I'm certainly thankful for what the Cubs did for me. I respect

Host:
The stadium was silent now — the crowd long gone, the lights dimmed to a soft, lingering glow that kissed the field with memory. The faint smell of dirt, grass, and rosin hung in the cool night air, and the scoreboard, still lit, told the story of a game already forgotten by time but not by those who played it.

In the empty dugout, Jack sat hunched forward, his elbows resting on his knees, a half-drunk bottle of water beside him. The red cap on his head was tilted back slightly, the logo faded from years of sun and sweat. His grey eyes, usually sharp and restless, had softened — the kind of look that comes only to those who’ve seen entire seasons pass, both on the field and off.

Jeeny walked across the grass, her shoes brushing softly against the chalked baseline. She carried two cups of coffee, the steam rising like ghosts from the past. Her brown eyes caught the light from the scoreboard — bright, reflective, curious.

Host:
She handed him the cup, and for a long moment, they both just sat — watching the last hints of light fade over the stands, hearing the low hum of the city beyond the gates. Somewhere in that quiet, Bruce Sutter’s words seemed to echo through the still air — simple, steady, and full of gratitude:

"I'm certainly thankful for what the Cubs did for me. I respect their organization. It's the same way with the Atlanta Braves, an awfully fine organization. I respect everybody who's down there, and that's still where I live today. But the Cardinals represent the best years of my career."

Jeeny:
(softly)
It’s strange, isn’t it? How a man can live so many versions of his life and still say — those were the best years.

Jack:
(smiling faintly)
Yeah. It’s like each chapter gets its own uniform, but there’s always one that fits just a little better.

Jeeny:
You think it’s about winning?

Jack:
(shakes his head)
No. It’s about belonging. About those rare years when everything clicks — the team, the rhythm, the feeling that you’re right where you’re supposed to be.

Jeeny:
You sound like you’ve been there.

Jack:
Maybe. Not on a ballfield — but somewhere. You know what it’s like, don’t you? That moment when your life stops being a climb and just… works.

Host:
A breeze drifted through the stands, whispering through the flags overhead. The sound of distant traffic mixed with the soft rustle of the field tarp being pulled across the diamond.

Jeeny:
I think that’s what makes gratitude so heavy. It’s not just thankfulness for what you had — it’s knowing you’ll never have it quite like that again.

Jack:
Yeah. Sutter wasn’t just talking about baseball. He was talking about time. About those fleeting years when the world feels perfectly aligned, and you don’t realize you’re in them until they’re gone.

Jeeny:
(nods)
The “best years” always sneak up on you. You don’t see them coming — you only see them leaving.

Jack:
(grinning softly)
You sound like a poet again.

Jeeny:
Maybe that’s what baseball does to people — turns them into poets without meaning to. It’s the only sport that understands memory as much as motion.

Host:
She looked out at the field — the perfect geometry of it, the silent beauty of the diamond under a sleepy sky. The bases gleamed faintly under the lights, each one a marker of time, of distance, of dreams pursued and sometimes reached.

Jack:
You know what I love about what Sutter said? He didn’t talk about trophies. He talked about people. About respect. That’s what lasts.

Jeeny:
Yeah. Respect and roots. He didn’t forget where he came from, even when he’d moved on.

Jack:
It’s rare — in any career. Most of us keep running toward the next thing, trying to make it bigger, shinier. But he sounded content. Like he’d already made peace with his own story.

Jeeny:
That’s the kind of peace that comes only after you stop needing to prove you belong.

Jack:
(quietly)
You think we ever get there?

Jeeny:
Maybe not all at once. But I think we get glimpses — the nights when you’re surrounded by people who know who you are, not just what you do. That’s your team. That’s your “Cardinals.”

Host:
Her words lingered, soft as the last glow of sunset. Jack took a sip of his coffee, the warmth grounding him. His eyes traveled across the empty seats — each one a story, each one a ghost.

Jack:
I remember when I was younger, I thought success meant movement. Always the next city, the next job, the next game. But I think I get it now — success is when you stop running and realize you’ve already arrived.

Jeeny:
(smiling)
And the irony? You only realize it when the season’s over.

Jack:
(laughs quietly)
Yeah. When the locker room’s empty, and you’re sitting there with your glove and your ghosts.

Jeeny:
That’s when gratitude starts to hurt — when it’s not about gain anymore, but about loss.

Jack:
And the love that came with it.

Host:
The stadium lights buzzed faintly, one by one, before shutting off. The night wrapped itself around them — soft, steady, full of the kind of silence that only comes after a story has ended well.

Jeeny:
You think we ever know when we’re in our “best years”?

Jack:
Maybe not. Maybe that’s why we keep looking back. The past has clarity — the present only has hope.

Jeeny:
So all we can do is play the inning we’re in, huh?

Jack:
(nods)
And try to do it with respect — for the field, for the people, for the version of ourselves that once dreamed of standing here.

Jeeny:
That sounds like something Sutter would’ve said.

Jack:
Yeah. Or maybe something I wish I’d learned sooner.

Host:
They stood then, slow and quiet, the sound of their shoes echoing faintly against the concrete steps. The field stretched out before them — vast, empty, eternal.

And as they walked out into the night, the air felt cleaner, the stars a little brighter, the world a little more forgiving.

Host:
For somewhere, under those same stars,
an old pitcher’s words still linger — not about glory,
not about victory,
but about gratitude.

Because the truth of Bruce Sutter’s words isn’t about baseball at all.
It’s about life — and the quiet grace of remembering where your best innings were played.

That it’s okay to have moved on,
to have changed teams,
to have grown older, slower, wiser —

as long as you can look back
and say with honesty,
with humility,
with peace:

“I was lucky. I was part of something good.
And for a while there — those were my best years.”