: “And respecting those who came before us is the only way to stay human.”

Host: They stood there a while, the two of them, silent beneath the vast, indifferent sky — two small figures clinging to old truths in a world that had learned to forget them.

The lights from the town flickered in the distance. A church bell rang once, soft and fading.

Jeeny: “If you still believe in nothing else, Jack,” she said quietly, “just… pray. Not because it changes the world — but because it changes the one who’s trying to.”

Host: He looked up at her, then down at his hands — the same rough, weary hands that once carried dreams like heavy stones. Slowly, he nodded.

Jack: “Maybe I’ll try that.”

Host: And as they walked off the field, side by side, the stars above them seemed to brighten, as if listening — as if waiting for one small, silent prayer to find its way home.