I don't want to be famous. I want to be secure. I don't want the

Host: The streetlights hummed faintly over the empty baseball field. The bleachers, once crowded with cheering voices, now sat like silent witnesses under the cool night sky. The air was heavy with the scent of dust, grass, and the faint metallic tang of rain long past. Jack stood near the dugout, his hands deep in the pockets of his worn coat, his eyes tracing the faded chalk lines that still marked where dreams once ran. Jeeny sat on the lowest bench, her dark hair moving with the wind, watching him with quiet curiosity.

The stadium lights flickered on one by one, bathing the empty field in pale gold.

The world, vast and sleeping beyond the fences, seemed to hold its breath.

Jeeny: “Eric Davis once said, ‘I don’t want to be famous. I want to be secure. I don’t want the world. I just want a piece of it. I want people to remember Eric Davis.’”

Jack: (scoffs softly) “That’s rich — a ballplayer saying he doesn’t want to be famous. You don’t spend your life under stadium lights and then talk about privacy. That’s like building a ship and saying you hate the sea.”

Jeeny: “Maybe you misunderstand him. It’s not about rejecting fame — it’s about redefining what it means. He wanted meaning, not noise. To be remembered, not worshipped.”

Jack: “Same thing, different packaging. People chase legacy because they can’t stand being forgotten. Fame is just fear disguised as ambition.”

Jeeny: “And security isn’t? The fear of losing control, of disappearing quietly? At least fame reaches outward — it’s a call to be seen.”

Host: The wind moved across the field, lifting small threads of dust that spiraled like smoke. The old scoreboard creaked faintly, its numbers worn away by time.

The ghosts of applause still lingered in the air, faint but stubborn — echoes of purpose that refused to die.

Jack: “Look, Jeeny, fame is just another currency. You spend your life earning attention, and in the end, you’re broke the moment people stop clapping. Security — now that’s real. A steady life. A roof, peace, control.”

Jeeny: “Control is an illusion, Jack. You can lose everything in a blink — job, home, even memory. Ask any artist or athlete who thought they were secure. What lasts is what you give. That’s the piece of the world Davis wanted — the part that remembers.”

Jack: “You sound like you’ve memorized the sermon. But tell me — who remembers him now? The world moves on. People forget. They always do.”

Jeeny: “But the fact that he said it, the fact that he wanted it — that’s what’s human. That’s what endures. He didn’t want the world’s spotlight — he wanted his own corner of truth. We all do.”

Host: The rain clouds began to gather again, thin and bruised against the night. Jack glanced up, watching a single drop land on the pitcher’s mound, darkening the dirt like a slow heartbeat.

For a long moment, neither spoke. Only the faint sound of distant traffic filled the silence — the quiet hum of other lives moving on.

Jack: “You ever think about it? Being remembered. For what? I mean, when you die, people talk for a week, post your photo, maybe write an article. Then the next story comes. That’s fame. Fast food for the soul.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you’re thinking of the wrong kind of fame. Davis wasn’t talking about headlines. He wanted remembrance — the quiet kind. The kind that lives in someone’s memory, not their feed.”

Jack: “A romantic notion. But history doesn’t remember quietly.”

Jeeny: “History doesn’t, but hearts do.”

Host: The lights buzzed overhead, flickering like nervous thoughts. The grass shimmered under the glow, small drops catching light like silver. Jeeny leaned forward, elbows on knees, her eyes dark but burning softly.

Jeeny: “Jack, don’t you think everyone wants a piece of the world? Not to own it, but to belong to it — to leave something behind that whispers, ‘I was here.’”

Jack: “I think people want comfort. They want to stop running from themselves. All that talk about legacy — it’s just dressing up insecurity.”

Jeeny: “And yet here you are, working until midnight every night, chasing projects you never show anyone. Tell me that isn’t legacy in disguise.”

Jack: (pauses) “That’s different.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. It’s the same. You want to be remembered too. Maybe not by millions — but by one person who understood what you were trying to do.”

Host: Her words hung there — still, raw, undeniable. Jack’s shoulders tightened; he looked away, toward the outfield where the fence disappeared into shadow.

There was truth in her voice, and it stung more than any insult ever could.

Jack: “I don’t know. Maybe you’re right. Maybe we all want a piece of it. But wanting a piece doesn’t make you noble. It’s just survival — trying not to vanish.”

Jeeny: “Maybe survival is noble. Think of all the artists who only wanted a fragment of the world — Van Gogh, Emily Dickinson. They weren’t chasing fame; they were chasing permanence. The kind that doesn’t fade when the lights go out.”

Jack: “And yet, no one cared while they lived.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they didn’t need them to. They were talking to time, not people.”

Host: A train horn echoed distantly, low and mournful. The sound rippled across the field, stirring something in both of them — that ache for continuity, for witness. The air was thick now, but the night felt alive, like the earth itself was listening.

Jack: “You think that’s enough? Talking to time?”

Jeeny: “It has to be. The world doesn’t belong to those who take it — it belongs to those who leave something that matters.”

Jack: “And what if nothing matters?”

Jeeny: (softly) “Then you make it matter.”

Host: Her voice trembled with conviction. The wind caught her hair, scattering loose strands across her face like threads of thought unraveling in motion. Jack looked at her — really looked — and for the first time, his eyes softened.

Jack: “You know, when I was younger, I thought being remembered meant doing something huge — something that couldn’t be ignored. But maybe... maybe it’s smaller than that. Maybe it’s in moments.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Maybe it’s in the way you make someone feel safe, or the story you tell that changes how they see themselves. Davis wanted a piece, not the whole. He understood the weight of scale — that peace is found in enough, not everything.”

Jack: “Enough…” (nods slowly) “That’s rare.”

Jeeny: “Because we keep mistaking fame for fulfillment.”

Host: A light rain began to fall — not harsh, but soft, steady, cleansing. The field gleamed under it, turning to a mirror of golden ripples beneath the stadium glow. Jeeny stood and stepped onto the grass, her shoes sinking slightly in the damp earth. She turned back toward Jack, her eyes bright under the drizzle.

Jeeny: “Come on, Jack. Walk with me.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “It’s raining.”

Jeeny: “So what? You always talk about control. Maybe let go for once.”

Host: He hesitated — then followed. Their footsteps left dark imprints in the wet dirt, two temporary marks slowly blurring behind them. The world around seemed to hum — the sound of water, wind, and the hum of the floodlights fusing into one quiet symphony.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack… I think that’s what Davis meant. He didn’t want to own the world. He wanted to walk across it and leave footprints that fade slowly.”

Jack: “Footprints that fade slowly…” (smiles faintly) “Yeah. That’s enough.”

Jeeny: “Enough to be remembered. Enough to be real.”

Host: The rain fell harder now, washing over their faces, their clothes, their quiet laughter. In the distance, the city lights shimmered like a galaxy — each window, each streetlight, each life a small, flickering claim to existence.

Jack looked out at the empty field — the bases, the mound, the diamond glowing under rain.

And in that moment, he understood — fame was thunder, loud but fleeting.
Security was the ground beneath it — silent, steady, real.

He didn’t need the world. Just this — the rain, the light, the echo of a life that left something honest behind.

As the camera pulled back, the two figures grew smaller, walking across the drenched field — Jack and Jeeny, fading into the rhythm of the rain.

And over that quiet image, the world seemed to whisper, almost like a prayer:

To be remembered is not to be seen by all —
but to have touched even one corner of the world deeply enough that it remembers your name.