Red Sox fans have been pushed to the brink over the years, but

Host: The stadium lights still burned over the empty field, long after the crowd had gone home. A mist of cold autumn rain hung in the air, catching the light like silver dust. The seats — rows upon rows of faded red — stretched out like an exhausted cathedral, holding the echoes of a thousand hearts that had once believed together.

Jack sat near the third-base line, coat collar up, hands in his pockets. A half-finished beer sat on the concrete step beside him, flat and forgotten. Jeeny stood by the dugout rail, looking out over the diamond, her breath rising in the cool night like smoke.

The scoreboard above them glowed dimly, showing only the final score — another loss. But tonight, the loss felt less like failure and more like ritual.

Jeeny: “Julianna Baggott once said, ‘Red Sox fans have been pushed to the brink over the years, but that’s how faith grows stronger.’”

Jack: (half-laughing) “Faith? That’s one word for it. I’d call it stubbornness with season tickets.”

Jeeny: “Same thing, isn’t it? Faith and stubbornness. The refusal to give up on something that keeps breaking your heart.”

Jack: “You say that like it’s noble.”

Jeeny: “It is. The nobility of endurance. The poetry of still showing up.”

Host: The rain began to fall harder now, a steady drizzle that softened the sharp lines of the field. The infield dirt had turned dark and wet, the bases gleaming pale under the floodlights. The ghost of the crowd still hung in the air — laughter, curses, prayers, all faded into memory.

Jack: “You know, when you grow up around this team, you inherit the suffering like DNA. It’s not fandom — it’s theology. Every loss feels biblical.”

Jeeny: “And yet, here you are.”

Jack: “Because hope’s a disease. You get one good inning, one clutch hit, and suddenly you forget all the years of pain.”

Jeeny: “That’s faith. The ability to forget the darkness the moment the light flickers back.”

Jack: “Yeah. But the problem is, the light never stays on.”

Jeeny: “It’s not supposed to. Faith isn’t about constancy — it’s about resilience.”

Host: A gust of wind rippled across the tarp covering the infield, making it shiver like an enormous gray sea. The scoreboard buzzed faintly, as if reluctant to turn off completely.

Jeeny: “You know what I love about baseball fans, especially Red Sox fans? It’s not the wins. It’s the way they stay through the rain delays. The extra innings. The heartbreak.”

Jack: “You mean the suffering.”

Jeeny: “No, the meaning inside the suffering. Every season is a lesson in patience, humility, forgiveness. It’s religion in cleats.”

Jack: “That’s a dangerous metaphor. You’re saying losing makes you holy.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Not holy. Human. To keep believing in something that’s let you down — that’s as human as it gets.”

Host: The wind picked up again, tossing paper cups and napkins down the aisles like tired confetti. Jack reached down, grabbed the beer, and took a slow sip, wincing at the flatness.

Jack: “You ever think about how faith works like this? It’s not built in victory — it’s built in absence. It’s born in the years when the ball never clears the fence.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Faith is forged in failure. Every Red Sox fan is a philosopher — they just don’t know it.”

Jack: “Philosophers of disappointment.”

Jeeny: “No. Disciples of hope.”

Host: The rain softened again, turning from downpour to mist. Jeeny stepped closer, her voice quieter now, as though speaking to the ghosts in the seats around them.

Jeeny: “When Baggott said that, she wasn’t just talking about baseball. She was talking about devotion — the kind that outlasts logic. The kind that keeps loving something that doesn’t always love you back.”

Jack: “You’re saying heartbreak is holy?”

Jeeny: “In a way. Because it teaches you how to stay. To show up even when it hurts. To keep cheering when the score says don’t.”

Jack: “You make it sound like faith isn’t about belief at all.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. It’s about loyalty. To an idea, a person, a team — to something larger than your own comfort.”

Host: The rain began to fade entirely now, leaving behind that clean, metallic smell of wet concrete. The sound of the city hummed faintly in the distance, the life beyond the stadium beginning to move again.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? For years, they called it the Curse — the Bambino, all that nonsense. But I think the real curse was that people needed someone to blame for the waiting.”

Jeeny: “Because waiting without reason feels unbearable.”

Jack: “Exactly. But once they finally won — it wasn’t joy, not really. It was disbelief. As if breaking the curse also broke the ritual.”

Jeeny: “Because sometimes faith only exists while it’s tested. When there’s no suffering left, there’s no need to believe.”

Jack: “So winning was a kind of death.”

Jeeny: “A beautiful one.”

Host: A light flickered above the dugout — the janitor or the grounds crew still working somewhere beneath the stands. The sound of a distant radio drifted faintly through the wet night — the replay of a game that was already over.

Jeeny: “You know, maybe that’s why people love teams like this. Because they mirror life. The endless cycle of hope, disappointment, and renewal. Every season is another chance to be heartbroken — and to be healed.”

Jack: “You mean the pursuit itself is the faith.”

Jeeny: “Yes. The standing ovation isn’t for victory — it’s for perseverance.”

Jack: “That’s the paradox, isn’t it? You stay loyal not because they win, but because they might.”

Jeeny: “And that fragile might is where belief lives.”

Host: She smiled softly, tucking a strand of wet hair behind her ear. The last of the lights dimmed, and the field fell into shadow — the diamond vanishing into the night.

Jeeny: “Faith isn’t about certainty, Jack. It’s about showing up for the game even when you already know the ending.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Yeah. And still hoping for extra innings.”

Host: The rain had stopped. The air felt cold but alive, charged with the quiet hum of endurance.

And in that stillness, Julianna Baggott’s words seemed to settle into the silence like prayer:

That faith does not grow in triumph,
but in defeat.

That belief is not proof of success,
but the courage to return.

That whether it’s a team, a cause, or a dream —
the truest devotion
is not built on winning,
but on waiting, and staying
through every loss,
every heartbreak,
every inning that ends too soon.

Host: The wind swept through the stands one last time, carrying away the scent of rain and earth.
Jeeny picked up her bag. Jack finished his beer.

And as they walked up the empty aisles toward the exit,
the field behind them slept —
quiet, patient,
a cathedral of hope
that would open its gates again tomorrow.