Young people, particularly in their teens and 20s, are not

Host: The sports bar was a cathedral of noise and nostalgia — TV screens glowed from every corner, each broadcasting a different game, each commanding a different allegiance. The air smelled of spilled beer, fried food, and memory. Outside, the rain slicked streets reflected the glow of neon signs, flickering between colors like indecisive loyalties.

Inside, the room pulsed with divided attention. Half the patrons had their eyes on the screens; the other half were scrolling their phones, reacting to plays before even seeing them.

At a table near the back, Jack and Jeeny sat opposite each other — two quiet thinkers in a place built for noise. Between them, a single glowing tablet streamed the same game showing on the wall. The delay between them — barely a second — still made them feel worlds apart.

Projected across one of the big screens above the bar, a news ticker rolled across a headline:
“Gary Bettman: Young people aren’t consuming sports the way we did. They’re multitasking, downloading, getting alerts — consuming in real time, but not full time.”

The quote faded, replaced by an instant replay — a perfect metaphor for a world obsessed with moments, but not memories.

Jeeny: Watching the crowd. “He’s right, you know. They’re here, but they’re not here. They’re watching, but they’re not seeing.”

Jack: Takes a sip of his drink, eyes on his phone. “Maybe that’s just evolution. Who says you have to worship at the altar of a single screen anymore?”

Jeeny: “Because some things deserve attention, Jack. The beauty of sport was never just the score — it was the patience of watching it unfold. The silence before a goal. The story that took three hours, not three seconds.”

Jack: Smirking. “Three hours for what? To watch grown men chase a ball? We don’t have the luxury of stillness anymore, Jeeny. The world’s faster. The feed’s infinite. You either keep up or you disappear.”

Jeeny: Her eyes darkening. “So that’s it? You trade presence for pace? You think faster means better?”

Jack: “No, I think faster means necessary. You think anyone under 25 is gonna sit through a full baseball game when they can watch the highlights on TikTok? It’s not attention deficit — it’s efficiency.”

Host: The bartender turned up the volume, and the crowd erupted as a team scored. Cheers and notifications blended, becoming indistinguishable. Someone at the bar raised their phone, recording the celebration instead of joining it.

Jeeny: Watching them with quiet sadness. “We’ve turned participation into observation. Nobody cheers anymore unless their camera’s rolling. We don’t experience the game — we document it.”

Jack: Nods toward the crowd. “And that documentation is the experience now. That’s what Bettman meant. Sports used to be something you consumed in full — now it’s something you taste in moments. Highlights, memes, fantasy stats. People don’t love teams anymore; they love trends.”

Jeeny: “But doesn’t that make it empty? Like eating candy for dinner — sweet, instant, but gone before it nourishes anything real?”

Jack: “Or maybe it’s adaptation. Maybe they’re redefining fandom. You don’t need three hours in front of a screen to feel part of something anymore. One viral clip can make you feel connected to millions.”

Jeeny: “Connected? Or curated? There’s a difference between community and content.”

Host: The rain outside intensified, a steady rhythm against the glass. The game clock on-screen ticked down, the crowd roaring and then quieting as one team’s fate was sealed. Jack didn’t look up — his phone buzzed; he was already scrolling through the post-game commentary.

Jeeny leaned back, her gaze fixed not on the screens, but on the faces illuminated by them.

Jeeny: “You ever notice how everyone watches sports alone now — even when they’re together?”

Jack: Without looking up. “You’re romanticizing the past again.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But at least in the past, people looked at each other when they screamed.”

Jack: Sets his phone down, sighs. “You make it sound tragic. Maybe it’s just… different. The new generation doesn’t want to follow the game; they want to interact with it. They want to comment, remix, debate, make it theirs. That’s power.”

Jeeny: “But in making it theirs, they’ve lost what made it ours. The collective heartbeat. The slow burn of belonging.”

Jack: Leaning forward, eyes softening. “You really think watching a full game made people more connected? Half of them just shouted at the TV and went home angry. At least now, the conversation never stops.”

Jeeny: “Endless noise isn’t conversation, Jack. It’s distraction dressed up as dialogue.”

Host: The lights dimmed slightly as the crowd thinned. The bar felt quieter now, the screens still glowing — ghosts of passion on replay.

Jeeny: Softly. “Do you remember the first game you watched with your dad?”

Jack: Pauses. “Yeah. Sunday night football. He made popcorn. I remember the smell more than the score.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s what’s missing now. The ritual. The patience. The presence. Sports weren’t just about winning. They were about being there. Together.”

Jack: Nods slowly. “Maybe. But that kind of togetherness is dying everywhere — not just here. Work, art, love — we’ve digitized intimacy. Why should sports be any different?”

Jeeny: “Because sports were supposed to remind us of the physical world. The sweat, the effort, the heartbeat. They’re one of the last human languages we share.”

Jack: “Then maybe it’s not dying, Jeeny — maybe it’s evolving. Maybe the language just found a new accent.”

Host: The bartender began wiping down the counters. The screens played replays in silence now, muted but mesmerizing. Outside, the rain eased into a mist, the city lights softening into a gentle haze.

Jack stood, slipping on his jacket, but hesitated — watching a young couple at the bar laugh over a slow-motion replay on one of their phones. They were sharing earbuds, smiling, together.

Jeeny noticed his look and smiled faintly.

Jeeny: “See? It’s still connection. Just different.”

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe they don’t need the whole story to feel part of it.”

Jeeny: “But I hope they remember that stories still exist — even between the highlights.”

Host: The two stepped outside, the wet pavement gleaming beneath the streetlights. The faint cheers from the last remaining fans drifted through the open bar door like echoes from another time.

Jack: “You know, Bettman might be right. Maybe we’re not consuming sports the same way anymore. But maybe that’s okay — maybe the game isn’t what’s changing. Maybe we are.”

Jeeny: “Then let’s just hope we don’t evolve so fast we forget how to feel slow.”

Jack: Smiling softly. “Slow feels dangerous now.”

Jeeny: “Then it’s probably sacred.”

Host: The camera pans upward, catching the reflection of the city in a puddle — fragments of neon, motion, and memory mingling. The screen flickers one last time with the echo of Gary Bettman’s words, now transformed into something larger than sports — a meditation on modern life itself:

“In a world addicted to speed, even passion becomes a notification. But maybe, in slowing down to watch the whole game, we remember what it means to belong to the same story.”