I always had the attitude that I wanted to throw a no-hitter

Host: The stadium lights burned like a second sun, slicing through the dark velvet of night. The field below glowed with that peculiar shade of green only baseball fields seem to find — a mix of dirt, sweat, and summer eternity. The stands were mostly empty now, echoes lingering where the crowd’s roar had once lived.

It was after the game — that hollow, sacred hour when victory and loss felt like the same quiet ache.

On the pitcher’s mound stood Jack, still in his uniform, still holding the ball, the seams pressed into his palm like the memory of something you can’t quite let go. He stared toward home plate — silent, reflective, unwilling to leave the place where he’d spent the last few hours fighting the impossible.

From the dugout, Jeeny approached, her jacket pulled tight against the night breeze. She stopped near the mound, her voice cutting through the empty field with warmth and knowing.

Jeeny: reading softly from her phone
“Dennis Eckersley once said, ‘I always had the attitude that I wanted to throw a no-hitter every game.’”

Jack: grinning faintly, tossing the ball once into the air, catching it again
“Every game, huh? Sounds like someone who didn’t believe in moderation.”

Jeeny: smiling, stepping closer
“Or someone who believed in perfection — at least enough to chase it, even knowing it would always run faster than him.”

Host: The lights hummed overhead, the sound mingling with the faint rustle of the wind across the empty bleachers. There was a kind of holiness to this hour — the game over, but the spirit of it still alive, breathing through the dirt, the chalk, the scars.

Jack: sighing, looking at the ball in his hand
“You ever notice how athletes live halfway between gods and ghosts? You throw one bad inning, and you’re mortal again.”

Jeeny: softly, watching him
“And yet, they keep trying. That’s what Eckersley meant. Not that you’ll throw a no-hitter every game — but that you should play like you could.”

Jack: nodding slowly
“Like perfection’s the North Star. You don’t reach it, but you keep walking toward it.”

Jeeny: quietly, her voice filled with warmth
“Exactly. It’s the attitude that matters. That refusal to settle for mediocrity — even when you know it’s coming for you.”

Host: The scoreboard still glowed faintly, the numbers frozen — tonight’s story, told in runs and strikes and mistakes. The air smelled of grass, rosin, and the faint ghost of adrenaline.

Jack: after a moment, voice softer now
“When I was a kid, I used to practice pitching against the garage door for hours. My mom would yell at me for denting the paint. But I’d imagine the World Series, two outs, full count. Every throw had to be perfect. It wasn’t about winning — it was about control. About finding that one pitch that felt right.”

Jeeny: smiling gently
“And now?”

Jack: laughing quietly, shaking his head
“Now I know that ‘right’ doesn’t exist. You just get close enough to call it beautiful.”

Jeeny: nodding, her tone thoughtful
“Maybe that’s why people watch baseball. It’s a game about failure — about trying to be perfect when the math says you’ll fail seven times out of ten. It’s human. It’s hope with cleats on.”

Jack: chuckling softly
“You sound like someone who’d write poetry about batting averages.”

Jeeny: grinning
“I’d call it ‘Ode to the Almost.’”

Host: The stadium lights began to dim, one section at a time, the world slipping back toward shadow. Somewhere in the distance, a janitor’s broom scraped softly across concrete — the sound of endings disguised as routine.

Jeeny: after a pause, her voice more serious now
“You know, there’s something beautiful about that kind of arrogance — Eckersley’s attitude. To expect a no-hitter every game. To demand the impossible of yourself — not for the crowd, but for the craft.”

Jack: nodding slowly, voice thoughtful
“Yeah. It’s not arrogance if it’s discipline. It’s saying, ‘I won’t let the world tell me how good I can be.’ Even if you fall short — the reaching’s what defines you.”

Jeeny: quietly
“The attitude is faith disguised as competitiveness.”

Jack: smiling faintly, eyes softening
“And failure’s just the tax you pay for ambition.”

Host: The wind picked up, carrying a faint echo — the ghost of applause, the echo of a crowd that had already gone home. It brushed through the field, lifting a bit of chalk dust into the air like ashes of effort refusing to settle.

Jeeny: softly
“Do you ever think perfection kills joy?”

Jack: after a pause, voice low
“No. It’s the lack of trying that kills it. The joy’s in the pursuit — the endless, foolish, beautiful chase.”

Jeeny: smiling softly
“Then I guess we’re all pitchers, huh? Trying to throw a no-hitter in a world that keeps swinging.”

Jack: grinning, tossing the ball one last time
“Yeah. And every once in a while, we hit the strike zone clean — and for that brief second, the world feels still.”

Host: The lights clicked off, leaving only moonlight spilling across the field — cool, gentle, honest. The mound looked smaller now, more human.

Jeeny: after a moment
“Maybe that’s what makes those rare perfect games sacred — not because they happen, but because someone dared to believe they could.”

Jack: quietly, his voice almost lost to the wind
“And because perfection, when it visits, always leaves behind the hunger for more.”

Host: The camera would pull back, showing the two of them — small figures in a vast, sleeping stadium. The diamond below, half in shadow, half in silver light, looked like the face of a dream that had just ended, but would start again tomorrow.

And in that soft quiet — the smell of grass, the hum of the lights fading, the world holding its breath — Dennis Eckersley’s words found their truth:

That greatness isn’t in throwing the no-hitter — it’s in showing up every game believing you still can.
That perfection isn’t a goal, but a compass.
And that those who demand the impossible of themselves are the ones who drag humanity closer to excellence.

Jeeny: softly, smiling toward him
“So what now, pitcher?”

Jack: grinning faintly, eyes still on home plate
“Tomorrow. Another game. Another chance at the impossible.”

Host: The night wind sighed through the bleachers, carrying the last echo of applause from a thousand games past.

And as they walked off the field — two silhouettes crossing the diamond beneath a fading moon — the air itself seemed to whisper, with the voice of every dreamer who’s ever dared to try:

Perfection is a myth.
But pursuit — pursuit is holy.