I never blame myself when I'm not hitting. I just blame the bat

Host: The baseball field lay beneath a tired afternoon sun, its grass heavy with dew, its fences glinting like old silver. The faint crack of a bat echoed in the distance, followed by a murmur of cheers that dissolved into the wind. A small-town ballpark, the kind where dreams come in dusty uniforms and cheap coffee.

On the bleachers, Jack sat with his jacket collar turned up, a cigarette hanging loosely from his lips, his grey eyes following the players as if trying to read the logic behind their movements. Beside him, Jeeny clutched a thermos, her hair tied back, her face glowing with that kind of quiet faith that only small-town afternoons seem to allow.

The sky was bruised with orange light, and from the old speaker, Yogi Berra’s voice played in a recording from decades ago:
“I never blame myself when I'm not hitting. I just blame the bat...”

The sound cut through the breeze, and Jack chuckled—a short, dry sound, like gravel underfoot.

Jack: “You hear that, Jeeny? That’s the philosophy of survival—don’t blame yourself, blame the bat. Yogi was a genius, in his own absurd way. That’s what keeps people sane—denial dressed as humor.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s wisdom, Jack. Sometimes you need to forgive yourself before you can fix yourself. If every time you fail, you turn inward with anger, you’ll never stand at the plate again.”

Host: The wind picked up a bit, carrying the scent of dirt, leather, and the faint grease of a hot dog stand. A few kids were throwing a ball near the fence, their laughter sharp and pure, cutting through the philosophical heaviness that hovered between the two adults.

Jack: “No, Jeeny. That’s the excuse people use to stay comfortable. Blame the tool, not the craftsman. That’s what’s wrong with the world now—everyone’s got a bat to blame. The economy, their boss, the system. Nobody says, ‘Maybe I just can’t hit.’”

Jeeny: “You make it sound like self-compassion is a crime. Maybe Yogi wasn’t saying it’s never your fault—maybe he meant that guilt kills your focus. If you keep beating yourself up, you forget to swing.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice was soft but steady, the kind of tone that could smooth out even the roughest cynicism. Jack’s jaw tightened as he took another drag from his cigarette, watching a young player strike out and toss his bat into the dust.

Jack: “Look at that. He’ll blame the bat, too. Maybe even the sun. Maybe the umpire. But it won’t make him a better hitter.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it will make him a better human. There’s a difference between growth and punishment, Jack. If you treat every mistake as a moral failure, you stop learning. You start fearing the game.”

Host: The sunlight slid across Jack’s face, catching the faint wrinkles at the corners of his eyes—lines carved by years of watching effort and failure repeat like an endless reel. He turned to her, his voice quieter now, almost resigned.

Jack: “You ever notice how the best hitters still get it wrong seven times out of ten? Maybe that’s what makes them mad—not the bat, not the ball, but the math. The odds are against you, always. Maybe blaming the bat is just how you stay alive in a game you’re built to lose.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s the point, Jack. Yogi’s joke isn’t just about baseball—it’s about life. If you accept that failure is part of the scoreboard, you stop letting it define you. You swing again. You change bats, you laugh, you keep going. That’s not denial—that’s grace.”

Host: The crowd cheered suddenly—a home run, slicing through the air like a gold thread. For a moment, even Jack looked up, eyes following the ball as it disappeared into the late light. The field came alive with shouts, clapping, and a music that only momentary victory can make.

Jack: “You think grace pays the bills? You think the world forgives you just because you forgive yourself?”

Jeeny: “No. But it lets you keep trying. And sometimes that’s the only way to earn anything. You can’t hit if you’ve already decided you’re hopeless.”

Host: A slow silence returned. The cheering faded, leaving only the soft hum of a field resetting itself. Jack looked at the cigarette, now half-burnt, and crushed it under his heel. His voice dropped low, carrying that rough, dry tone of someone who’d been fighting ghosts too long.

Jack: “You ever think maybe people use ‘grace’ as another bat to hide behind? You tell yourself it’s okay, that it’s not your fault—and pretty soon, you start believing it. That’s not forgiveness, Jeeny. That’s surrender.”

Jeeny: “No. Surrender is giving up. Forgiveness is letting go. You of all people should know the difference.”

Host: Her eyes locked on his, unwavering. Jack’s grey gaze softened, just slightly—something shifting behind it, like a cloud breaking apart. The sky above them had turned the color of ashes, and a single bird cut across the horizon, its wings catching the last light.

Jack: “You really believe that, don’t you? That people can let go without pretending?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because we have to. If we don’t, we end up like you, Jack—sitting in the bleachers, watching everyone else take their swings.”

Host: The wind quieted. The stadium lights flickered on, bathing the field in pale white glow. Jack stared at the players, the rhythmic sound of bats against balls echoing into the evening. There was something almost sacred about it—the endless repetition of failure and hope, strike and swing.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe blaming the bat is just a way of saying, ‘I’ll try again.’ Maybe that’s what keeps us from breaking.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You change bats. You adjust your stance. You keep swinging. It’s not about avoiding blame, Jack—it’s about not letting blame stop you.”

Host: The sun dipped, leaving the world washed in the silver-blue of early night. Jack leaned back, exhaling a slow breath, a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth—the kind of smile that admits defeat, but not despair.

Jack: “You know, for a moment there, I thought you were going to quote Yogi again.”

Jeeny: (laughing softly) “Maybe next time. He said, ‘It ain’t over till it’s over,’ didn’t he? Maybe that’s the real truth.”

Host: The crowd began to scatter, the field dimming, the lights humming like quiet stars above the dust. Jack and Jeeny sat in the stillness, neither victorious nor defeated—just two souls under a sky that still held enough light for one more swing.

And as the night deepened, the sound of a bat echoed once more—clean, clear, hopeful—a reminder that sometimes, you don’t have to blame or forgive, you just have to keep hitting.