Keep your temper. A decision made in anger is never sound.

Host: The office was dim — the kind of quiet that lingers after long days and longer choices. The city lights outside flickered through half-drawn blinds, cutting the room into bars of amber and shadow. Papers were scattered across the desk like casualties of thought. The faint tick of a clock filled the space — deliberate, unforgiving.

Jack stood by the window, his jaw clenched, his hands gripping the back of a chair hard enough to make his knuckles pale. The storm inside him hadn’t yet passed. Jeeny entered quietly, setting down two mugs of coffee on the edge of the desk. She didn’t speak at first. She knew the air — she could hear the anger in it, the way one hears thunder before it breaks.

Jeeny: “Ford Frick once said, ‘Keep your temper. A decision made in anger is never sound.’”

Jack: without turning around “Tell that to someone who hasn’t been betrayed.”

Host: The light from the city framed him like a man standing on the edge of a decision — one wrong word away from a fall. Jeeny moved closer, her steps careful, her voice soft but certain.

Jeeny: “He didn’t say don’t feel anger. He said don’t decide in it. There’s a difference.”

Jack: turns slowly, eyes hard, voice low “And what if the decision can’t wait? What if someone has to act now — before the damage gets worse?”

Jeeny: “Then wait anyway. Because anger never acts — it reacts. It doesn’t build; it burns.”

Host: The air between them grew taut, almost visible. Jack’s reflection stared back from the window — two versions of him: one calm, one burning.

Jack: “You talk like it’s easy to control.”

Jeeny: quietly “It isn’t. But control isn’t suppression. It’s perspective. You step back, breathe, and remember that feelings are weather — not laws.”

Jack: “Weather floods cities too.”

Jeeny: nodding “Yes. But wise people don’t build in the middle of the storm.”

Host: Her words hung there, heavy and clear. The clock ticked again — louder now, it seemed. Jack exhaled, his shoulders easing just slightly.

Jack: “You know, when Frick said that, he was talking about baseball.”

Jeeny: “Baseball?” she smiled faintly, surprised.

Jack: “Yeah. He was Commissioner. During one of the biggest scandals in the game, everyone wanted blood — immediate punishment. The whole country was angry. But Frick waited. He said justice made in fury is vengeance in disguise. He was right.”

Jeeny: “So even in baseball, patience is a virtue.”

Jack: half-smile “In everything. But I’m not Frick. I’m not that calm.”

Jeeny: softly “Maybe calm isn’t the goal. Maybe it’s clarity.”

Host: Outside, the city pulsed — distant sirens, murmurs of life, the eternal hum of movement. Inside, the office was still, like the inside of a heartbeat between beats.

Jeeny: “Anger can be honest, Jack. Sometimes it’s the body’s way of saying, ‘Something’s wrong.’ But honesty isn’t always wisdom. You can listen to anger without letting it speak for you.”

Jack: running a hand through his hair “You ever feel like if you don’t act while you’re angry, you’ll lose the fire to act at all?”

Jeeny: “Yes. But fire’s not what changes the world — light is. Anger starts the spark, but reason carries it.”

Host: Jack moved to the desk, picking up one of the papers — a letter, half-written, his penmanship sharp and furious. He stared at it, then set it down again. The muscles in his jaw loosened.

Jack: “You ever notice how anger convinces you it’s courage?”

Jeeny: “Because it feels powerful. But real courage isn’t in the shouting — it’s in the waiting. In holding back when your instincts scream to strike.”

Jack: “That’s restraint.”

Jeeny: “No. That’s strength. Restraint is fear of consequence. Strength is understanding consequence.”

Host: The streetlight outside flickered, spilling gold across the desk. Jeeny’s eyes caught the glow — steady, calm, unwavering. Jack sat down at last, rubbing his temples, the storm beginning to break.

Jack: “You think anger ever serves a purpose?”

Jeeny: “It does. It tells you where your boundaries are. It shows you what matters. But decisions — real decisions — require distance. Otherwise, you’re just letting pain pick the path.”

Host: A long silence followed. The kind that feels like the aftermath of a thunderstorm — wet, quiet, full of reflection.

Jack: sighs “You know, it’s strange. The longer you stay angry, the smaller the world feels. Everything narrows down to the wound. Peace feels impossible.”

Jeeny: “That’s why Frick said it’s never sound. Anger changes your hearing — makes you mistake noise for truth.”

Jack: looking up at her “And you? You ever made a decision in anger?”

Jeeny: a quiet pause “Once. I left someone I loved because I thought my pain was justice. I thought walking away was strength. It took me years to realize I was just running from vulnerability.”

Jack: softly “And now?”

Jeeny: “Now I pause. I let the anger speak, then I ask it what it’s really trying to say.”

Host: Jack’s eyes softened, the edges of frustration giving way to understanding. The paper on the desk lay untouched, but its meaning had changed.

Jack: quietly, almost to himself “A decision made in anger is never sound…”

Jeeny: “Because anger is temporary, but decisions echo.”

Host: Outside, the first drops of rain began to fall against the window — light, cleansing, deliberate. The city lights blurred, turning the world into streaks of reflection.

Jeeny reached for her cup, taking a slow sip of coffee. Jack followed suit, their silence no longer heavy — just shared.

Jeeny: “You’ll know when the time’s right to decide. But right now, all you owe yourself is clarity.”

Jack: nodding slowly “And peace.”

Jeeny: smiles softly “Yes. The sound kind.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back then — the two of them framed by the rain-streaked window, the city glowing behind them, the chaos of the world muted by the sanctuary of understanding.

And as the scene faded, Ford Frick’s wisdom settled over it all like the calm after thunder:

that anger may feel powerful,
but its hands are unsteady;
and a mind on fire cannot build —
it can only burn.

Host: To keep your temper
is not to suppress your truth,
but to guard your peace
until truth can speak clearly.

For every sound decision
is born not from fury,
but from the quiet courage
to wait —
and that,
in its rare, luminous discipline,
is truly amazing.