The people who run the game, they are the ones who want to change

Host: The dugout was almost empty now. The stadium lights still hummed, flooding the field in silver, but the seats were bare — a sea of quiet ghosts where the cheers had lived just hours ago. A single bat leaned against the wall, forgotten. The faint smell of dust, leather, and cut grass hung in the air like an afterthought.

Jack sat on the wooden bench, elbows on his knees, his hands stained with the dry dirt of the infield. He wasn’t a player anymore — not really. Just a man who still carried the game in his bones. Across from him, Jeeny leaned against a pillar, the scoreboard’s glow painting her face in flickering blue.

Jeeny: “Tony Oliva once said — ‘The people who run the game, they are the ones who want to change it and make people believe that it's different somehow. It's not different, the only difference is that some ballplayers today have a chance for a four- or five-year contract and they can make big money.’”

Jack gave a short laugh. “Yeah. And the rest of us still play for peanuts and pride.”

Host: The night air drifted through the dugout, carrying the faint echo of a distant radio still playing highlights. The sound of a ball hitting a mitt somewhere down the tunnel — the ghost of practice that never ends.

Jeeny: “He wasn’t bitter, you know. Oliva — he loved the game. He just saw through the illusion. Everyone keeps saying baseball’s changed — the analytics, the tech, the million-dollar gloves. But the game itself? It’s still the same. Still a man, a ball, and the ache of trying to hit what can’t be hit.”

Jack: “Yeah, but tell that to the guys up there in the luxury boxes. To them, baseball’s a product. It’s not heartbeats and dirt anymore — it’s spreadsheets and ticket sales.”

Jeeny: “And yet, you’re still here.”

Jack: “Because I’m stupid enough to love it.”

Host: He looked out toward the diamond — the basepaths faintly glistening under the lights, the pitcher’s mound perfect and still.

Jack: “You know what kills me? They sell us this fantasy that the game’s evolved, that it’s different now. But all they did was change the price tag. Same blood, same dreams, same heartbreak. The only thing new is the zeroes.”

Jeeny: “That’s what Oliva meant. The soul of the game’s constant. It’s just the money that multiplied.”

Jack: “Yeah. They turned nostalgia into a business model.”

Jeeny: “And yet it works. People still come. Still cry when the anthem plays. Still cheer when some kid hits his first home run.”

Jack: “Because we remember what it used to mean. Baseball used to be faith. Now it’s marketing.”

Jeeny: “Maybe faith just looks different now.”

Jack: “Faith doesn’t need a sponsorship.”

Host: Jeeny smiled faintly. The echo of his frustration was familiar — the kind that comes from loving something too deeply to watch it sell itself short.

Jeeny: “You sound like my grandfather. He said the same thing about rock ’n’ roll when it went commercial. Said once the record label got involved, the rhythm got clean — but the soul got lost.”

Jack: “Exactly. The rhythm’s too clean now. You can’t smell the dirt in the stats. Can’t feel the sweat in the headlines. It’s too polished.”

Jeeny: “But people still play it, Jack. Kids in backyards, on sandlots, under streetlights — none of them care about the money. They just want the sound — that crack when wood meets leather. That sound hasn’t changed.”

Jack: “No. That sound’s holy.”

Host: Silence stretched between them, the kind that feels like reverence. From the field, a single gust of wind rolled the infield dust like incense.

Jack: “You think the game’ll survive all this change?”

Jeeny: “The business might not. But the game will. The game’s bigger than the people who run it.”

Jack: “You sure?”

Jeeny: “Positive. Because somewhere right now, a kid’s dreaming with a glove under his pillow — not a contract. And that’s enough to keep baseball alive.”

Host: Jack nodded slowly. His eyes softened, the cynicism giving way to something gentler — resignation, maybe even hope.

Jack: “You ever notice? Every time the league changes the rules, the game finds a way to remind them who’s boss. Pitch clocks, digital replays, new uniforms — none of it stops that moment when a guy stands alone with the bat, the crowd holding its breath. That’s the truth right there.”

Jeeny: “The moment of silence before everything happens.”

Jack: “Yeah. That heartbeat. That’s the same heartbeat Oliva played for. That’s the heartbeat every player knows, rich or broke.”

Host: Jeeny walked a few steps closer, her boots crunching against gravel.

Jeeny: “You know, when he said that quote, he wasn’t just talking about baseball. He was talking about everything — art, love, life. The people at the top always think they can reinvent meaning. But meaning’s not theirs to sell.”

Jack: “So what do we do?”

Jeeny: “Keep playing the old rhythm. Keep remembering why we started.”

Host: Jack picked up the bat resting by his side. It was scuffed, old — the kind that had seen too many innings. He ran his thumb over the handle, over the faint carved initials of a younger version of himself.

Jack: “You think it still matters?”

Jeeny: “It matters the moment you swing.”

Host: A long silence. Then, softly, he stood, walking toward the field. The spotlights caught him in their beam, cutting his shadow across the diamond.

He stepped into the batter’s box, the ghost of habit taking over — feet set, shoulders squared. He exhaled, listening. The stadium was empty, but in the stillness, you could almost hear it: the faint rhythm of the crowd, the pulse of a thousand forgotten cheers.

He swung once — a clean, sharp sound slicing through the night air. The ball cracked off the bat and disappeared into the dark.

Jack: “Still feels the same.”

Jeeny smiled from the dugout. “It always will.”

Host: The camera pulled back — the lone figure standing on the diamond, the world around him quiet, eternal. Somewhere, a voice from another era — Tony Oliva’s — echoed softly, carried on the night breeze:

“They can change the rules, the contracts, the uniforms — but they’ll never change the heartbeat of the game.”

And under that vast, empty sky, it was true — because love, whether for a sport or a person, always outlives the people who try to sell it.