Try not to get lost in comparing yourself to others. Discover

Host: The sun was low and golden, dripping over the worn edges of a small-town softball field. The grass shimmered under the light, uneven but alive. Dust floated in the air, kissed by the faint hum of evening crickets and the distant cheer of a children’s game ending across the park. The scoreboard was dark now — the game over, but the echoes of laughter and sneakers on dirt still lingered.

Jack sat alone in the dugout, his hands folded, staring at the diamond before him. A few gloves and helmets lay scattered like abandoned memories. Jeeny walked down from the bleachers, her footsteps light on the metal stairs, carrying a thermos of tea and a kind of calm that followed her wherever she went.

Jeeny: “Jennie Finch once said, ‘Try not to get lost in comparing yourself to others. Discover your gifts and let them shine! Softball is amazing that way as a sport. Everyone on the field has a slightly different ability that makes them perfect for their position.’”

Jack: [smirking] “Sounds like something a winner says to keep everyone else comfortable in their spots.”

Host: The wind picked up slightly, sweeping across the infield, sending a faint spiral of dust twirling between them like a restless spirit. Jeeny smiled softly, sitting on the bench beside him, setting the thermos down.

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s something a winner says because she’s learned that comparison kills joy. You ever think about that?”

Jack: “All the time. Usually right before I open social media. The world’s full of people telling you not to compare yourself — while showing you everything you’ll never be.”

Jeeny: “And yet here you are, sitting in a dugout, comparing yourself to ghosts.”

Jack: “Not ghosts. People who had a better swing, a stronger arm, a faster mind. You know what the world teaches you, Jeeny? That your worth is measured in numbers — stats, salaries, followers. If you’re not exceptional, you’re invisible.”

Jeeny: “But that’s the lie, Jack. The field doesn’t care about numbers. It cares about teamwork. Jennie Finch wasn’t talking about trophies — she was talking about harmony. The way a shortstop’s reflexes balance a catcher’s intuition. Every position matters, even the quiet ones.”

Host: The sunlight hit Jeeny’s face, and her eyes caught it — bright and deep, like embers refusing to die. Jack’s expression shifted, softening, though his voice stayed dry.

Jack: “That’s poetic, but life’s not a team sport, Jeeny. Out there, no one’s passing you the ball so you can shine. Everyone’s just trying to stay in the game.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But even in life, everyone has their position. The teacher, the builder, the nurse, the artist. The problem is, people keep trying to play someone else’s role. And when they fail, they call themselves useless. That’s what comparison does — it blinds you to your lane.”

Jack: “Easy for you to say. You found your lane. Some of us are still circling the field.”

Host: Jeeny took a slow sip of her tea, letting the steam curl into the cool air. The sky behind them deepened into violet. Somewhere beyond the outfield fence, a dog barked, and a faint whistle of the wind carried the smell of damp soil.

Jeeny: “You ever watch a team from behind home plate? Every position looks different — movements, energy, rhythm. Some players barely move all game but make the play that saves it. That’s life too. Not everyone shines constantly. Some just hold the world steady while others run.”

Jack: “So what — we should all just be grateful for whatever scraps of usefulness we get?”

Jeeny: “No. We should stop calling them scraps. The problem isn’t what you are — it’s that you think what you are isn’t enough.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tensed, his hands tightening around the towel beside him. The gold light began to fade, leaving soft shadows across his face — half-lit, half-guarded.

Jack: “You sound like a coach giving a pep talk after a loss.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because losing teaches you more than winning ever could. It strips you down to the truth: were you playing to prove, or to belong?”

Jack: “I don’t know anymore.”

Jeeny: “That’s the point. You’re supposed to find out. Finch didn’t say ‘be the best.’ She said ‘discover your gifts.’ That means start where you are. Look inward before you look around.”

Host: The silence stretched like a held breath. The field glowed faintly now under the first flicker of floodlights, their hum low and steady. Jack looked up at the empty pitcher’s mound, and for a brief moment, it seemed like he could see the ghost of a game still being played there — shouts, laughter, a ball flying through dusk.

Jack: “You ever feel like life benched you? Like you’re just watching everyone else play?”

Jeeny: “All the time. But you know what I realized? Sometimes being benched is the coach’s way of teaching you to see the game from a new angle. You can’t play forever on instinct. Sooner or later, you have to understand the field.”

Jack: “And what if I don’t have a field?”

Jeeny: “Then you build one. Out of whatever you have. Out of failure, maybe. Out of heart.”

Host: Jack’s laugh was soft, bitter at first, then quieter — something like surrender. He leaned back, looking at the fading light, the faint gleam of the metal bleachers catching the last of the sun.

Jack: “You always make it sound so simple.”

Jeeny: “It’s not simple. It’s sacred. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “You think everyone has a gift?”

Jeeny: “Yes. But most people spend their lives trying to trade theirs for someone else’s. That’s the tragedy. The pitcher wants to bat. The catcher wants to run. No one wants to just be.”

Host: The lights around the field buzzed louder now, casting long shadows on the dirt. A soft mist began to rise from the outfield, wrapping the bases in silver haze. Jack stood, stretching his back, his silhouette framed against the glowing field.

Jack: “You know, when I was a kid, I played shortstop. I wasn’t the fastest, or strongest, but I could read the ball. I knew where it would land before it did. It wasn’t glamorous, but it mattered.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You had instinct — that was your gift.”

Jack: “Maybe. But somewhere along the way, I started believing instinct wasn’t enough. That I had to hit home runs just to be worth the field.”

Jeeny: “That’s because the world keeps changing the scoreboard. But the truth stays the same — we each bring something the others can’t. Finch wasn’t just talking about softball; she was talking about self-acceptance.”

Host: A breeze passed through, stirring the dust at their feet. The world seemed quieter now, emptied of everything except the rhythm of breath, the soft hum of light, and the echo of her words.

Jack: “So… discover your gifts and let them shine, huh?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Not because the world’s watching — but because it’s yours to light.”

Host: Jack turned toward the field, his eyes following the faint lines in the dirt, the bases waiting like promises. The sky behind him had deepened into indigo, the first stars flickering awake.

Jack: “Maybe it’s not about being the best player anymore. Maybe it’s about loving the game again.”

Jeeny: “That’s it, Jack. That’s everything.”

Host: The camera pulled back — the field glowing under the pale floodlights, the two of them sitting side by side in the empty dugout, laughter soft but real.

And as the last light of evening surrendered to night, the diamond shimmered quietly — a stage for countless imperfect players, each holding their own position, each shining just enough to keep the world illuminated.