In the morning, I reach for the sports page.

Host: The morning was the kind that hesitated — soft light stretching itself lazily over the skyline, unsure whether to promise hope or repetition. The city below stirred in fragments: a few cars, a baker’s door swinging open, a faint radio whispering yesterday’s dreams. Inside a small apartment, the world was quieter — a still-life of steam, paper, and habit.

The window was half-open, letting in the scent of coffee and distant rain. On the table sat a newspaper, folded neatly beside a chipped mug and an ashtray filled with the ghosts of last night’s thoughts.

Jack sat there, bare-armed, still wearing the kind of fatigue that no shower can wash off. The morning paper lay open in front of him, untouched except for the top page — Sports. Always Sports.

Jeeny emerged from the hallway, still buttoning her shirt, her hair catching the first strands of sunlight. She paused when she saw him — the old ritual alive again, his world reduced to columns of ink and motion.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “In the morning, I reach for the sports page.”

(She nods toward the paper.) Lisa Guerrero.

Jack: (without looking up) You say it like scripture.

Jeeny: (pouring coffee) Maybe it is. Every believer has their holy text.

Jack: (grinning) And mine’s box scores and bad stats?

Jeeny: (sitting across from him) Don’t pretend it’s just numbers. You’re not reading — you’re remembering.

Host: The steam from her mug rose between them, curling like smoke between two mirrors. The sound of the city — a distant horn, the shuffle of footsteps on wet pavement — filled the silences their hearts didn’t want to touch.

Jack: (finally looking up) It’s funny, isn’t it? You spend your life chasing the front page — making news, breaking stories — and in the end, you just want to read about who hit the winning run.

Jeeny: (softly) Because the sports page still believes in heroes.

Jack: (nodding slowly) And losers who get another chance tomorrow.

Jeeny: (smiling) Exactly.

Host: The light deepened, warming the edges of the paper, turning the ink from gray to almost gold. Jack ran his finger along the edge of the page, tracing the printed names as if they were the memories of people he’d once been.

Jack: (quietly) You know, my dad used to do this. Every morning, same ritual — coffee, toast, sports section. He said it was the only part of the paper that didn’t lie.

Jeeny: (laughing softly) He wasn’t wrong. Politics changes truth every day. Sports just changes scores.

Jack: (smiling faintly) Yeah. A simpler honesty. Someone wins. Someone loses. And everyone knows the rules.

Jeeny: (gently) That’s why you love it, isn’t it? It’s predictable chaos. The rest of life — it’s just chaos without the scoreboard.

Jack: (half-smiling) You make it sound poetic.

Jeeny: (taking a sip) Maybe it is. Every box score is a haiku about effort and chance.

Host: Her voice softened, and the morning light caught her hair just as the wind nudged the open window, rustling the paper — that faint, beautiful sound of pages turning, like time itself stretching its limbs.

Jack: (reading quietly) “Cubs rally in the ninth.” That’s the kind of story I still believe in.

Jeeny: (softly) The comeback.

Jack: (nodding) Yeah. The myth that no matter how bad it gets, there’s always one more inning.

Jeeny: (smiling) That’s not a myth, Jack. That’s hope in uniform.

Host: The radio hummed faintly in the background — a local host reading scores with the casual devotion of a priest reciting names from a sacred scroll. The rhythm of the voice — teams, numbers, victories — was oddly comforting, like the pulse of something familiar.

Jack: (after a pause) You know what I think? The sports page is the only place where failure gets a second draft.

Jeeny: (leaning forward) And redemption’s measured in innings, not decades.

Jack: (grinning faintly) You always have to outpoet me, don’t you?

Jeeny: (smiling softly) Only because you secretly like it.

Host: The light grew bolder now, splashing across the table, making the paper almost glow. There was something cinematic about it — two people, framed by habit and love, caught between cynicism and faith.

Jack: (quietly) You ever wonder why people keep reading? Why they still care who wins?

Jeeny: (thoughtful) Because in a world where most things stay broken, it’s nice to watch something that can still be fixed by the next season.

Jack: (smiling faintly) Or the next morning.

Jeeny: (softly) Exactly.

Host: A soft breeze lifted the top corner of the paper, revealing the front page beneath — headlines about politics, disaster, unrest. But neither of them looked. Their world remained on the back half, the smaller print, the quiet victories that didn’t make noise but still mattered.

Jack: (looking up at her) You think it’s childish — clinging to this?

Jeeny: (shaking her head) No. I think it’s sacred. The world needs places where effort still equals outcome.

Jack: (quietly) Even if it’s only for nine innings.

Jeeny: (smiling) Especially then.

Host: She reached across the table, straightened a crease in the paper, and smiled at the headline — a small act of order in an unordered world. The light hit her face, gentle and golden, and for a moment, time stopped — as if the entire city, the entire planet, had paused to take a breath.

Jack: (softly) “In the morning, I reach for the sports page.” You know, it sounds like she’s talking about faith.

Jeeny: (nodding) Maybe she is. Faith in effort. In trying again. In human hands finding their aim, day after day.

Host: The camera pulled back slowly — from the table, from the window, from the city beginning to hum again. The radio’s murmur faded into the heartbeat of the day.

The sunlight fully broke now, and the shadows disappeared, leaving only motion — of pages, of people, of another beginning that didn’t need to be perfect, only honest.

Host (closing):
Because what Lisa Guerrero understood —
and what we all quietly practice each morning —
is that we turn to the sports page,
not for distraction, but for faith:
in second chances,
in comebacks,
in the simple courage
to play again tomorrow.