Nobody can see into the future. Nobody knows what going to go on.

Host: The night had settled over the baseball field, the kind of night that carried both nostalgia and emptiness. The floodlights hummed, casting long white shadows over the dirt, and the smell of grass, leather, and faint rain hung in the air. The bleachers were empty now, save for Jack and Jeeny, sitting a few rows apart — not speaking at first, both watching the infield where memory still seemed to linger.

Host: The game had ended hours ago, but the scoreboard still glowed faintly: HOME 2, AWAY 3 — a small arithmetic of heartbreak and effort.

Jeeny: (breaking the silence) “Don Mattingly once said, ‘Nobody can see into the future. Nobody knows what’s going to go on.’”
(She looks toward the dugout.) “It sounds simple, doesn’t it? But it feels heavier when the lights are off.”

Jack: (low voice, gravelly) “That’s because the future only feels light when you can still swing at it.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “You talk like a coach who’s seen too many seasons.”

Jack: “I’ve seen enough to know how people romanticize prediction. Everyone wants a strategy, a forecast, a guarantee. But life —” (he gestures to the field) “— life throws curveballs.”

Host: The wind stirred, carrying a faint whistle through the stands. A stray plastic cup rolled across the concrete, making a hollow sound that echoed the emptiness of the night.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s what makes it beautiful. The unpredictability. Not knowing what comes next means anything could.”

Jack: “You call that beautiful?”

Jeeny: “Of course. You can’t have hope if you already know the ending.”

Host: The floodlight flickered, one by one, as if the stadium itself were listening.

Jack: “Hope’s a tricky thing, Jeeny. It’s the sugar we sprinkle on uncertainty to make it swallowable.”

Jeeny: “And what would you rather have? Certainty with no soul? Predictability with no pulse?”

Jack: (chuckling softly) “You’d make a terrible gambler.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But at least I’d enjoy the game.”

Host: A distant train horn moaned beyond the city, slow and heavy, cutting through the quiet. The field stretched out before them — the dirt, the bases, the chalk lines — symbols of effort, of order imposed upon chaos.

Jeeny: “You know, I think that’s what Mattingly was really talking about. Baseball, life — they’re the same thing. Nobody knows what’s coming, so you play every pitch like it matters.”

Jack: “Until you strike out.”

Jeeny: “Even then. Especially then.”

Host: The silence between them deepened, soft but alive. The kind of silence that holds room for both regret and renewal.

Jack: “I used to think I could predict things. I built my life like a playbook — decisions, investments, relationships — all planned. And then... it all fell apart anyway. Turns out the future doesn’t read blueprints.”

Jeeny: “It never does. The future’s like the wind, Jack. You can build the kite, but you don’t control the gust.”

Jack: (half-smiling) “You’re saying we just let go?”

Jeeny: “No. I’m saying we trust the motion.”

Host: The rain began, softly at first — a few drops tapping the metal seats, then steady, rhythmic, cleansing. Jeeny tilted her face upward, eyes closed, while Jack stayed still, his jaw tight, watching her.

Jack: “You ever get tired of believing things will work out?”

Jeeny: “Every day. But that’s why I keep believing. Faith isn’t about ease, Jack. It’s rebellion against despair.”

Host: Her voice trembled with conviction, the kind that grows only in those who’ve been broken and rebuilt. Jack exhaled slowly, his breath visible in the cooling air.

Jack: “You sound like someone who’s been through hell and made friends with it.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I have. Maybe the trick isn’t avoiding hell — it’s learning how to plant something there that still grows.”

Host: A long pause. The rain deepened, drumming on the metal roof above the dugout. Lightning flared briefly on the horizon, not violent, just illuminating.

Jack: “You really think not knowing is a gift?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because it keeps us awake. The moment you think you can see the future, you stop listening to the present.”

Host: The field shimmered now under the rain — each drop striking the dirt like punctuation in a long, unending sentence.

Jack: “You know, when I was younger, I played ball. Nothing serious. But there was this one game — tied in the ninth — bases loaded, two outs. I thought I knew where the pitcher was going to throw. Fastball inside. I swung before he even let go. Curveball. Missed by a mile.”

Jeeny: (smiling gently) “And?”

Jack: “And I learned something. The ball never does what you think it will. Neither does life.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The future’s not meant to be read, Jack. It’s meant to be met.”

Host: Her words landed softly, like the last notes of a song fading into silence. The lights in the stadium began to shut down, one row at a time, until only the glow from the scoreboard remained.

Jack: (standing) “So what do we do in the meantime?”

Jeeny: “We play. We show up. We keep swinging.”

Jack: “Even if we don’t know where the next pitch is coming from?”

Jeeny: “Especially then.”

Host: The rain eased, turning to mist. The moonlight broke through the clouds, reflecting off the wet grass — a brief shimmer of clarity in a world built on uncertainty.

Jack: (quietly) “You make not knowing sound like faith.”

Jeeny: “It is faith. The kind that keeps the world turning when everything else wants to stop.”

Host: They walked down the steps, their footsteps echoing through the empty stands. At the edge of the field, Jeeny paused and looked back at the scoreboard — that quiet reminder of effort, of outcome, of time.

Jeeny: “Maybe Mattingly was right. Nobody can see into the future. But maybe that’s mercy. If we knew what was coming, we’d never risk the swing.”

Host: Jack looked at her — at the way the light caught in her hair, at the way her voice seemed to belong to the wind itself. He nodded slowly, the faintest hint of peace in his eyes.

Jack: “Then here’s to not knowing.”

Jeeny: “And to playing anyway.”

Host: The rain stopped, leaving the air clean, the earth breathing again. Above them, the sky opened, vast and unknowable, and for a moment, the future felt less like something to fear — and more like a field waiting for the next pitch.

Host: And as they walked out into the dark, their shadows stretching across the diamond, the words hung in the quiet night like a prayer whispered between thunder and dawn:

that nobody knows what’s coming,
but every swing — every risk, every act of courage —
is what keeps the world alive.