If you don't love the Dodgers, there's a good chance you may not

Host: The night hung over Los Angeles like a slow-burning neon sky. The stadium lights from Chavez Ravine still shimmered faintly in the distance, the echo of the crowd now a ghost of memory. The streets outside a small downtown bar hummed with tired engines and lonely footsteps. Inside, the air smelled of beer, dust, and something older—faith, perhaps.
Jack sat at the counter, his jacket draped over one shoulder, a glass half-full of bourbon before him. Jeeny sat across the booth, her hair catching the faint blue glow of the television replaying Dodgers highlights. Neither spoke at first—the silence between them heavier than the roar of the crowd that once filled Dodger Stadium.

Jeeny: “Tommy Lasorda once said, ‘If you don’t love the Dodgers, there’s a good chance you may not get into Heaven.’”
She smiled faintly. “You can almost hear his voice in it—half-joking, half believing.”

Jack: (leans back, a smirk forming) “Yeah. Sounds about right for a man who turned a game into a religion. Baseball as the new faith, Dodger blue as its heavenly robe.”

Host: The barlight flickered. Outside, a passing train screamed like an old memory refusing to fade. Jack’s eyes were grey—steady, calculating—while Jeeny’s seemed to hold the reflection of every cheering crowd that ever filled that stadium.

Jeeny: “You sound like that’s a bad thing. Maybe people need something like that—a team, a ritual, something that makes them believe they belong somewhere.”

Jack: “Believe? Sure. But belief’s cheap when it’s painted on foam fingers and sold for thirty bucks at the souvenir shop. You think cheering for the Dodgers brings someone closer to Heaven? It’s marketing, Jeeny—nostalgia sold with a side of sentimentality.”

Jeeny: “You always think everything’s for sale, Jack. Not everything that touches people’s hearts is a transaction.”

Jack: (leans forward, voice low) “Then tell me—what is it, really? When Lasorda said that line, he wasn’t talking theology. He was talking loyalty. Obsession. People worshipping a team like they’re worshipping a god. Isn’t that just another way of escaping real life?”

Host: A pause fell between them. The bartender turned down the volume, leaving only the faint crackle of the game’s replay. The camera panned across a sea of blue caps and open mouths—fans who had given their hearts, their weekends, their hopes—to a team that often broke them.

Jeeny: “It’s not escape, Jack. It’s connection. When my father took me to my first game, the Dodgers were losing. The crowd was frustrated. And yet—when that final out came, everyone still stood up and clapped. They clapped for the effort, for the shared experience, for the idea that next time, we might win. That’s not commerce. That’s humanity.”

Jack: “Humanity? Or herd behavior? People love what everyone else loves because it makes them feel safe. That’s not Heaven, that’s conformity.”

Jeeny: “No, that’s community. There’s a difference.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice trembled, but her eyes held firm. She brushed her hair behind her ear, the way someone does when they’re trying to keep their composure from cracking under the weight of emotion. Jack looked down at his drink, the amber liquid trembling slightly as he tapped the rim.

Jack: “You know, I get it. I really do. I’ve seen it—the father passing down a glove to his son, the grandmother still wearing her team’s cap after forty years. But tell me, Jeeny… when they lose, when the team trades your favorite player, when the game ends in heartbreak—what’s left? Just disappointment. People betting their happiness on something they can’t control.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that life itself? We bet our hearts on things we can’t control—love, family, even hope. Baseball’s just a mirror of that. When Lasorda said that line, I think he meant that loving something beyond yourself—no matter how flawed—is part of being human. And maybe that’s what Heaven is.”

Host: The light caught her face, half in shadow, half in glow. The music from the jukebox shifted—slow, nostalgic, almost mournful. Jack’s fingers tightened around his glass. There was something in her words that pierced through his skepticism, though he wouldn’t show it.

Jack: “So you’re saying Heaven’s a stadium? Filled with people in blue hats and beer in hand?”

Jeeny: (smiles) “Maybe. Maybe Heaven’s not a place—it’s a moment. The bottom of the ninth, bases loaded, two outs, and everyone’s holding their breath together. Maybe Heaven’s just that feeling that you’re not alone in the world.”

Host: Jack let out a short laugh, but it wasn’t cruel. It was tired, almost wistful. The kind of laughter that hides a wound. The sound of a man who once believed in something and forgot when he stopped.

Jack: “You talk like someone who still believes in magic. I used to. I used to watch those games with my old man too. But he’d scream at the TV, curse at the players, throw his cap on the floor. That wasn’t Heaven. That was disappointment dressed up in blue.”

Jeeny: “Maybe he just didn’t know how to see the beauty in the loss.”

Jack: “Or maybe he saw it too well. Maybe he saw how much people need myths just to get through another Monday.”

Host: The rain began outside, soft at first, then steady—a slow percussion against the glass. The reflections of the neon Dodgers sign flickered across the wet pavement like broken dreams that refused to stay dead.

Jeeny: “Do you remember 1988? Gibson’s home run? The man could barely walk, and yet he swung like his life depended on it. You could see every ounce of pain, hope, and faith in that swing. That wasn’t a myth. That was the human spirit in motion.”

Jack: “Yeah, and then he became a highlight reel. A commodity. You think that moment still belongs to him? Or does it belong to the millions who watched it until the emotion got worn down like an old tape?”

Jeeny: “It belongs to everyone who felt something because of it. That’s the thing about shared moments, Jack—they stop being one person’s and start becoming everyone’s. Maybe that’s what Lasorda meant by Heaven. A place where the love we gave doesn’t vanish.”

Host: The bar had grown quiet. Even the bartender paused, leaning against the counter, caught in the pull of their words. Outside, a car splashed through a puddle, its headlights gliding across Jeeny’s face, making her look almost ethereal—half mortal, half believer.

Jack: (softly) “You really think Heaven would care who you root for?”

Jeeny: “Not who you root for. But how. Whether you love something fully, even knowing it’ll break your heart sometimes.”

Jack: “That’s a dangerous way to live.”

Jeeny: “It’s the only way worth living.”

Host: The tension cracked—silence stretching thin, then melting into something gentler. Jack looked away, his eyes distant, seeing ghosts in the glow of the TV. Jeeny watched him with quiet tenderness, as if she understood the war inside him.

Jack: “You know, Lasorda once said baseball’s like life—you win some, you lose some, but you keep playing. Maybe you’re right. Maybe loving something, even if it’s imperfect, gives life a kind of holiness.”

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) “And maybe skepticism’s not the enemy of faith, Jack. Maybe it’s the fire that keeps it honest.”

Host: The rain had stopped. A thin mist clung to the window, and the first faint hint of dawn began to creep through the city skyline. The blue neon of the Dodgers sign dimmed, replaced by the pale light of morning. Jack raised his glass one last time—this time not in cynicism, but in quiet respect.

Jack: “To Lasorda then. And to Heaven—whatever shape it takes.”

Jeeny: “And to everyone who ever loved something enough to believe it mattered.”

Host: Their glasses clinked softly—a small sound, swallowed by the vast city around them. The camera pulled back slowly, through the window, past the mist, into the wide, awakening world. The stadium lights in the distance were fading now, but in that dim afterglow, something lingered—a kind of grace, born not of victory, but of devotion.

And somewhere in that quiet dawn, Heaven didn’t seem so far away after all.