I think my patriotism is strong enough to not be offended when

Host: The stadium was empty now — the lights dimmed, the echo of the crowd fading like a ghost that didn’t know how to leave. The air still carried the scent of grass, sweat, and the faint metallic trace of fireworks from the anthem that had played hours before.

It was long past midnight. Rain began to fall in light threads, silvering the air, softening the hard edges of steel bleachers and the cracked lines of the field.

At the edge of the dugout, Jack sat with his elbows on his knees, cap pulled low, staring into the wet dirt of the diamond. The world around him was silent except for the rhythmic drip, drip, drip of water collecting from the rafters above.

Jeeny appeared at the tunnel entrance, her hood up, dark hair escaping in stray curls that clung to her damp face. She walked slowly toward him, her boots scuffing against the soaked concrete, her eyes kind but unafraid.

Jeeny: (softly) “Sean Doolittle said, ‘I think my patriotism is strong enough to not be offended when somebody takes a knee during the anthem. That’s not something I take personally.’”

Jack: (without looking up) “Strong enough not to be offended. That’s a rare kind of strength.”

Jeeny: “You sound like you don’t believe it exists.”

Jack: (shrugs) “Belief’s easy when it’s convenient. But most people don’t want patriotism — they want agreement.”

Host: The rain gathered pace, a gentle percussion over metal seats and empty beer cans. The field lights flickered once, casting long shadows that danced across Jack’s face. His jawline was hard, but his eyes betrayed something weary — the kind of fatigue that comes not from body, but from belief.

Jeeny: (sits beside him) “You think kneeling disrespects the flag?”

Jack: (after a pause) “No. I think it forces us to ask what we actually stand for — and that makes people uncomfortable.”

Jeeny: “Uncomfortable isn’t the same as disrespected.”

Jack: “Try telling that to someone who confuses pride with pain.”

Host: The wind moved through the bleachers, low and mournful, like the exhale of the stadium itself. Somewhere in the distance, thunder murmured — the sky, too, unwilling to stay neutral.

Jeeny: “You fought overseas once. You salute when you hear the anthem. And yet…”

Jack: (quietly) “And yet I understand the ones who don’t.”

Jeeny: (softly) “That doesn’t make you less patriotic.”

Jack: “No. It makes me tired of how shallow we’ve made the word.”

Host: The rain darkened the front of his shirt, the drops catching the light like silver dust. Jeeny watched him — not judging, just listening. That was her way.

Jeeny: “Maybe Doolittle’s right. Maybe real patriotism isn’t about posture — it’s about perspective.”

Jack: (grins faintly) “You always sound like you swallowed a philosophy textbook.”

Jeeny: (smiles) “And you sound like someone pretending cynicism is wisdom.”

Jack: (looks at her finally) “Maybe both are survival mechanisms.”

Host: Their eyes met — his grey, hers brown — two different storms colliding under the same rain. The field stretched out before them, vast and soaked, an open metaphor for everything they didn’t know how to fix.

Jeeny: (after a pause) “Do you remember the anthem tonight? The way the players looked when one of them took a knee?”

Jack: (nods) “Yeah. The silence in the crowd was louder than the fireworks.”

Jeeny: “And how did it make you feel?”

Jack: “Like I was watching two different countries staring at each other across the same song.”

Jeeny: (whispers) “Maybe that’s what patriotism is — holding space for both.”

Host: The rain thickened now, hitting the dugout roof in sheets. But neither moved. They sat together in that intimate discomfort, the quiet storm between belief and belonging.

Jack: (softly) “When I was overseas, we’d play the anthem before every mission. Some of the guys would cry. Some would roll their eyes. And me — I’d just close mine. Because I didn’t want the music to tell me what to feel.”

Jeeny: “You wanted to decide for yourself.”

Jack: (nods) “Patriotism isn’t obedience. It’s memory. It’s remembering what the idea was before we drowned it in politics.”

Jeeny: “Freedom?”

Jack: “Responsibility.”

Host: The word hit the air like a bell. The rain slowed. The stadium lights dimmed into a softer glow, the kind of light that feels earned — honest, unvarnished, human.

Jeeny: “You think kneeling is disrespectful?”

Jack: (shakes his head) “No. I think not listening to why someone kneels is.”

Jeeny: (gently) “And standing?”

Jack: “That’s respect too. For different reasons. It’s not the gesture that matters — it’s the grace to let both exist without turning them into war.”

Host: She looked at him — really looked — and saw not anger, but ache. The ache of someone who’d seen too much division and was still trying to believe in unity.

Jack’s hands rested loosely between his knees, palms open, like someone offering, not arguing.

Jeeny: (quietly) “Maybe that’s what Doolittle meant. His patriotism isn’t about flags or anthems — it’s about not needing to win the argument to love the country.”

Jack: (softly) “Yeah. Maybe real love doesn’t need to shout its loyalty.”

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) “It just needs to show up — even in the rain.”

Host: Lightning flashed, distant but clear. It illuminated the field for a heartbeat — the white chalk lines glowing like ghosts of boundaries, reminders that even games draw lines they expect people to cross.

Jack: (after a long silence) “You think we’ll ever get there?”

Jeeny: “Where?”

Jack: “A place where disagreement isn’t betrayal.”

Jeeny: (sighs) “Maybe not in our lifetime. But maybe that’s not the point.”

Jack: “Then what is?”

Jeeny: “To keep trying anyway.”

Host: Her words fell softly, like rain on open hands. The field below shimmered under the glow of the emergency lights — vast, imperfect, waiting.

Jack nodded slowly, as if accepting a truth he didn’t want but needed. He stood, brushing the dampness from his jeans, and extended a hand toward her.

She took it.

Host: Together they stepped out from the dugout, onto the soaked grass. The storm was easing, but the sky still whispered. They walked in silence toward the infield, each step a quiet act of faith.

The camera followed them as they stopped at the center — two figures standing under the flicker of distant lightning, one with his cap pressed to his heart, the other simply closing her eyes.

Neither spoke. Neither judged. Both were still.

And in that stillness — not in protest, not in performance — there was peace.

Host: The final shot:
The vast, empty field glistening under the fading rain.
The two figures side by side — one standing, one kneeling.
No anger. No anthem. Just understanding.

Because Sean Doolittle was right —

True patriotism is not fragile.
It doesn’t break when someone kneels.
It listens, it holds, it endures.

And in that listening,
the nation — like a heart after battle —
learns to beat together again.