Talk radio has almost ruined the sports fan.

Host:
The night had settled over the stadium parking lot like an old memory, the kind that lingers long after the last cheer has died. Rain had come and gone, leaving the asphalt slick and the air thick with the smell of wet concrete and burned popcorn.

Far in the distance, the scoreboard lights still flickered, defiant, illuminating the ghostly stands where earlier that evening thousands of voices had screamed, laughed, argued — each convinced they knew the game better than the men playing it.

Now, the crowd was gone. Only Jack and Jeeny remained — sitting on the hood of an old car, sipping from paper cups of lukewarm coffee. Between them, the radio played softly, a sports talk show still droning on about the game: voices filled with anger, certainty, and the smug hum of analysis without consequence.

And there it was — the quote that had started their silence, spoken by a voice from the past, now echoing in the rain-soaked air:

“Talk radio has almost ruined the sports fan.” — Phil Simms

Jeeny:
(quietly) “He wasn’t wrong, you know. Look at them — or listen to them, I should say. Everyone shouting over each other, turning a game into a sermon. Nobody even watches anymore — they just wait for their turn to disagree.”

Jack:
(smirking) “You make it sound tragic. It’s just talk, Jeeny. Fans have always argued. That’s half the fun.”

Jeeny:
“Fun? This isn’t fun. This is religion without faith — everyone wants to be right, but no one wants to feel. It used to be about joy, about the love of the game. Now it’s about winning the argument about the game.”

Jack:
(grinning) “Welcome to the modern world, sweetheart. Everything’s commentary now. Sports, politics, love — doesn’t matter. Nobody plays; everyone just talks.”

Host:
The radio crackled, a host laughing — the kind of sharp, performative laughter that carried no warmth. “That quarterback’s finished,” the voice said, “and anyone who disagrees doesn’t understand football.” Then another voice cut in — louder, angrier, more certain — drowning the first out.

The echo of it filled the night like static that wouldn’t fade.

Jeeny:
(sighing) “Do you ever notice how the louder people get, the less they seem to know? It’s like the volume replaces the thinking.”

Jack:
(leaning back, amused) “Maybe that’s the point. People don’t tune in for truth. They tune in to hear themselves reflected. Talk radio’s just a mirror — cracked, sure, but still a mirror.”

Jeeny:
“Then we’ve become a world of reflections. No original thoughts — just echoes arguing with echoes.”

Jack:
(laughs) “And you’re surprised? People are addicted to certainty. They want to believe their opinion matters. Sports talk gives them that illusion — a little stage to scream on.”

Jeeny:
(quietly) “And in exchange, they forget how to listen.”

Host:
A gust of wind swept through, carrying a crumpled hot dog wrapper across the parking lot like a lost flag. The radio’s static grew louder, filling the silence their conversation left behind.

For a moment, neither spoke — both staring at the empty stadium, its towering lights flickering like the fading pulse of something once alive.

Jack:
(softly) “You talk like sports died.”

Jeeny:
“Not sports. The fan. The one who used to love the unpredictability, who could sit through a loss and still admire the art of it. The fan who felt wonder, not rage. Talk radio killed that person.”

Jack:
(cynical) “Or maybe it just exposed them. Maybe fans were always this angry, this certain — they just didn’t have microphones.”

Jeeny:
“No, Jack. They were passionate, not poisoned. There’s a difference.”

Jack:
“Passion’s just anger with better PR.”

Jeeny:
(looking at him sharply) “No. Passion still believes in something. Anger just wants someone to blame.”

Host:
The rain began again, soft at first, then steadier — small drops striking the car roof like a metronome. The radio hosts were still at it, dissecting a missed play, each word stripping the beauty out of what had once been spontaneous.

Jack looked up at the sky, the drops catching the dim light, and let out a half-laugh — the kind that hides unease.

Jack:
“You think there’s any way back? To when people watched the game for what it was, not what it proved?”

Jeeny:
“Maybe not. Once you start narrating joy, it stops being joy. It becomes content.”

Jack:
(chuckling) “You sound like a preacher for silence.”

Jeeny:
“Maybe silence deserves its own congregation. Imagine watching a game without commentary — no predictions, no stats, no experts. Just breath, sweat, and motion. People would feel again instead of interpreting everything.”

Jack:
(smirking) “You’d put ESPN out of business.”

Jeeny:
“Good. Let the noise die. Let the game speak.”

Host:
The radio host began to shout again, the words spilling over one another — “worst season ever,” “fire the coach,” “what a disgrace.” Jack reached forward, turned the dial, and the noise vanished into a low hum.

For the first time, there was quiet — broken only by the soft tap of rain and the distant hum of streetlights.

Jack:
(after a long pause) “You know, I remember watching my dad watch baseball. He’d sit there — no phone, no commentary — just… watching. Even when his team lost, he’d smile. He used to say, ‘That’s life — a game that doesn’t always go your way.’”

Jeeny:
(smiling gently) “He understood what they’ve forgotten — that the beauty isn’t in winning, it’s in playing.”

Jack:
(quietly) “Maybe that’s what Simms meant. Talk radio didn’t ruin fans — it ruined their ability to lose gracefully.”

Jeeny:
(softly) “It ruined their ability to listen.”

Host:
The lights in the distance dimmed one by one, until the stadium was just a silhouette — a memory against the night. The radio, forgotten now, whispered static like an afterthought.

Jack reached into his coat pocket, pulled out his keys, and tossed them onto the dashboard. The sound — metal against metal — felt final, like punctuation on an unspoken truth.

Jeeny:
(quietly) “Maybe it’s not just about sports, Jack. Maybe it’s everything. We’ve all become fans of noise.”

Jack:
(nods slowly) “And critics of silence.”

Jeeny:
(half-smile) “Then maybe the rebellion isn’t shouting louder — maybe it’s just watching quietly again.”

Jack:
(softly) “And letting the game breathe.”

Host:
The camera lingered on them — two silhouettes on the hood of a car, under the flickering glow of the last stadium light. The rain softened, the radio hissed, and somewhere in the distance, a faint echo of a cheer rose — not for victory, but for memory.

And as the scene faded to black, the quote lingered like truth disguised as lament:

“Talk radio has almost ruined the sports fan.”

But perhaps, the narrator mused as the sound dissolved into the night —
it hadn’t ruined the fan at all.
It had only reminded us what it means to truly listen again —
and how rare, how radical, that silence has become.