I was in high school - and I went to an all-boys Catholic high

Host: The gymnasium smelled of old varnish, chalk, and the faint echo of memory. The banners of past victories hung high from the rafters, faded but proud — relics of boys who once believed they were immortal. Outside, the bells of the church next door tolled softly in the distance, their sound floating through the cracked windows like a prayer that never stopped repeating itself.

Host: Jack stood near the bleachers, his hands in his pockets, staring at the dusty basketball court. Jeeny walked slowly beside him, her heels clicking softly on the polished floor. The place carried the scent of both devotion and denial — the dual incense of faith and adolescence. On a bulletin board nearby, yellowed newspaper clippings fluttered in the air-conditioning: debates won, goals scored, names remembered.

Host: And at the center of it all, pinned crookedly to the cork, a quote written in firm cursive:

“I was in high school — and I went to an all-boys Catholic high school, a Jesuit high school, where I was focused on academics and athletics, going to church every Sunday at Little Flower, working on my service projects, and friendship, friendship with my fellow classmates and friendship with girls from the local all-girls Catholic schools.”
— Brett Kavanaugh

Jeeny: “It almost sounds innocent,” she said quietly. “A man remembering a time when life still fit inside rules — faith, sport, service, friendship. The perfect little trinity of Catholic boyhood.”

Jack: “You hear innocence,” he said, his voice low. “I hear performance. The need to sound righteous — to make the past look clean when you know it wasn’t.”

Jeeny: “You think he’s lying?”

Jack: “I think he’s editing.”

Host: The fluorescent lights hummed softly overhead. The floorboards creaked beneath their steps. Each echo sounded like memory pacing back and forth — uncertain whether it should confess or defend itself.

Jeeny: “Maybe he’s just remembering the way he wants to remember it. We all do that. Nostalgia’s the most seductive kind of absolution.”

Jack: “Maybe. But truth doesn’t come dressed in nostalgia. It comes raw. And usually, it ruins the story.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe friendship, faith, all of it — maybe it’s not meant to be raw. Maybe those things only survive if you protect them from the full truth.”

Jack: “You mean lie to yourself?”

Jeeny: “No. Preserve yourself.”

Host: The sound of the church bells faded. For a long moment, neither spoke. The silence hung heavy, like air before confession.

Jack: “You know what I hear in his quote?” he said finally. “Order. Structure. Every sentence is a box — faith, study, athletics, friendship — neat, contained. But life doesn’t stay in boxes. It spills. And when it does, people like him call the spill sin.”

Jeeny: “And people like you call it human.”

Jack: “Exactly.”

Host: A basketball rolled out from under the bleachers, thudding softly to a stop near their feet. Jack stared at it for a long moment before nudging it gently toward the center line with his shoe.

Jeeny: “You ever think about your own high school?” she asked.

Jack: “More than I should. And less than I need to.”

Jeeny: “What was it like?”

Jack: “Loud. Confused. A collision between hormones and hope. We all thought friendship meant loyalty — until we realized it really meant silence.”

Jeeny: “Silence?”

Jack: “Yeah. The kind that keeps secrets instead of sharing them. The kind that makes boys protect each other even when they shouldn’t.”

Host: The ball rolled lazily across the court, stopping under the faded hoop. The sunlight through the high windows made it gleam like a forgotten truth.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what he was trying to do — remember the light, not the shadow.”

Jack: “But the shadow’s what makes the light honest.”

Jeeny: “Not everyone can live in the shadow, Jack.”

Jack: “No. But if you can’t face it, you shouldn’t tell stories about the light.”

Host: Jeeny walked toward the center of the court, her shoes clicking against the hardwood. She stood where the free-throw line had faded into a soft blur and looked up at the ceiling — the banners, the dust, the weight of time.

Jeeny: “You know, what strikes me about this quote isn’t what he says, but what he doesn’t. It’s the repetition of the word ‘friendship.’ He says it twice — like he’s trying to convince himself it was real.”

Jack: “Maybe he’s mourning it. Maybe those friendships didn’t survive what came after.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe they did — because they were built on silence, not truth.”

Jack: “That’s not friendship.”

Jeeny: “No,” she said softly. “But it’s loyalty. And sometimes, people confuse the two.”

Host: The light shifted as a cloud passed, the room darkening slightly. For a brief moment, the space seemed smaller — the kind of smallness you feel when a memory stops being distant and starts breathing beside you.

Jack: “You know what I think?” he said quietly. “That quote — it’s a prayer disguised as an alibi. A man trying to remember himself before the world told him what he’d become.”

Jeeny: “And do you think we ever really remember ourselves honestly?”

Jack: “Only when it hurts.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe nostalgia is just the body’s way of avoiding pain.”

Jack: “And confession is the soul’s way of demanding it.”

Host: The silence between them grew tender — less argument, more understanding. Jeeny stepped closer, her voice softer now, almost a whisper.

Jeeny: “He talked about friendship. About faith. About discipline. But you can’t name your virtues without naming your failures too.”

Jack: “And maybe that’s what Beecher would have said if he’d written it,” Jack murmured. “There’s no love like the parent for the child, and no delusion like the man for his own past.”

Host: A low laugh escaped her — half sadness, half truth.

Jeeny: “You’re harsh, Jack.”

Jack: “I’m honest.”

Jeeny: “And honesty,” she said, echoing the line from an earlier night, “is the hardest form of friendship.”

Host: Outside, the rain had stopped. A thin beam of sunlight broke through the window, slicing across the gym floor, landing perfectly on the basketball that still rested at the hoop.

Host: It was as if the world, in that single gesture of light, forgave every boy who had ever tried to define himself by order — and every man who still wished to.

Host: And as they stood there in that quiet, the words of Brett Kavanaugh took on a new weight — no longer a declaration, but a confession of longing:

“Friendship, friendship with my fellow classmates and friendship with girls from the local all-girls Catholic schools.”

Host: Because what he was really saying — beneath the polish and the piety —
was that every young soul longs for innocence,
every adult tries to reclaim it,
and every story we tell about our youth
is an act of remembering not who we were,
but who we wish we’d been.

Host: The sunlight widened, warming the floor. Jeeny looked at Jack and smiled — not in judgment, but in peace.

Host: And the gym, silent for decades, seemed to breathe again —
with memory,
with forgiveness,
with the fragile, echoing truth that friendship, like faith,
means nothing until it’s tested
by the things we’d rather forget.