About the only problem with success is that it does not teach you

Host: The stadium lights still hummed, a lingering echo of victory and defeat suspended over the empty field. The stands, once roaring, now sat hollow — littered with programs, cups, and the faint ghosts of applause. Beyond the diamond, the sky was black velvet streaked with silver clouds, the smell of turf and sweat still hanging in the air.

Jack sat on the bench, still in his dusty uniform, his hands clasped, his eyes fixed on the ground. The scoreboard loomed behind him — glowing numbers that didn’t lie. Jeeny stood a few feet away, near the dugout steps, her coat pulled close against the chill.

Host: The air was thick with the quiet aftermath — that strange silence that comes when the noise dies and the truth stays.

Jeeny: “You played your heart out, Jack.”

Jack: “And still lost.”

Jeeny: “You can’t win them all.”

Jack: “Yeah, well, nobody tells you that when you’re on top.”

Host: He reached down, picked up a handful of dirt, and let it fall slowly through his fingers. The grains caught the light as they dropped — gold in the glow, dull when they hit the ground.

Jeeny: “Tommy Lasorda once said, ‘About the only problem with success is that it does not teach you how to deal with failure.’”

Jack: “Sounds like something a man says after losing one too many games.”

Jeeny: “Or a man who learned humility the hard way.”

Host: A faint breeze moved through the dugout, stirring a few scattered papers. Somewhere, a gate clanged shut, the sound echoing like punctuation at the end of a long, unfinished sentence.

Jack: “You know what success feels like, Jeeny? It feels like invincibility. Like the universe finally noticed you and said, ‘Here — take this.’ But it’s a loan, not a gift. You only find that out when it’s taken back.”

Jeeny: “And failure’s the interest you pay.”

Jack: “Exactly.”

Host: Jack leaned back against the wall, his shoulders slumping, his eyes glassy with exhaustion more than pain.

Jeeny: “You talk like failure is a punishment.”

Jack: “Isn’t it?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s a mirror. You just don’t like what you see.”

Host: He looked up at her, the corners of his mouth twitching.

Jack: “You think failure builds character, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “No. I think it reveals it.”

Host: The scoreboard flickered once, then went dark — the last symbol of the night surrendering to the inevitable. Jeeny walked closer, her shoes crunching softly on the gravel floor.

Jeeny: “You’ve won a lot in your life, Jack. But maybe this is the first time you’ve really had to learn something.”

Jack: “You think I haven’t failed before?”

Jeeny: “Not like this. You’ve failed where it didn’t matter. This time, it’s personal.”

Jack: “You make it sound noble.”

Jeeny: “It can be, if you let it.”

Host: The wind carried the faint sound of a maintenance crew working in the distance — the low rumble of machinery, the clatter of metal, the slow, mechanical rhythm of a world that keeps moving even when you stop.

Jack: “You ever succeed so much you start to think you’ve earned it? That you deserve it?”

Jeeny: “Of course.”

Jack: “And then when you fail — it’s like someone rewrote the rules while you weren’t looking.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the point. Success writes the lullaby, failure writes the truth.”

Jack: “Truth doesn’t pay the bills.”

Jeeny: “No, but it pays the soul.”

Host: The flourescent light above them buzzed, flickering, as if uncertain whether to stay alive or give up entirely. Jack rubbed his hands over his face, the grime and sweat smearing faintly, the residue of effort that hadn’t been enough.

Jack: “You know what success does to a man? It blinds him. Makes him think he’s immune to gravity. And then — one mistake, one bad inning — and you remember you’re still human.”

Jeeny: “And isn’t that what we forget most when we’re winning? Our own humanity?”

Jack: “Yeah, but it hurts to remember it this way.”

Jeeny: “Growth always does.”

Host: She sat beside him, her coat brushing his sleeve. For a moment, neither spoke. The field beyond glowed faintly under the moon — empty, eternal, waiting for the next morning, the next game.

Jeeny: “Do you know what Lasorda meant, really?”

Jack: “Enlighten me.”

Jeeny: “He meant that success coddles you. It tells you you’re special. But failure — failure strips you down until you meet the person you really are. Success tells you what you can do. Failure tells you who you are when you can’t.”

Host: Jack let the words settle. His breathing slowed. He looked out across the diamond — the bases white as ghosts, the mound still scarred where his cleats had dug in.

Jack: “When I was younger, my coach used to say losing builds character. I used to think that was just a loser’s excuse. But now…”

Jeeny: “Now you see it’s not an excuse. It’s the syllabus.”

Jack: “The what?”

Jeeny: “The lesson plan. Life’s teaching you how to start over.”

Host: A faint smile flickered on Jack’s lips, small and broken, but real.

Jack: “You always find poetry in the wreckage, don’t you?”

Jeeny: “It’s where the poetry lives.”

Host: The moonlight found its way through the stands, cutting long shadows over the empty seats. Jack leaned forward, elbows on his knees, the fire in him not gone — just banked.

Jack: “So what do I do now?”

Jeeny: “You stand up. You take the loss. You learn from it. And then — you play again. That’s how you deal with failure.”

Jack: “And what if I fail again?”

Jeeny: “Then you keep failing until the fear of it doesn’t own you anymore.”

Host: He looked at her, searching for sarcasm, but there was none. Just that unshakable calm that came from someone who had fallen before — and gotten up.

Jack: “You think people actually learn from failure? Or do we just get used to pain?”

Jeeny: “We learn if we choose to. Most people just get bitter. But the ones who grow — they’re the ones who stay curious about why it hurt.”

Host: The night air grew colder. The lights of the maintenance trucks dimmed in the distance, one by one, until only the stars remained.

Jack: “You ever fail at something you really wanted?”

Jeeny: “Of course. More times than I care to count.”

Jack: “And?”

Jeeny: “I kept showing up. That’s the trick. Failure only wins when you stop showing up.”

Host: Jack nodded slowly. He stood, brushing dirt from his pants. His eyes were still tired, but now there was a glint — not of pride, but of endurance.

Jack: “You know, I think I liked success better.”

Jeeny: “Everybody does. But success is loud; it drowns out your soul. Failure whispers. That’s why it’s harder to hear — and more important when you do.”

Host: The field stretched before them — empty now, but full of promise. The chalk lines, faded but still there, like the memory of the game that had just ended.

Jack looked out once more, his breath visible in the cold air, his expression softening.

Jack: “Maybe losing’s just life reminding you to stay humble.”

Jeeny: “Or reminding you to stay human.”

Host: The camera would pull back now — the two figures small against the vast stadium, the quiet hum of the world returning to motion.

Jack turned to Jeeny with a tired grin.

Jack: “Next time, I’ll handle failure better.”

Jeeny: “You just did.”

Host: The lights went out completely then — leaving only the silver wash of moonlight over the field. And in that pale glow, the night seemed to whisper Lasorda’s truth through the silence:

that success makes you confident,
but failure — failure makes you wise.