Read the news section of the newspaper and there is confusion

Host: The rain had stopped, but the streets still shone — slick mirrors reflecting the city’s late-night neon. The bar was nearly empty, save for the soft hum of a broken ceiling fan and the faint crackle of an old radio in the corner. A television above the bar flickered silently: the news, its images grim — war, markets, floods, politicians speaking without meaning.

At the far end of the counter, Jack sat with his whiskey, his sleeves rolled, his eyes like dull steel behind the faint smoke of his cigarette. Jeeny sat beside him, her hands wrapped around a half-finished cup of tea, her gaze fixed not on the TV, but on him.

Outside, a faint cheer erupted from a nearby sports bar — a different world, only a few doors away.

Jeeny: (reading from her phone) “Read the news section of the newspaper and there is confusion and uncertainty — a world buffeted by large forces people neither understand nor control. But turn to the sports section and it’s all different.”

(She smiles faintly.) Michael Mandelbaum said that.

Jack: (dryly) He must’ve been watching on a good day.

Host: The television screen flickered, cutting from headlines of conflict to a highlight reel — players running, crowds roaring, victory distilled into motion. Two realities on one screen, divided only by a remote control.

Jeeny: (softly) But he’s right, you know. The news tells you the world’s broken, the sports tell you it can still work. There are rules, fairness, endings that make sense.

Jack: (snorting) Games are the illusion, Jeeny. Just stories we made to feel like the universe gives a damn about balance.

Jeeny: (turning to him) Maybe the illusion is what keeps us human, Jack. You think people watch sports because they care who wins? They watch because, for a few hours, they get to believe that effort equals reward, that justice exists, even if only on grass or ice.

Jack: (grimly) So, we trade reality for a few hours of escape. Sounds like a drug, not a philosophy.

Host: The radio crackled softly, tuning itself between stations, catching fragments of commentary — a goal, a cheer, the faint sound of hope disguised as entertainment.

Jeeny: (leaning forward) It’s not an escape. It’s a mirror — a smaller, cleaner world that reminds us how the bigger one should be. Discipline, teamwork, fouls, forgiveness — all played out in public, and when it’s over, everyone shakes hands.

Jack: (with a tired laugh) You’re comparing politics to football now?

Jeeny: (smiling) No. I’m comparing life to sport — and showing you which one has the referee we actually trust.

Host: The bar lights dimmed as a cloud passed over the moon. The bartender switched the channel, and the sound of a crowd filled the room — chanting, clapping, the rhythm of thousands of hearts moving together.

For a moment, even Jack looked up.

Jack: (quietly) You know what I hate most about the news? It’s that it always ends in chaos. No closure, no lessons — just more uncertainty.

Jeeny: (softly) And that’s why we need games — to remember that closure is still possible, that rules can still hold, that someone, somewhere, still plays fair.

Jack: (bitterly) Until they start cheating, or diving, or faking injuries. Heroes aren’t that clean, Jeeny. Even in sports.

Jeeny: (nodding) Maybe not. But even when they fall, we still cheer when they rise. That’s the difference — the news teaches us to fear, sports teach us to feel.

Host: Her words seemed to settle over the bar like a soft mist, quiet but heavy. Jack looked at her, his jaw tightening, his eyes flicking between the screen and her face.

Jack: You really believe that? That a game can fix what’s broken out there?

Jeeny: (shaking her head) No. But it can remind us that fixing is still worth it. That there’s still a score we can try to balance.

Host: The crowd on the television erupted — a goal, a sudden victory. The camera cut to the players, their faces raw with joy, tears, sweat, triumph. Jack’s hand stopped halfway to his glass.

Jack: (murmuring) You know… for a second, watching them — you can almost believe in something.

Jeeny: (smiling gently) Exactly. That’s the church we go to without knowing. Every stadium is a temple of human hope.

Host: The television light flickered across their faces — his, worn and skeptical; hers, radiant with quiet faith. Outside, the rain began again, a slow, deliberate drizzle, as if the sky itself was trying to applaud softly.

Jack: (half-laughing) So, the sports page is the gospel, and the news is the Old Testament — all wrath and confusion.

Jeeny: (laughing softly) Maybe. Except in the sports section, the miracles still happen.

Host: Their laughter echoed lightly, the kind that comes after long silence, not from amusement, but from recognition. The TV showed a slow-motion replay — the ball, the net, the crowd rising like a wave of pure belief.

Jack: (quietly) It’s strange. Out there — in the news — people fight over power. But here — they fight over passion.

Jeeny: (softly) And maybe that’s the only war worth watching.

Host: The bartender turned down the volume, leaving the faint echo of the crowd as background music to their quiet reverie. The clock struck midnight.

Jack: (after a pause) You know… maybe Mandelbaum was right. The news tells us who we are. The sports page tells us who we wish to be.

Jeeny: (smiling) And sometimes, that wish is the only truth that keeps us moving.

Host: The lights dimmed further. Outside, the neon from the sports bar across the street still glowed, a pulsing beacon against the night. Inside, two souls sat in the soft afterlight of understanding — one skeptical, one hopeful, both aware that even in a chaotic world, there still existed a few places where effort met meaning, and fairness could still win.

And as the camera slowly pulled back, the scene settled on that quiet, golden balance between cynicism and faith — a bar, a game, a conversation — all bound by the fragile, beautiful idea that for a fleeting moment, the world can still make sense.