Things are not going to be easy, things are not going to be fair.

Host: The city was drenched in rain, a steady whisper against the windows of a dimly lit gym. The clock on the wall blinked past midnight, its red digits cutting through the darkness. Sweat glistened on the floorboards, mixing with the faint echo of a bouncing basketball. Jack sat on the bleachers, a towel slung over his shoulder, staring into the empty court as if it held the answer to a question he hadn’t yet asked. Jeeny stood near the entrance, her umbrella dripping, her eyes filled with quiet concern.

Jeeny: “You’ve been here for hours, Jack. You should go home.”

Jack: “Home’s just a roof, Jeeny. The court—this is where life’s honest. Out there, everyone lies. Here, the ball tells the truth.”

Host: A flash of lightning illuminated his face, sharp and tired. His hands clenched the towel as if it were something he could still control. Jeeny walked closer, her footsteps soft but deliberate, her breath visible in the cold air.

Jeeny: “You think punishing yourself will make it fairer?”

Jack: “Fair?” He laughed, low and bitter. “Things are never fair. Beverley said it best—‘Things are not going to be easy, things are not going to be fair. Just do your best.’”

Host: The words lingered like smoke, curling into the silence between them. Outside, the rain grew heavier, as if echoing the weight of what was unsaid.

Jeeny: “Doing your best doesn’t mean killing yourself, Jack.”

Jack: “No, it means doing what needs to be done. Even when it’s unfair. Even when it hurts.”

Host: His voice cracked on the last word, barely perceptible, but Jeeny heard it—like a string snapping inside an old instrument.

Jeeny: “So what are you fighting for? Justice or pride?”

Jack: “Survival. That’s all this world asks for.”

Jeeny: “You really believe that? That survival is enough?”

Host: Jeeny’s eyes glimmered with something raw—anger mixed with sorrow. Jack turned away, his reflection rippling across the court’s floor, distorted by puddles of old sweat and tears unseen.

Jack: “Look around you. The ones who make it—do you think they wait for fairness? You think the world gave Jordan a break when he got cut from his high school team? He worked. He fought. He made his own justice.”

Jeeny: “And yet, he never lost his love for the game. That’s what made him great—not just the fight, but the joy. You’ve lost that, Jack.”

Host: A pause—the kind that feels like the air has stopped moving. Jack’s fingers tightened around the towel, his eyes fixed on the hoop.

Jack: “Joy doesn’t pay the bills. Effort does.”

Jeeny: “No. Effort alone is just endurance. Heart gives meaning to endurance.”

Host: The rain beat harder, like a drumroll. The lights flickered overhead, throwing their shadows in uneven patterns across the floor. Jack stood, tall, his shoulders broad but trembling slightly.

Jack: “You talk like life owes us meaning. It doesn’t. It’s random. Cruel. And it keeps moving whether you cry or bleed.”

Jeeny: “Then why keep going, Jack? Why try at all?”

Jack: “Because not trying is worse. Because when everything’s unfair, the only thing left—your only weapon—is doing your best.”

Host: His voice rose now, a storm against the storm. The ball rolled across the floor, colliding gently with Jeeny’s foot. She bent down, picked it up, and held it close, as if it were fragile.

Jeeny: “But your best isn’t a punishment, Jack. It’s a promise—to yourself, not the world.”

Jack: “A promise means nothing if the world breaks it.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe you’re making the wrong promise.”

Host: The lights steadied. A faint hum filled the gym, the sound of distant electricity running through the wires—like a heartbeat returning after silence. Jack looked at her, his grey eyes softening, though his jaw stayed tight.

Jack: “You think fairness exists because you want it to. You think there’s justice in hard work. But there’s not. Some people get crushed no matter how hard they try.”

Jeeny: “And yet, people keep trying. Look at the nurses working through the pandemic. The ones who lost everything but still showed up. They didn’t do it for fairness, Jack—they did it because doing their best was the only way to stay human.”

Host: Her voice trembled now, but it wasn’t weakness. It was conviction—the kind that burns slow and steady. Jack’s eyes drifted downward, following a single drop of water sliding from the ceiling to the floor.

Jack: “Humanity’s a luxury. Try telling that to a man who’s lost his job, or a woman raising two kids alone. Doing your best doesn’t fix the system.”

Jeeny: “No, but it fixes the soul. That’s what Beverley meant, Jack. He didn’t promise fairness—he promised worth. The kind that no system can take.”

Host: The tension cracked like a dry branch underfoot. Jack sat again, his hands rubbing his face. The sweat, the rain, the frustration—it all blurred into one.

Jack: “You make it sound so simple. Like we can just choose to find meaning.”

Jeeny: “It’s not simple. But it’s all we’ve got. Doing your best is rebellion against the unfairness. It’s telling the world: ‘You can’t define me by what you take from me.’”

Host: Jack’s breathing slowed. The thunder outside began to fade. For a moment, only the sound of dripping water remained—a rhythm of quiet persistence.

Jack: “Maybe that’s the part I keep forgetting.”

Jeeny: “Forgetting is easy when you’re in pain. But pain’s not the end—it’s proof you still care.”

Host: She walked closer, placed the ball beside him, and sat on the cold wooden bench. The two of them stared at the hoop, where a single beam of light cut through the darkness, illuminating the rim like a quiet halo.

Jack: “You ever think about quitting?”

Jeeny: “Every day. But I don’t. Because somewhere, someone’s watching. Someone who’ll learn what resilience looks like.”

Jack: “You think that’s enough? To inspire someone else?”

Jeeny: “It has to be. Otherwise we’re just surviving.”

Host: Jack leaned forward, elbows on knees, his hands clasped like a man in prayer though he didn’t believe in gods. The rain softened to a mist, painting the windows in soft silver. His eyes caught Jeeny’s, and for the first time that night, they weren’t guarded.

Jack: “You’re right. Maybe ‘doing your best’ isn’t about winning. Maybe it’s about not letting the world turn you bitter.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You can’t control the game, Jack—but you can control how you play it.”

Host: The gym fell into a peaceful silence, as if the walls themselves were listening. A beam of light broke through the clouds outside, faint and golden, landing directly on the basketball at their feet.

Jack: “You know, I used to think fairness was the goal. Now I think maybe it’s courage.”

Jeeny: “Courage to keep giving your best, even when it feels pointless.”

Jack: “Even when no one’s watching.”

Jeeny: “Especially then.”

Host: The light shimmered on their faces, reflecting off tired eyes that still carried a quiet fire. The clock ticked past one, and the gym seemed to exhale—a long, patient breath after a long, brutal night.

Jack: “You coming back tomorrow?”

Jeeny: “If you do.”

Jack: smiles faintly “Guess I’ll have to.”

Host: They stood together, the ball between them, the rain easing into a soft drizzle outside. The city lights blinked in the distance, fragile but alive. Jack picked up the ball, spun it once, and tossed it toward the hoop. It hit the backboard, circled the rim—and dropped in.

Jeeny: “See? Not perfect. But good enough.”

Jack: “Just my best.”

Host: The camera would have lingered there—the last frame of two souls in a quiet gym, the echo of a ball, and the light of a new beginning creeping in. The world was still unfair, still hard. But for this brief moment, they had both remembered what Patrick Beverley meant.

Sometimes, doing your best isn’t about winning the game.
It’s about not letting the darkness win you.