On my morning run, I listen to sports talk radio.

Host: The morning broke like a quiet confession — the sky still bruised with leftover night, streaks of pink and gray bleeding into the horizon. The city wasn’t fully awake yet; the streets were damp, reflective, echoing the footsteps of the few who believed in motion before meaning.

The sound of distant traffic, a single horn, the rhythmic drip of condensation from fire escapes — all folded into the steady beat of sneakers against pavement. It was the kind of hour where solitude didn’t feel lonely; it felt earned.

Jack ran along the river path, his breath visible in the cold air, headphones in, the faint echo of a radio voice buzzing in his ears. Behind him, the city exhaled smoke and steam; ahead, the light stretched further, coaxing him forward.

From the bridge above, Jeeny watched him, coffee cup in hand, leaning against the iron railing. She smiled faintly — she always admired the way he ran: like he was both escaping something and chasing something else.

Jeeny: (calling out, half-laughing) “On my morning run, I listen to sports talk radio.”

(She sips her coffee.) Lisa Guerrero.

Jack: (slowing to a jog, pulling out one earbud) That’s what this is — philosophy disguised as football analysis.

Jeeny: (smiling) You find philosophy in the strangest places.

Jack: (grinning) You’d be surprised. Those guys arguing about quarterbacks? They’re really talking about destiny, failure, redemption — they just don’t know it.

Jeeny: (mocking) So ESPN is your temple now?

Jack: (catching his breath) Maybe. It’s loud, flawed, passionate — just like faith.

Host: The sunlight crept higher, soft and tentative, sliding down the steel beams of the bridge, glinting off the river like liquid glass. The air smelled of damp metal and early-day ambition.

Jeeny: (curious) Why do you listen, really? You don’t even agree with half of what they say.

Jack: (shrugging) That’s the point. They argue about meaning without realizing it. One guy says, “Winning’s everything.” The other says, “No, it’s about love of the game.” That’s theology, not sports.

Jeeny: (smiling softly) Maybe it’s simpler than that. Maybe you just like the sound of people still believing in something.

Jack: (quietly) Yeah. Maybe I do.

Host: The river wind lifted his hair, carrying faint fragments of the radio chatter still coming from his one dangling earbud. The tone was animated — hosts laughing, voices overlapping, a strange poetry of opinion and noise.

Jeeny: (thoughtful) You know what I think? The reason people love sports talk is because it’s one of the last places where passion isn’t punished.

Jack: (nodding slowly) Exactly. No one apologizes for caring too much about a game. But care too much about life, and they call you dramatic.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) So you run to remember it’s still okay to care.

Jack: (grinning) And to remind myself that chaos has rhythm — if you move fast enough, it almost sounds like music.

Host: His breath came steadier now, his body finding its rhythm again, each step syncing with the distant chatter of the radio. The world was waking — a bus rumbled by, a dog barked somewhere in the park, a jogger waved as she passed. The city’s pulse began to quicken.

Jeeny: (leaning on the railing) You ever notice how sports talk mirrors life? People debating things they can’t control, getting angry over outcomes that don’t belong to them.

Jack: (nodding) Yeah. But it’s comforting, isn’t it? To pretend that logic applies to something as unpredictable as fate.

Jeeny: (softly) Or love.

Jack: (smiling faintly) Especially love.

Host: The camera might have followed him as he started running again — the bridge stretching behind him, the city unfurling before him. The sunlight spilled full now, flooding the river in gold. His shadow elongated — one man running with ghosts of every past version of himself.

Jeeny: (calling out) So what are they arguing about today?

Jack: (turning his head slightly as he ran) Whether greatness is talent or discipline.

Jeeny: (smiling) And what do you think?

Jack: (without stopping) Greatness is consistency. Showing up even when no one’s watching.

Host: His voice faded into distance as he disappeared around the bend of the river. The faint echo of radio static followed him — voices dissecting glory, failure, legacy.

Jeeny watched him go, her expression soft, reflective. She took another sip of coffee and whispered to the wind:

Jeeny: (quietly) Showing up. Even when it hurts.

Host: The city had fully woken now — sirens, conversations, the pulse of a thousand lives beginning their own races. The sky had shed its uncertainty; it was bright, blue, unapologetically alive.

Jack reappeared briefly in the distance — still running, still listening.

Host (closing):
Because what Lisa Guerrero understood —
and what Jack somehow lived without knowing —
is that the morning run isn’t just exercise.
It’s a ritual —
a communion between motion and meaning,
between solitude and sound.
We run not to escape the world,
but to hear it differently —
in commentary and breath,
in footsteps and static —
until we remember
that every heartbeat
is its own broadcast of belief.