I'd like to get out of Philadelphia. I don't care for the people

Host:
The evening air hung thick with smoke and resentment, the kind that lingers long after the crowd’s gone home. Outside the ballpark, streetlights flickered over damp concrete, and a few vendors packed up cold pretzels and lukewarm dreams. The skyline of Philadelphia glowed in the distance, all glass and attitude, like a city that had something to prove and nothing to apologize for.

A neon beer sign buzzed faintly from the corner bar across the street — “The Ninth Inning.” Inside, the walls were lined with yellowed photographs of men in uniforms frozen mid-swing, faces locked in moments of triumph that life rarely gives twice.

At a corner booth, Jack sat nursing a beer, his eyes on the muted TV replaying highlights from a game that had ended hours ago. The sound was off, but he didn’t need commentary to understand it: effort, talent, disappointment — the usual trilogy.

Jeeny walked in, shaking off the rain from her coat. She spotted him immediately — the slouched shoulders, the tired confidence. She slid into the booth across from him, her eyes bright but cautious.

Jeeny: [half-smiling] “Richie Allen once said — ‘I’d like to get out of Philadelphia. I don’t care for the people or their attitude, although they don’t bother me or my play. But maybe the Phillies can get a couple of broken bats and shower shoes for me.’”
Jack: [snorts] “Ain’t that the truth. The man hit baseballs like they owed him money, and still, they never loved him for it.”
Jeeny: “Maybe love’s not the same as respect.”
Jack: [sipping his beer] “In this town, it’s worse. They’ll respect your swing and boo your soul.”
Jeeny: [quietly] “Philadelphia never had patience for honesty.”
Jack: “No city does. But Philly wears its resentment like a badge.”

Host:
The jukebox in the corner sputtered to life, playing something soft and sad — an old Sam Cooke tune about change that hadn’t come soon enough. Jack’s cigarette glowed faintly in the dim light, smoke rising like a question no one could answer.

Jeeny: “You know, Allen wasn’t just talking about baseball. He was talking about belonging.”
Jack: [leaning back] “Or not belonging. He didn’t fit their script — too outspoken, too proud, too… black.”
Jeeny: [nodding] “Yeah. They wanted him to hit home runs, not speak his mind.”
Jack: [bitterly] “That’s the curse of talent. They’ll cheer you as long as you don’t remind them you’re human.”
Jeeny: “And the moment you do, they turn on you.”
Jack: [grinning without humor] “Philly fans don’t forgive. They just forget until the next scapegoat.”

Host:
Outside, thunder rolled softly, echoing through the narrow streets. A car splashed through a puddle, headlights glinting across the bar’s window like flashes of some old camera.

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? The man gives them everything on the field, and they give him contempt in return.”
Jack: “That’s because he made them uncomfortable. He didn’t play grateful.”
Jeeny: “Grateful?”
Jack: “Yeah. Grateful for being tolerated. For being allowed to exist in their story.”
Jeeny: [softly] “He wanted to write his own.”
Jack: “Exactly. And that’s what gets you traded faster than a slump.”

Host:
The bartender wiped down the counter, throwing a glance at the clock. It was late — too late for nostalgia, too early for peace. The sound of rain softened, tapping against the window like memory trying to get in.

Jeeny: “You ever think about how cities become characters? How they shape people and then pretend they didn’t?”
Jack: [smiling faintly] “Yeah. Philly’s a tough bastard of a character — all pride and bruises.”
Jeeny: “And Allen was too pure for that?”
Jack: “No. Too honest. He didn’t play along with the myth of the underdog. Philly loves suffering, not defiance.”
Jeeny: [thoughtfully] “So he was the mirror they didn’t want to look into.”
Jack: “Exactly. He reminded them that even grit can turn bitter.”

Host:
A group of young fans stumbled in from the rain, laughing too loud, wearing jerseys that bore names older than they were. One of them shouted, “Go Phils!” before ordering beers, the sound fading into the jukebox’s hum.

Jack watched them, a small, tired smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

Jack: “You know, it’s funny. Cities like to think they’re loyal. But their loyalty’s got conditions — play hard, stay quiet, bleed the right color.”
Jeeny: “And when you don’t?”
Jack: [shrugging] “They trade you — in baseball, in life, in faith.”
Jeeny: [softly] “But sometimes, you have to leave to be free.”
Jack: [quietly] “And sometimes, you have to leave to be seen.”

Host:
The rain outside had stopped, leaving the street slick and shining under the streetlights. The reflection of the neon sign — “The Ninth Inning” — shimmered across the puddles like something both broken and beautiful.

Jeeny: “You think Allen was bitter when he said that?”
Jack: [thinking] “No. Tired. There’s a difference. Bitter’s when you still want revenge. Tired’s when you just want peace.”
Jeeny: “He deserved peace.”
Jack: “Yeah. But men like him rarely get it while they’re alive. They get statues after they’ve stopped breathing.”
Jeeny: [quietly] “And by then, it’s too late for an apology.”
Jack: “Exactly.”

Host:
The jukebox changed tracks, now playing an old jazz number — something smoky and unresolved. The notes drifted through the air, the kind of song that doesn’t end, it just fades.

Jeeny looked around the bar, at the photographs of men immortalized in sepia.

Jeeny: “You know, for all his anger, I think Allen loved the game.”
Jack: [smiling sadly] “Of course he did. That’s what hurt the most. He gave it his heart, and it gave him headlines.”
Jeeny: “And still, he played like every swing mattered.”
Jack: “Because it did. Every swing was defiance. Every home run was a sermon.”
Jeeny: [softly] “Then maybe that’s what he meant — the broken bats, the shower shoes. The sarcasm of a man who gave everything to people who gave him so little back.”
Jack: “Yeah. He wasn’t asking for luxury. He was asking for respect disguised as a joke.”
Jeeny: “And laughter was the only way to survive the loneliness.”

Host:
The bartender turned off the neon sign, the last flicker of red disappearing into the rain-streaked glass. The city beyond looked softer now, stripped of its noise and armor.

Jack and Jeeny sat in silence for a while, two souls caught between understanding and fatigue.

Jack: [quietly] “You think people ever change?”
Jeeny: “No. But sometimes they remember.”
Jack: [nodding] “Then maybe remembering’s the best we can hope for.”
Jeeny: “As long as we remember right — not the legend, but the man.”
Jack: [raising his glass] “To Richie Allen. The tarantula on Philly’s angel food.”
Jeeny: [clinking her glass against his] “To the man who swung truth into thunder.”

Host:
The rain began again, softer now, steady and cleansing. The neon sign blinked back to life, reflected in the puddles like a promise the city might one day keep.

And in that moment, the truth of Richie Allen’s words lingered like the last chord of a blues song —

that greatness doesn’t always fit the town that births it,
that honesty costs more than applause,
and that sometimes, to save your soul,
you have to walk away from the crowd still cheering.

As Jack and Jeeny stepped out into the rain,
the city shimmered — bruised but alive,
forever loving its heroes too late,
and never forgetting the ones who refused to play along.