If you're a doctor or a lawyer or teacher, if you only get three

Host: The evening was thick with the scent of wet grass and fading light. Beyond the bleachers, the sky stretched like a bruised canvas, streaked with orange and steel-blue, the kind that feels both alive and tired. A baseball field lay in silence after practice — gloves forgotten on the bench, a lone ball rolling slowly toward the fence.

Jack stood by the chain-link, his hands gripping the cold metal, his breath visible in the chill air. Jeeny sat on the lowest row, her hair pulled back, the dirt from the field still smudged across her jeans.

Host: The world was quiet except for the faint echo of a bat hitting a ball far away — a memory, maybe, or just the wind carrying an old sound.

Jeeny: “You ever think about that line from Jamie Moyer?” she asked softly. “He said if you’re a doctor or a lawyer or a teacher, and you only get three things right out of ten, you’re a failure. But in baseball, three out of ten means you’re great. Isn’t that wild?”

Jack: “It’s not wild,” he muttered, his voice low. “It’s just math. Context changes everything.”

Host: The light from the field lamps flickered once, then steadied, casting a long shadow that split the ground between them.

Jeeny: “No, it’s more than context, Jack. It’s about how we measure worth. In some worlds, being wrong seven times out of ten means you’re done. In others, it means you’re one of the best. Doesn’t that bother you? How much the world’s idea of success depends on where you stand?”

Jack: “It doesn’t bother me. That’s how systems work. Medicine can’t afford error. Teaching can’t either. But baseball? Baseball’s built on failure. Every swing is a risk. You can’t compare saving a life to hitting a fastball.”

Host: His words hung there — sharp, steady, unflinching — like the crack of a bat before the silence after. Jeeny watched him, her eyes reflecting the lamp glow, but her voice softened, not to yield, but to deepen.

Jeeny: “But maybe that’s what life is, Jack. A baseball game, not an operating room. You keep missing, but you show up again anyway. You don’t need to save the world every time. You just need to keep swinging.”

Jack: “That’s poetic, Jeeny. But tell that to a surgeon in the ER. Tell that to a pilot landing in fog. Some people can’t afford the beauty of mistakes.”

Jeeny: “And yet, they make them anyway. Doctors misdiagnose. Lawyers lose cases. Teachers fail to reach students. They’re human. The question isn’t whether they can afford mistakes — it’s whether they can forgive themselves for them.”

Host: A train horn moaned in the distance, deep and slow, like a memory dragging chains. Jack turned, his eyes narrowing slightly, his breath clouding the air.

Jack: “Forgiveness doesn’t fix consequences. Try telling a patient’s family that you ‘kept swinging.’ Failure means something different when lives are at stake.”

Jeeny: “But don’t you see? You’re still talking about perfection — about being invincible. And that’s what destroys people. Even in baseball, the greats fail most of the time. Moyer wasn’t just talking about sports; he was talking about grace. About being allowed to be human.”

Host: The wind picked up, sending dust swirling around their feet. The stadium lights buzzed like a dying bee, and the flag in center field snapped against the pole, loud and metallic.

Jack: “Grace doesn’t pay the bills. No one gives medals for effort. You think the world wants to hear that it’s okay to fail? No, Jeeny. It wants winners. The ones who make the impossible look easy.”

Jeeny: “But even winners lose, Jack. Babe Ruth struck out 1,330 times. Thomas Edison failed a thousand times before he made a light bulb. And Moyer himself — he was written off by every scout before he pitched for twenty-five years. What do all those failures mean, if not proof that persistence is its own kind of genius?”

Jack: “Maybe. Or maybe they’re just the exceptions. The stories we tell ourselves so failure doesn’t sting so bad. For every Ruth, there are a thousand who never hit the ball.”

Host: Jeeny stood slowly, brushing dirt from her hands, her breath trembling slightly but her eyes steady. She stepped closer, close enough that Jack could see the faint reflection of the field lights in her pupils — two small suns burning with quiet defiance.

Jeeny: “So what? We still have to swing. Even if we miss a thousand times. You know what terrifies me more than failure? Not trying. Waking up and realizing I lived safely, quietly, without ever missing anything — because I never dared to aim.”

Host: Jack’s hands loosened on the fence. He stared at the field, at the chalk lines faintly visible in the dim light, now blurred and uneven after the day’s practice.

Jack: “You make it sound noble. But people don’t get points for trying in this world. They get fired. They get forgotten. You’ve never had to choose between a dream and dinner.”

Jeeny: “You think I haven’t? Every teacher, every artist, every mother or father who keeps showing up — they make that choice every day. They fail, Jack. Constantly. But they stay. That’s what Moyer meant. In baseball, failure isn’t shame. It’s the game. Life should be the same.”

Host: The wind quieted. The lamp buzz faded to a low hum, like a heartbeat steadying after a sprint. The field, once chaotic with noise, now felt like a cathedral — the air thick with something between reverence and regret.

Jack: “You really think life should be graded like a batting average?”

Jeeny: “No. I think life should be lived like one. You keep showing up at the plate, even when you know the odds.”

Jack: “And when you keep striking out?”

Jeeny: “You learn. You adjust your stance. You remember that every swing, even the ones that miss, make you better at the next.”

Host: He turned to her then, his face softened, his eyes tired, but warmer than before. The edges of cynicism had dulled — not gone, but shaped into something almost tender.

Jack: “You sound like my father. He used to tell me that a bad day was just one inning, not the whole game.”

Jeeny: “Smart man.”

Jack: “Yeah. Died believing he struck out in life.”

Jeeny: “Then he didn’t understand the score.”

Host: The words hit him like a slow pitch — light at first, then heavy when it landed. He looked away, his throat tightening, as the first star flickered above the bleachers, small but defiant in the dim light.

Jack: “Maybe we’re all just trying to figure out which game we’re playing.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And maybe we’ve been too afraid to admit that no one bats a thousand — not even the best.”

Host: The night deepened, the field swallowed by shadow, except for the faint glow around the mound, like a small island of memory. Jack picked up a baseball from the ground, turning it in his hand, tracing the stitches with his thumb.

Jack: “Three out of ten, huh?”

Jeeny: “Three out of ten.”

Jack: “Guess that means we’ve still got seven more chances to get it wrong.”

Jeeny: “And that’s what makes it beautiful.”

Host: The camera would pull back, rising slowly over the field, the two of them standing small in the vast dark, their shadows merging on the dirt. The faint sound of a crowd — imagined or remembered — drifted in the air, a distant cheer for every human who ever dared to try again.

The screen fades, but not to silence.

Just the quiet, rhythmic sound of breath, hope, and the echo of a ball — still rolling somewhere in the dark.