My daughter learned to say, 'They're not even trying to cover!'

Host: The night was electric, humming with the faint buzz of neon signs and the steady murmur of television screens bleeding through the bar’s thin walls. A sports channel flickered on the old TV above the counter — a football game, mid-season, mid-chaos. The crowd’s roar rose and fell like waves breaking on shorelines of noise.

Jack sat hunched over a glass of bourbon, its amber surface reflecting the scoreboard in fractured light. Jeeny, beside him, stirred her gin, watching him with quiet amusement as the announcer’s voice boomed: “They’re not even trying to cover!”

Jack: “Now there’s a child after my own heart. Imagine that — a toddler shouting about point spreads before she can even say alphabet. It’s tragic… and kind of perfect.”

Jeeny: “Perfect? That a child learns the language of cynicism before she learns hope?”

Host: The TV light pulsed against their faces — blue, then white, then gold as the camera panned across a stadium full of cheering fans. The bartender polished a glass, his movements slow, mechanical, the background chatter fading into the low hum of disbelief and dreams misplaced.

Jack: “Come on, Jeeny. It’s the world she’s growing up in. We don’t believe in miracles anymore — we bet on them. Her dad’s a gambler, the TV’s her nursery rhyme, and the odds are her alphabet blocks. You can’t fault the kid for being observant.”

Jeeny: “Observant, yes. But it’s more than that, Jack. It’s inheritance. A child doesn’t just absorb the world — she reflects it. When she says ‘They’re not even trying to cover’, she’s not just echoing a phrase — she’s echoing a philosophy. The idea that every action, every relationship, every dream must have stakes.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice softened, but her eyes glowed with that quiet fervor that always unsettled Jack — a warmth that could cut through his armor of reason.

Jack: “And what’s wrong with that? Life does have stakes. You just prefer to pretend it doesn’t. People bet because they need control, some illusion of it. The market, the casino, even love — it’s all the same. You place your chips, you hope the odds shift, and most of the time, they don’t.”

Jeeny: “But when hope becomes a wager, Jack, doesn’t it lose its purity? That little girl — she’s not hoping her team wins; she’s calculating. She’s learning to see the world not through wonder, but through risk assessment. It’s a sad education — to grow up thinking everything is just numbers.”

Host: The bar lights dimmed, leaving only the TV’s glow and the faint smell of spilled whiskey and fried onions. Jack leaned back, exhaling smoke that curled upward like a thought he couldn’t admit.

Jack: “You make it sound like math kills the magic. But maybe it just reveals what’s really there. Kids these days — they’re not naïve. They see through the illusion faster than we ever did. That girl, she’s not losing innocence — she’s gaining clarity.”

Jeeny: “Clarity without compassion is just coldness in disguise. When I hear that quote, I don’t laugh. I ache. Because it means we’ve made cynicism sound like wisdom. We’re teaching our children to be skeptics before they ever get to be believers.”

Host: A pause settled between them, heavy as the air before thunder. Outside, a light rain began to fall, drumming softly on the windows. The TV crowd erupted — a touchdown — but in the bar, no one cheered.

Jack: “You really think the world’s better off with believers? Look around. Belief built wars, markets, ideologies. Maybe a little cynicism is the only way to survive.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Cynicism is how we stop living while still breathing. It’s armor we wear to avoid feeling. But it doesn’t make us safe — it just makes us empty. You call it realism, but what if it’s just fear?”

Host: Jack’s hand tightened around his glass, the ice clinking against the sides. For a long moment, he didn’t answer. The reflections on the table danced — numbers, scores, faces of men chasing yards under artificial lights.

Jack: “Fear’s not always the enemy, Jeeny. Sometimes it’s the only honest thing left. You think I don’t wish I could believe in innocence again? But every time I’ve tried, the world laughed and said, ‘They’re not even trying to cover.’”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s time to stop betting against it. Maybe the point isn’t to win, Jack — it’s to believe even when the odds mock you.”

Host: The sound of her words hung in the air like smoke, fragile but refusing to disperse. Jack looked at her, really looked — at the tired grace in her eyes, the light still fighting behind them.

Jack: “You think one person can change that? This… culture of odds and outcomes? We’ve turned everything into a scoreboard. Even our children are keeping count before they learn to play.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the only way to change it is to play anyway. To teach them that not everything needs to be covered, predicted, or won. That some things — like love, kindness, trust — aren’t part of the game at all.”

Host: The rain softened, the windows fogged, and the crowd noise from the TV faded to a dull, distant pulse. Jack’s brow furrowed, his fingers tracing the rim of his glass as if searching for an answer there.

Jack: “When my dad taught me to bet, he said, ‘Son, if you can’t read the spread, you’re part of the herd.’ Maybe that’s what we’ve done to our kids — made them afraid of being naïve.”

Jeeny: “Then let’s make it safe to be naïve again. Wisdom doesn’t have to be cynical, Jack. It can be kind. The daughter in Holzhauer’s quote — she’s clever, yes, but imagine if she’d instead said, ‘They’re not even trying to hope.’ Which would you rather hear?”

Host: Jack’s eyes lifted, meeting hers. The tension between them softened, like ice thawing in a slow stream. The game ended — final score flashing like a verdict — and for a brief, silent beat, the bar felt like a confessional.

Jack: “Hope, huh? Feels like a bad bet.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But it’s the only one worth placing.”

Host: Jack smiled, small and wounded, yet somehow new. He reached for his wallet, pulled out a crumpled note, and scribbled something before sliding it across the table.

Jeeny glanced down: “Teach her hope. Odds be damned.”

Jack: “For when that little girl’s old enough to know the game’s rigged — maybe she’ll still play for love.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe she’ll change the rules.”

Host: The rain stopped. A faint ray of light from a passing car glimmered across their glasses, like a brief blessing. In the stillness, the TV went silent, and the bar seemed to breathe again.

Outside, the city pulsed — bets placed, dreams chased, hearts guarded. But inside that small corner booth, a different kind of wager had been made — not on numbers, but on humanity.

And as they sat there, two souls beneath the dim neon glow, it felt, for once, like someone — somewhere — might actually try to cover.