My mom's always asking me for hits and stolen bases and home runs

Host: The afternoon sun hung low over the baseball field, casting long shadows across the empty bleachers. The faint smell of dirt and grass filled the air, and somewhere in the distance, a lone bat struck ball, echoing through the stadium like a heartbeat.

In the dugout, Jack sat slouched against the bench, still in his worn-out uniform, his hands coated with a thin layer of dust. His eyes were half-tired, half-lost in thought. Across from him, Jeeny leaned against the chain-link fence, her hair pulled back loosely, a soft breeze catching a few strands that glowed in the afternoon light.

Host: The game had ended hours ago, but neither had left. There was something in the stillness of that moment — something more human than the roar of any crowd.

Jeeny: “Trea Turner once said, ‘My mom’s always asking me for hits and stolen bases and home runs and different things on Mother’s Day and her birthday.’”

Host: Her voice carried the tone of quiet amusement, but beneath it, something warmer stirred — an understanding of love spoken through rituals and expectations.

Jack: “Yeah,” he said, his grey eyes narrowing. “It’s funny — but it’s also kind of sad, isn’t it? Even the simplest love ends up being measured in stats.”

Jeeny: “Stats? No, Jack. It’s not about that. It’s about connection. About a mother asking her son to make her proud, in the only language he lives by.”

Jack: “Maybe. But you can’t deny it — we turn everything into a scoreboard. Even love. Especially love. Parents want trophies, kids chase approval. It’s transactional. We trade effort for affection.”

Host: A soft wind drifted through the dugout, rustling a forgotten scorecard pinned to the wall. The sound was like an echo of the crowd that once filled the seats.

Jeeny: “You think a mother’s pride is transactional?”

Jack: “I think it can be. Look at athletes, musicians, anyone who’s good at something. You start young, and every win feels like proof that you’re worth something — not just to the world, but to the people you love. Especially to the ones watching from the stands.”

Jeeny: “Maybe you’re confusing pride with pressure.”

Jack: “They feel the same when you’re the one playing.”

Host: Jack’s voice carried a familiar heaviness — the kind that grows over years of expectation, of always being told to do more, be better, perform higher. His hands clenched around his bat, as though it were both a weapon and a burden.

Jeeny: “You know,” she said softly, “when I read that quote, I didn’t hear pressure. I heard affection. A mother asking for home runs isn’t demanding proof — she’s celebrating the pieces of her child’s world. She’s saying, ‘Show me your joy.’”

Jack: “Or she’s saying, ‘Make me proud.’ There’s a difference.”

Jeeny: “Pride isn’t always selfish, Jack. Sometimes it’s the only way a parent knows how to say love.”

Host: A long pause fell between them. The sun slid behind the bleachers, the sky now painted in hues of orange and dusty rose. The stadium lights flickered, one by one, humming quietly as they came to life.

Jack: “You know my father never came to a single game?”

Jeeny: “Never?”

Jack: “Not one. He said baseball was a waste of time. Said there were better ways to make a living. I used to imagine him there, though. In the stands. Maybe even cheering. I’d swing harder just to hear the sound of that cheer — even if it only existed in my head.”

Host: The memory hung heavy in the air. A boy, a bat, a voice that never came.

Jeeny: “And yet you kept playing.”

Jack: “Yeah. Because somewhere deep down, I still thought maybe one day he’d show up. Maybe one perfect hit would be enough to make him proud.”

Jeeny: “So you played for love, Jack. You just never got it the way you needed.”

Jack: “And you think that’s noble? Because all I see now are men chasing ghosts — swinging at expectations that never end.”

Jeeny: “But isn’t that what we all do? Try to make someone proud — even if it’s just a memory?”

Host: The wind picked up again, scattering dust across the field. The lights glowed brighter now, creating long, lonely shadows on the grass.

Jeeny: “When Trea Turner said that, I think he meant something deeper than a joke. Maybe his mother doesn’t just want hits or home runs. Maybe she wants to be part of his life, to see herself in his rhythm. The hits are just her way of saying, ‘I’m still with you.’”

Jack: “Or her way of reminding him not to fail.”

Jeeny: “No. Her way of reminding him he can succeed.”

Jack: “You always find the poetry, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “And you always find the wound.”

Host: Jack smiled faintly, the kind of smile that comes from a truth too close for comfort. The air around them grew quieter, more intimate, as the stadium lights hummed softly above.

Jeeny: “You ever wonder what it feels like — for a mother to watch her child out there, knowing the world might cheer or boo in the same breath?”

Jack: “I don’t know. Maybe it’s pride. Maybe it’s terror. Maybe it’s both.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s love — the blend of fear and faith. The way she asks for home runs isn’t about the game. It’s about the hope that her child still plays with heart.”

Host: Her eyes gleamed, the light reflecting in them like candle flame. Jack looked down, tracing lines in the dirt with his bat, his voice softer now.

Jack: “You know, I hit my first home run when I was fourteen. My mom was in the stands. She cried. I thought it was because I finally did something worth noticing. But now…”

Jeeny: “Now what?”

Jack: “Now I think she was crying because she knew how much I needed it.”

Host: The silence that followed was filled with the echo of everything unsaid — the kind of silence that heals instead of wounds.

Jeeny: “Then maybe you understand Trea’s words after all.”

Jack: “Maybe I do. Maybe it’s not about the hit — it’s about being seen.”

Jeeny: “Yes. To be seen, to be remembered, to be cheered for by someone who loves you — that’s what we’re all swinging for, isn’t it?”

Host: The sky deepened into violet, the stadium lights burning against the darkness. A faint echo of laughter came from the field — young players packing up, their voices carrying with the breeze.

Jack: “You know, if my mom asked me for a home run now… I think I’d actually try to hit one. Not for pride. For her.”

Jeeny: “That’s the point. Not the scoreboard — the love behind the request.”

Host: Jeeny smiled, her eyes soft, her face lit by the dim glow of the field. Jack set his bat down, the metal ringing lightly against the bench.

Jack: “You think love ever stops keeping score?”

Jeeny: “No. But I think the best kind of love forgets who’s winning.”

Host: The last light flickered out in the distance. The field was dark now, quiet except for the whisper of the wind moving through the stands.

Jack and Jeeny walked out together, their footsteps soft on the dirt, the stadium behind them fading into memory.

Host: Above them, the moon rose — a pale white ball suspended in the infinite sky. It hung there like a final play, untouched, perfect.

Host: And somewhere — far beyond the fences, beyond the lights — a mother was smiling, waiting for the next home run that meant her child was still chasing something beautiful.