I find fault with my children because I like them and I want them

Host: The sun was sinking low over a crumbling baseball field on the edge of the city. The grass, untrimmed and weary, swayed in the evening wind. A row of lights hummed above the bleachers, trying in vain to hold back the coming dark. The faint smell of dust, leather, and distant smoke hung in the air.

Jack stood near the dugout, his hands buried in the pockets of his worn coat, his eyes fixed on the empty pitcher’s mound. Jeeny sat on the bench, her hair glowing in the dim light, a thermos of cooling coffee beside her. They had come here often after work — not for the game, but for the quiet.

Jeeny broke it first, her voice calm, carrying a soft echo through the empty stands.

Jeeny: “Branch Rickey once said, ‘I find fault with my children because I like them and I want them to go places — uprightness and strength and courage and civil respect and anything that affects the probabilities of failure on the part of those that are closest to me, that concerns me — I find fault.’”

Host: Her words drifted like smoke, fragile yet precise. The quote lingered between them, heavy and tender, as if someone had just confessed a complicated kind of love.

Jack: half-smiling “So what you’re saying is — criticism equals affection now?”

Jeeny: smiling back “Not criticism, Jack. Concern. The kind that comes from wanting someone to be better, not to be broken.”

Jack: “That’s a fine line, Jeeny. Most people cross it without even knowing. You call it love — I call it control. The more you ‘find fault,’ the more you shape someone in your image, not their own.”

Host: The wind picked up, sweeping dust across the field, as if echoing his discomfort. The sky deepened to a bruised purple, the kind that hinted at both beauty and storm.

Jeeny: “But Branch Rickey wasn’t talking about control. He was talking about guidance. You know he was the man who signed Jackie Robinson — the first Black player in Major League Baseball. You think that wasn’t love in the form of fault-finding? He pushed him, tested him, because he saw what the world would throw at him. It wasn’t cruelty; it was preparation.”

Jack: sharply “Preparation? Or protection disguised as dominance? He put Robinson through hell — demanded silence while the world spat on him. Maybe he did it for justice, but it sure as hell wasn’t gentle.”

Jeeny: “Gentle doesn’t always save you, Jack. Sometimes the world only respects those who have been toughened by fire. Rickey knew that. He wasn’t trying to make Jackie comfortable — he was trying to make him unstoppable.”

Host: A train whistle moaned in the distance, long and hollow, like memory traveling through time. Jack’s jaw tightened, his eyes glinting beneath the soft stadium glow.

Jack: “So that’s your idea of love? Making someone suffer now so they can survive later?”

Jeeny: “Not suffer — strengthen. There’s a difference. Parents, mentors — even friends — they push because they care. Because they see cliffs you don’t.”

Jack: “Or maybe they see their own cliffs and don’t want anyone else to fall where they did. Maybe fault-finding is just projection dressed as wisdom.”

Jeeny: gently “Or maybe cynicism is just fear dressed as intellect.”

Host: Her words hit like a clean pitch, sharp and controlled. Jack looked away, his breath visible in the cooling air. The lights buzzed softly, illuminating the field like a half-forgotten stage.

Jack: “You ever think about how many kids grew up crushed under the weight of someone’s expectations? Parents telling them they’re lazy, that they could’ve done more, all in the name of love. That kind of love leaves bruises, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “And so does neglect, Jack. So does silence. There’s a worse pain than being told you can do better — it’s realizing no one believes you can at all.”

Host: The wind stilled for a moment, as if the earth itself were listening. The two sat in the quiet, surrounded by the faint hum of lights and the distant echo of a child’s laughter from some unseen street.

Jeeny: “Rickey didn’t just find fault — he found potential. There’s a difference. He saw the future of a man when the world refused to see his humanity. You don’t do that out of cruelty. You do it because you care too much to let the world crush them unprepared.”

Jack: “But where’s the line, Jeeny? When does caring turn into pushing too hard? When does love start to hurt more than it helps?”

Jeeny: pauses, thinking “Maybe when fault replaces faith. When you stop believing in who they are and only focus on what they’re not. That’s when it becomes damage, not devotion.”

Host: The rain began — soft at first, tapping on the empty bleachers, sliding down the old scoreboard. It painted everything with a thin sheen, reflecting the lights in trembling patterns.

Jack: “You sound like you’re defending every parent who yells at their kid out of love.”

Jeeny: “I’m defending the ones who stay. The ones who show up, who care enough to fight through the awkwardness, the anger, the fear. Love isn’t always gentle, Jack — sometimes it’s the voice that says, ‘You can be better,’ even when it hurts.”

Jack: “You know, my father used to say that. Every time I failed, he’d tear into me — said he was ‘building character.’ I thought he just wanted control. Maybe I still do.”

Jeeny: “Maybe he wanted you to believe you could handle the world. Did you ever think that was his way of saying he believed in you — even if he couldn’t say the words?”

Host: The rain thickened. Drops ran down Jack’s face, but he didn’t move to wipe them away. His eyes, usually sharp and guarded, softened slightly — not in defeat, but in memory.

Jack: quietly “He never said he liked me. Not once.”

Jeeny: softly “Maybe that was his flaw — not finding fault, but forgetting to show the love behind it.”

Host: The lights flickered, throwing long, uneven shadows across the field. The two sat in silence, the sound of rain filling the space between them like an unfinished sentence.

Jack: “So you’re saying love isn’t just about comfort — it’s about courage.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The courage to call out what might destroy someone you care about. The courage to say, ‘I see you slipping, and I won’t let you.’ That’s not control — that’s protection with purpose.”

Jack: “And yet, people break under that kind of love.”

Jeeny: “Because love’s never perfect. It’s just human. Rickey found fault because he wanted more for his players, his children, his world. That’s what love does — it reaches into imperfection and demands light.”

Host: The rain began to ease. The sky cleared to reveal a single star, faint but persistent. It hung above the field, lonely but certain — like a reminder that even after storm, something always remains.

Jack: after a long silence “Maybe that’s what he was trying to do — find the light under the flaws. Maybe fault-finding isn’t about punishment. Maybe it’s a strange form of hope.”

Jeeny: smiling “Exactly. Hope disguised as discipline.”

Jack: “Then maybe the world needs more fault-finders — the kind who criticize because they care, not because they crave control.”

Jeeny: “As long as they remember the other half — that love must follow every correction. That the hand that builds must also hold.”

Host: The lights flickered one last time, then faded. The field fell into soft darkness, broken only by the glow of the star above. Jack and Jeeny rose, coats damp, faces thoughtful.

As they walked toward the streetlights, the sound of their footsteps mingled with the last drops of rain. There was no argument left, only quiet understanding — that love, when honest, must sometimes wound before it heals.

And somewhere in that fading light, between fault and affection, between demand and devotion — the true shape of love revealed itself: a hand that corrects not to control, but to lift.