That's cricket. Some days are good, some are bad. No one is going

Host:
The cricket field stretched beneath a fading sun — a wide canvas of green and gold, the smell of fresh-cut grass heavy in the air. The evening breeze carried faint applause from a crowd that was beginning to disperse, their cheers now only echoes swallowed by dusk. A scoreboard flickered in the distance: numbers that had once mattered, now dimming, meaningless.

Jack sat alone on the boundary rope, still in his worn pads, a bat resting across his knees. Jeeny approached quietly, holding two bottles of water and a kind of unspoken gentleness. The day had been long — the kind that humbles you. She didn’t have to ask how it went; the silence told her.

Between them lay a folded newspaper clipping someone had pinned to the dugout wall earlier that week. The headline read: “Jofra Archer on the Game of Life.” Beneath it, a quote, simple yet aching with truth:

“That’s cricket. Some days are good, some are bad. No one is going to be amazing all the time. Sometimes I feel it’s not a fair world — really and truly.”
— Jofra Archer

Jeeny read the words again under her breath, as if testing how they felt in the cooling air.

Jeeny: (softly) “Some days are good, some are bad.” It’s such a simple thing to say, but it feels heavier when you’ve lived it.

Jack: (quietly) Yeah. Simple words, hard truth.

Jeeny: (sitting beside him) Tough game?

Jack: (shrugs) Tough world. The ball doesn’t always swing your way.

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) That’s life, too. No umpire for fairness.

Jack: (grins weakly) And no DRS for regret.

Host: The sun dipped lower, the field turning amber. The shadows lengthened, painting the world in long lines of fatigue and reflection. You could almost hear the heartbeat of the ground — soft, steady, indifferent to victory or defeat.

Jeeny: (after a pause) It’s funny how athletes talk about the game like philosophers.

Jack: (half-smiles) When you’ve failed enough times, philosophy’s all that’s left.

Jeeny: (gently) You didn’t fail today.

Jack: (quietly) Didn’t I? The scoreboard says otherwise.

Jeeny: (softly) The scoreboard never tells the whole story.

Jack: (looking at her) Then what does?

Jeeny: (pauses) The way you get up tomorrow.

Host: The floodlights hummed to life above them, a hum that filled the silence where pride usually sat. Jack looked out over the field — empty now, except for a few groundstaff moving like ghosts through the outfield.

Jack: (sighs) You know, it’s strange. When you’re out there, everything feels so big — the noise, the pressure, the expectation. But once it’s over, it all shrinks. Becomes… just another day.

Jeeny: (softly) That’s resilience. The world tries to make you believe every loss is final. But you learn — it never is.

Jack: (smiling faintly) You think Jofra was talking about cricket or life?

Jeeny: (without hesitation) Both. Always both.

Jack: (nods) Yeah. Cricket’s just a mirror. Win or lose, it reflects who you are when it stops being easy.

Jeeny: (quietly) And when it’s unfair.

Jack: (softly) Especially then.

Host: The wind stirred, carrying with it the faint scent of sweat, soil, and grass — that earthy perfume of effort. Around them, the field seemed to breathe again, forgiving, eternal.

Jeeny: (gently) You ever get tired of the unfairness?

Jack: (after a pause) Every day. But I guess that’s part of the deal. You sign up for the game, you sign up for the bad bounce too.

Jeeny: (nodding) You don’t quit because it’s unfair. You play through it.

Jack: (smiles faintly) And hope one day the world spins your way.

Jeeny: (smiling back) Or you just learn to play the spin.

Jack: (laughs) Spoken like someone who’s never faced a bouncer at 90 miles an hour.

Jeeny: (grinning) No, but I’ve been hit by life a few times. Feels just as fast.

Host: The laugh lingered, quiet but real — a sound that carried something stronger than optimism: endurance. The kind born from experience, not ease.

Jack: (after a moment) You know what gets me? How people expect greatness to be constant. Like you’re supposed to be amazing every day.

Jeeny: (softly) Maybe because we mistake consistency for worth.

Jack: (quietly) Yeah. But no one’s amazing all the time. Not even the best. Not in sport, not in life.

Jeeny: (nodding) Maybe that’s what makes the good days amazing — the fact that they’re rare.

Jack: (smiling faintly) You sound like a coach.

Jeeny: (smiling back) I sound like someone who’s lived long enough to see how unfairness makes people kind.

Jack: (thoughtful) Or bitter.

Jeeny: (softly) Depends on whether you choose to play again.

Host: The crickets began to sing — the literal kind this time, hidden in the grass, adding their soft applause to the fading light. The word “amazing” hung in the air, not as perfection, but as perseverance.

Jeeny: (after a pause) You know, what amazes me isn’t the victories. It’s that people keep showing up even when the odds are cruel.

Jack: (quietly) Yeah. That’s what Allende said too, in a different way — survival is the miracle.

Jeeny: (smiling) And renewal is the sequel.

Jack: (chuckles) You’re quoting philosophers again.

Jeeny: (gently) You’re one when you’re honest.

Jack: (softly) Honesty hurts more than losing.

Jeeny: (quietly) But it heals faster.

Host: The sky turned indigo, the first stars flickering faintly above the stadium lights. There was something holy about it — the calm after competition, the peace that comes not from winning, but from trying.

Jack: (after a long pause) You ever think about what he said — that it’s not a fair world?

Jeeny: (nods) All the time. But fairness isn’t what keeps it going. Grace does.

Jack: (softly) Grace?

Jeeny: (gently) Yeah. The grace to fail. To forgive. To start again tomorrow.

Jack: (smiles faintly) Then maybe the unfair world isn’t the problem. Maybe it’s the classroom.

Jeeny: (smiling) And every loss is the lesson.

Jack: (quietly) Some lessons take longer to learn.

Jeeny: (softly) But they stay with you longer too.

Host: The stadium lights dimmed, one by one, until only the field remained — a vast, empty green under a sky full of patient stars.

Host (closing):
As Jack and Jeeny stood, their shadows stretched long across the pitch — two figures in the echo of a game that was always more than sport.

“That’s cricket. Some days are good, some are bad. No one is going to be amazing all the time. Sometimes I feel it’s not a fair world — really and truly.”

And maybe Jofra Archer’s words were more than about wickets or weather —
maybe they were about life itself.

Because life, like cricket, isn’t fair.
The pitch cracks, the ball turns, luck deserts you, and the scoreboard lies.
But the courage is in turning up again,
knowing the world won’t guarantee justice — only opportunity.

Some days, the catch sticks.
Some days, it slips.
But the miracle isn’t in the score.
It’s in the swing, the effort, the unbroken return.

As they left the field, Jack looked back once more at the crease —
a patch of earth worn by failure, triumph, and grace —
and whispered to no one in particular:

“It’s not a fair world, really and truly…
but it’s still worth playing in.”

And Jeeny, smiling softly beside him, replied,

“That’s cricket.”