If I don't make the team out of spring training, I'll keep a good

Host: The dawn was still a gray whisper over the empty baseball field. The stadium lights hummed faintly, casting long, cold beams across the dew-drenched grass. Wind slid through the metal bleachers, whistling like an echo of past games. A single baseball glove rested on the bench, worn, creased, and faithful — a symbol of both dream and defeat.

Jack sat alone, hands wrapped around a cup of black coffee, eyes fixed on the diamond. Jeeny stood by the fence, her silhouette framed by the first gold line of sunlight. There was a quiet melancholy between them, like a pause before the first pitch.

Jeeny: “You know, that quote from Cory Lidle… it’s beautiful. ‘If I don’t make the team out of spring training, I’ll keep a good attitude. I’ll just go polish up the parts of my game that made me not stay in the big leagues.’ There’s grace in that. Humility. The kind that says losing doesn’t mean failure.”

Jack: “Or maybe it means denial, Jeeny. Some people call it grace, but I call it refusal to face reality. If you don’t make the team, you didn’t make it. No amount of polishing will change that.”

Host: A gust of wind carried dust and the faint smell of grass between them. Jack’s jaw tightened; Jeeny’s eyes softened with quiet defiance.

Jeeny: “That’s such a cold way to see it. Don’t you believe in growth, Jack? In trying again — not because you’ll win next time, but because you’re still becoming something?”

Jack: “I believe in results. You train to win. If you don’t, maybe you’re not cut out for it. Not everyone’s meant to be in the big leagues, Jeeny. The world doesn’t owe us a comeback.”

Jeeny: “But life isn’t a scoreboard! It’s about how you carry yourself when you’re off the field, when nobody’s watching. Look at Cory Lidle himself — he fought for every inch of his career, traded, cut, reassigned, and still kept playing. That’s not denial. That’s faith.”

Host: A silence lingered, heavy as the early morning air. A train groaned in the distance, its horn echoing like a melancholy reminder that time keeps moving, whether you win or not.

Jack: “Faith is fine until it becomes self-deception. Some people keep telling themselves they’ll make it — and meanwhile, life passes by. Sometimes you’ve got to accept you’re not meant for the dream you chased.”

Jeeny: “No. You only stop being meant for it when you stop believing. That’s the difference between those who fade and those who rise. Remember Michael Jordan? Cut from his high school team — and he didn’t ‘accept’ that. He trained, he learned, he came back stronger. That’s what polishing the game means.”

Jack: “And how many more never make that comeback? For every Jordan, there are a thousand who keep training in the shadows and never see daylight again. At what point do you call it? At what point does ‘hope’ turn into madness?”

Host: The sun broke through the clouds, painting the field in a golden haze. Dust motes floated like tiny ghosts of past ambitions. Jeeny stepped closer, her voice trembling with conviction.

Jeeny: “Maybe it doesn’t matter whether you make it or not. Maybe it’s about how you love what you do. The way you give your heart to it — even when the world says you’ve had enough.”

Jack: “Love doesn’t pay the bills, Jeeny. Dedication is noble, but reality bites. You can’t live on the fumes of a broken dream forever.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that what makes us human? The fact that we keep going, even when it hurts? Even when we’ve fallen short? That’s not foolishness, Jack — that’s courage.”

Host: Jack looked away, his eyes clouded, the lines on his face deepening with something like remorse. His voice dropped, softer now, the edge replaced by memory.

Jack: “You know… I once tried out for something too. Not baseball — but a startup. Poured five years of my life into it. Late nights, empty wallets, and a belief that someday it’d take off. It didn’t. Investors pulled out. My team scattered. I kept saying I’d ‘polish up my game,’ but eventually, I realized — it wasn’t about my skill. It was about luck.”

Jeeny: “That doesn’t mean it was meaningless, Jack. You still became who you are through that fight. You learned something about yourself — something you couldn’t have learned without failure.”

Jack: “Maybe. But I also learned that hope can be a slow poison. It makes you chase what’s already gone.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Hope isn’t poison — it’s the antidote. It’s what keeps you alive in a world that wants to reduce everything to metrics and outcomes. If you lose that, you lose your soul.”

Host: Her words hung in the air, shimmering like heat off the infield dirt. Jack’s fingers drummed lightly on the bench, the metal cool beneath his touch. The sound was small, but it carried the weight of reflection.

Jack: “So you think it’s noble to keep trying, no matter what?”

Jeeny: “Not noble. Just human. When Lidle said he’d keep a good attitude, he wasn’t saying he’d ignore failure. He was saying he’d own it — and then transform it. That’s real strength.”

Jack: “But the world doesn’t reward that kind of strength. It rewards results, winners, champions.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the world needs to change. Or maybe we just need to measure success differently. The man who fails but keeps growing — isn’t he as victorious as the one who wins the trophy?”

Host: A bird landed on the pitcher’s mound, pecking at the soil. A soft breeze moved through the stands, as if applauding the unseen audience of ghosts — players who once stood there, believing they’d last forever.

Jack: “You’re too idealistic.”

Jeeny: “And you’re too afraid.”

Jack: “Afraid of what?”

Jeeny: “Of trying again. Of being seen failing again. Because it’s easier to call it logic than to admit you’re scared.”

Host: The moment cracked open like lightning over a summer field. Jack’s eyes flashed, but beneath the anger, there was vulnerability — an ache too old to hide.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I am afraid. But tell me this — how many times do you keep standing back up before it just becomes pathetic?”

Jeeny: “Until you have nothing left to stand with. That’s the only honest answer I know.”

Host: The air between them softened. The light shifted — no longer harsh, but tender, like the end of a song. Jack’s shoulders eased; Jeeny stepped closer.

Jack: “You really think there’s dignity in losing?”

Jeeny: “There’s dignity in how you lose. In how you choose to begin again. You see, Jack — some people play to win. Others play to become.”

Host: Jack let out a breath, a long, weary exhale that seemed to carry years of regret and understanding.

Jack: “You always make it sound poetic.”

Jeeny: “Maybe life is poetry, Jack. We just forget to read the verses when we’re too busy counting the scores.”

Host: The sun had now climbed high, washing the field in warm gold. A few children ran across the grass, laughing, their voices echoing through the empty stands — a sound of innocence, of beginnings.

Jack: “Alright. Maybe I’ll polish my game a little too.”

Jeeny: “That’s the spirit. Not because you have to. But because it’s worth it.”

Host: They stood in silence, side by side, watching the children play, their shadows stretching long and thin on the diamond. The field that had once symbolized failure now shimmered with the possibility of renewal.

And as the morning sun burned away the mist, Jack and Jeeny both smiled — not at the game, nor the score, but at the simple truth that to try again is to remain alive.

Fade out.