A champion is afraid of losing. Everyone else is afraid of

Host:
The tennis court glowed under the floodlights — a rectangle of green and shadow, surrounded by silence so dense it seemed to listen. Beyond the fence, the city was just a whisper: faint horns, faraway laughter, life continuing somewhere that didn’t know what it meant to chase perfection.

The night air was cool and electric, the kind of air that carried both the promise of victory and the taste of failure. The scoreboard lights flickered faintly: 6–6, match point. The audience was long gone. Only the echoes remained — clapping ghosts and invisible judges.

Jack stood at the baseline, racket in hand, his shirt damp, his breath heavy, his eyes fixed on the other side of the net. His body was carved from fatigue and precision — the posture of a man who’d lived too long on the edge of his own limits.

Across from him, Jeeny leaned against the net post, her hair pulled back, her sweatband stained from hours of play. Her expression was unreadable — neither triumphant nor tired, but quietly alive, as though she found peace in this endless duel.

Between them, written in chalk along the court’s boundary line, someone had scrawled the words of a truth that haunted both athletes and souls alike:

“A champion is afraid of losing. Everyone else is afraid of winning.” — Billie Jean King

Jack:
(reading it aloud)
A champion is afraid of losing. Everyone else is afraid of winning.

(pauses, looking at Jeeny)
So tell me, which one are you tonight?

Jeeny:
(smiling faintly)
Depends on who’s serving.

Jack:
You’ve always got an answer.

Jeeny:
That’s because I’ve spent my whole life playing games I couldn’t afford to lose.

Jack:
We all have. The difference is — some of us know what’s at stake.

Jeeny:
And some of us remember why we started playing in the first place.

Host:
A breeze moved across the court, scattering a few fallen leaves over the white lines — like the world reminding them that time was still moving, even when they refused to.

Jack:
You really think there’s a difference between the fear of losing and the fear of winning? Fear’s fear. It doesn’t care what side of the scoreboard you’re on.

Jeeny:
That’s where you’re wrong. The fear of losing keeps you sharp. The fear of winning keeps you small.

Jack:
(smirking)
You make it sound like victory’s a curse.

Jeeny:
It is — if you’re not ready to live with it.

Jack:
So you’d rather lose?

Jeeny:
I’d rather risk losing than live in the safety of never trying.

Jack:
That’s poetic, but it’s not how the world works. You win, or you disappear.

Jeeny:
No, Jack. You win, or you learn. The disappearing happens when you stop daring either.

Host:
The floodlights flickered once, a soft hum rising through the still air. The court shimmered faintly, like a memory trapped in glass.

Jack:
You ever notice how champions never really smile? Not the real ones — not the ones who win too often.

Jeeny:
Because winning doesn’t bring peace, Jack. It just resets the fear.

Jack:
(half-smiling)
Then why do we chase it?

Jeeny:
Because the chase is the only place we feel alive.

Jack:
So we’re addicts. Addicts to validation.

Jeeny:
No. Addicts to meaning. Victory just happens to be the only language we know how to speak it in.

Host:
Jack walked toward the net, dragging his racket across the surface — the faint rasping sound cutting through the quiet like a sigh. Jeeny’s eyes followed him, wary but steady.

Jack:
You think Billie Jean King was afraid of losing?

Jeeny:
Of course. Every champion is. But she wasn’t afraid to admit it. That’s what made her dangerous.

Jack:
And the rest of us?

Jeeny:
We pretend we’re fearless — and that’s why we break.

Jack:
Fear’s not the problem. Weakness is.

Jeeny:
No. Weakness is pretending fear doesn’t exist. The strongest people I know are terrified — but they move anyway.

Jack:
(quietly)
You make fear sound like a companion.

Jeeny:
It is. It walks beside you until courage learns your name.

Host:
The night deepened — that hour just before midnight when even stars seem to hesitate. The two stood on opposite sides of the net, their faces lit by the soft glow of the court lights — two halves of the same storm.

Jack:
You know what I realized tonight? Every time I’m close to winning, I start sabotaging myself. I start missing shots I’d never miss in practice.

Jeeny:
Because winning means change. And change means losing who you were.

Jack:
Maybe I liked who I was.

Jeeny:
Then you’ll never find out who you could be.

Jack:
(snarling softly)
You make it sound so easy.

Jeeny:
It’s not. It’s terrifying. But that’s what separates champions from everyone else. They don’t play to avoid losing. They play to meet their fear.

Jack:
And if fear wins?

Jeeny:
Then at least it met you face to face. Most people run before that moment ever comes.

Host:
A long silence. The lights hummed, the air trembled with invisible tension. Jack’s breathing slowed; his hands loosened their grip on the racket.

Jack:
You think I’m afraid of winning?

Jeeny:
I think you’re afraid of what comes after winning. The emptiness. The question: “Now what?”

Jack:
Maybe. Every victory feels smaller than the one before.

Jeeny:
Because you keep measuring them by the noise outside instead of the quiet inside.

Jack:
(half-smiling)
And what does your quiet say?

Jeeny:
That winning isn’t proof. It’s presence. It’s showing up fully — even when you might fail.

Jack:
(sighing)
You always turn my wars into poetry.

Jeeny:
And you always turn my poetry into war. That’s why we’re here.

Host:
She tossed him a ball. It landed softly in his hand — yellow, small, weightless, yet carrying the whole metaphor of their lives.

Jeeny:
Serve. One more. No audience. No trophies. Just you and the game.

Jack:
And what am I playing for?

Jeeny:
To see if you can play without needing to win.

Host:
He looked at her — long, hard — then stepped back to the baseline. The floodlights hummed, the net shimmered faintly. He bounced the ball once, twice, then served — clean, simple, true.

The ball struck the court with a sound that wasn’t victory or defeat. It was release.

Jack:
You know something? That felt different.

Jeeny:
It should. For once, you weren’t playing against yourself.

Host:
The lights dimmed, one by one, until only the moonlight remained. The court looked softer now, like a page that had been rewritten until it found its final sentence.

Jack:
You think fear ever goes away?

Jeeny:
No. It just changes shape. At first it’s the opponent. Then it’s the mirror.

Jack:
And for a champion?

Jeeny:
It’s both — forever. But that’s what keeps them honest.

Host:
She smiled, stepping forward to meet him at the net. The air between them felt charged — not with rivalry, but recognition.

Jeeny:
You’re not afraid of losing, Jack. You’re afraid of not being worth the win.

Jack:
(softly)
And you?

Jeeny:
I’m afraid of winning and forgetting why I started to play.

Host:
The sunrise began to bloom at the horizon — faint streaks of gold washing over the dark court. The match was over, but the meaning wasn’t.

Perhaps that was what Billie Jean King meant —
that champions and dreamers live in the same storm,
but only the brave learn to play through it.

That fear never leaves; it only transforms —
from a chain into a rhythm,
from hesitation into motion.

Because victory isn’t the end of fear —
it’s the moment you learn to move with it,
to serve again, and again,
knowing that courage is not the absence of doubt,
but the choice to keep swinging anyway.

Host:
The ball rolled to rest at the net, perfectly still.
And for the first time all night,
so were they.

Fade out.