My dad was born in Cuba and my mother's family is Puerto Rican.

Host: The stadium lights dimmed, leaving only the faint orange of sunset spilling over the empty bleachers. The smell of grass and dust hung in the air — the quiet perfume of a field after a long day’s work. The scoreboard stood blank, its stillness almost reverent. In the distance, the American flag swayed lightly in the cooling breeze, the sound of fabric whispering across the silence like a hymn.

Jack sat on the dugout bench, baseball cap in his hands, his gaze distant — fixed somewhere between the fading light and his own reflection on the metal railing. Jeeny stood nearby, her hair pulled back, her expression soft, as if she could feel the weight of generations in the stillness.

Jeeny: “Nolan Arenado once said, ‘My dad was born in Cuba and my mother's family is Puerto Rican. But my parents are both extremely proud to be American citizens, and they raised me to take pride in being from this country.’”

Jack: turning slightly toward her “You can hear the heartbeat of heritage in that. Roots and stars all tangled together.”

Jeeny: “It’s more than patriotism. It’s gratitude with history stitched into it.”

Jack: “Gratitude earned, not assumed.”

Host: The sound of a train horn drifted faintly in from the distance — that timeless sound of departure and arrival, of people carrying stories across borders and back again. The sky deepened into a violet haze, and the field lights flickered off, one by one.

Jeeny: “I like how he says ‘take pride.’ Not blind pride. Not arrogance. Just a kind of humble belonging.”

Jack: “Yeah. Pride without exclusion. That’s rare these days.”

Jeeny: “It’s a kind of pride that doesn’t erase where you come from — it expands to hold it.”

Jack: nodding slowly “His words carry the rhythm of a dual inheritance. Cuban fire, Puerto Rican soul, American promise.”

Jeeny: “That’s the kind of blend that builds this country’s real backbone — people whose identity isn’t divided, just layered.”

Host: A soft wind stirred the dirt near home plate, raising a small swirl before settling again. The evening air hummed with a peace that comes only after work is done — after sweat has dried, and dreams have been temporarily laid to rest until tomorrow.

Jack: “You ever notice how the ones who came from somewhere else — or whose parents did — talk about America differently? They see it like a fragile miracle, not an entitlement.”

Jeeny: “Because they know what it means to choose it. To earn it. To build a life where there used to be nothing but hope and hunger.”

Jack: with a small smile “You sound like my grandmother. She used to tell me, ‘Love of country isn’t loud, it’s loyal. It’s how you live, not what you shout.’”

Jeeny: “Your grandmother sounds wise.”

Jack: “She was. Came from Poland with one suitcase and a recipe book. Built a bakery, three kids, and a future. Said America was a place that gives you the hammer but expects you to swing it.”

Jeeny: softly “That’s it. That’s what Arenado’s quote reminds me of — that citizenship isn’t just paperwork. It’s participation.”

Host: The flag above the stadium fluttered again, the metal clasps clinking softly against the pole. The last of the sunlight caught its edge, igniting a thin rim of gold.

Jack: “Funny thing about pride. Everyone wears it differently. Some wear it like armor — to prove something. Others wear it like a reminder — of where they came from and what it cost to get here.”

Jeeny: “And sometimes it’s both. Pride as defense and devotion.”

Jack: “Arenado sounds like the second kind. The grounded kind.”

Jeeny: “Because he knows his story is bigger than him. It’s his parents’, too — their journey becoming his identity.”

Jack: leaning back against the dugout wall “You think pride ever gets complicated? For people who inherit more than one culture?”

Jeeny: “Of course. Pride without conflict isn’t real pride. It’s the friction that gives it meaning. The tension between where you come from and where you belong — that’s where the truth lives.”

Jack: quietly “You ever feel that tension?”

Jeeny: after a pause “Every day. My mother was born in Seoul, my father in Detroit. Some days I feel too much of both; other days, not enough of either.”

Jack: “And how do you make peace with that?”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “By remembering that belonging isn’t about bloodlines — it’s about contribution. About what you give back to the place that gave you a chance.”

Host: The stadium lights came back on briefly, bathing the field in white again as a crew entered from the tunnel — groundskeepers with brooms, hoses, and quiet efficiency. The sound of water spraying onto the dirt filled the air.

Jeeny watched them for a moment, her eyes tracing the simple rhythm of maintenance — care, consistency, continuity.

Jeeny: “Look at them. That’s what being proud of your country looks like. Ordinary people keeping things ready for the next day.”

Jack: “Stewards of tomorrow’s game.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Patriotism isn’t fireworks. It’s maintenance.”

Host: The hosewater shimmered under the lights, forming temporary rainbows. Jack stood, brushing dust from his jeans, his expression thoughtful — the kind of quiet reflection that belongs to men who understand the difference between strength and sentiment.

Jack: “You know, Arenado’s words… they’re not just about pride. They’re about gratitude inherited — a legacy of faith in something imperfect but worth believing in.”

Jeeny: “Yes. A promise handed down, not yet complete — but still alive.”

Jack: “That’s what I love about America, Jeeny. It’s always unfinished. That’s what keeps it honest.”

Jeeny: smiling softly “And that’s what keeps it human.”

Host: The flag above them rustled again, more alive now in the night breeze. Beyond the stadium, the city lights glittered — each one a small story, a small dream, a continuation of someone’s hope.

Jack and Jeeny stood for a moment longer, listening to the sounds of the field — the scrape of rakes, the hiss of water, the rhythm of work.

Then Jeeny whispered, almost reverently:

Jeeny: “Maybe pride isn’t about where you’re from. It’s about who you become because of it.”

Jack: nodding “And who you help become after you.”

Host: The ground crew finished, turning off the lights one by one. The stadium fell into shadow, but the air still pulsed with the quiet heartbeat of belonging.

And as Jack and Jeeny walked away, their footsteps fading into the hum of the city, Nolan Arenado’s words lingered behind them — gentle, strong, unpretentious:

That true pride doesn’t demand perfection —
it remembers effort.

That identity isn’t divided by heritage —
it’s deepened by it.

And that love of country isn’t about where you stand,
but how you stand,
and what you choose to carry forward.