Control what you can control. I can control my emotions, my

Host: The locker room smelled of turf, sweat, and winter air. Outside, the stadium was still roaring — a fading storm of sound that slowly turned to echo. Inside, fluorescent lights hummed above the metal benches and scuffed helmets, the floor littered with the debris of battle: tape, cleats, the ghost of adrenaline.

Jack sat slumped on a bench, head down, forearms resting on his knees. His jersey was streaked with dirt and grass, his knuckles raw from contact and frustration. Across from him, Jeeny leaned against the lockers, arms folded, watching him with that quiet steadiness that always seemed to slice through his noise.

The clock on the wall ticked, slow and deliberate — each second a small demand for reflection.

Jeeny: “Mitchell Trubisky once said, ‘Control what you can control. I can control my emotions, my attitude, my effort every day.’”

Jack: (grimacing) “Sounds like something a coach says when the scoreboard’s ugly.”

Jeeny: (half-smiling) “Or something a man says when he’s learning to grow past the scoreboard.”

Jack: “That’s poetic. But tonight? We lost. There’s no poetry in that.”

Jeeny: “Loss isn’t the lesson. How you meet it is.”

Host: The room was still but charged — the silence after a game heavier than any roar. Jack’s breath was slow, uneven; the kind of breathing that belongs to people trying not to break.

He looked up, eyes tired but still burning with that restless need to blame something — the weather, the ref, himself.

Jack: “You ever feel like control’s a lie? Like the more you try to hold it, the less you actually have?”

Jeeny: “Only when I confuse control with perfection.”

Jack: “What’s the difference?”

Jeeny: “Control is focus. Perfection is fear.”

Host: The words hung there, soft but sharp. Jack blinked — the kind of blink that meant a truth had just landed somewhere deep.

Jack: “So, what — I just smile through failure? Pretend effort’s enough?”

Jeeny: “No. You own it. You show up again tomorrow with the same fire. That’s control — not the outcome, but the response.”

Jack: (dryly) “Easy to say when you’re not the one fumbling under the lights.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But life’s the same game, Jack. Every day you wake up, the field’s still there. The question is — what kind of player are you going to be when the crowd’s gone?”

Host: A long pause followed. Outside, the sound of the grounds crew’s machines hummed faintly — steady, repetitive, the world quietly cleaning up what chaos had left behind.

Jack reached for his water bottle, took a sip, stared at the floor.

Jack: “You think Trubisky meant that — really meant it? Or was it just PR?”

Jeeny: “He meant it. You can hear it in the structure of the sentence — he repeats my. ‘My emotions. My attitude. My effort.’ He’s not preaching control; he’s taking accountability.”

Jack: “Accountability doesn’t win games.”

Jeeny: “No. But it builds character. And character wins everything else.”

Host: The lights buzzed overhead. A towel dropped somewhere down the row, echoing slightly. The air felt cleaner now — or maybe it was just lighter because the blame had started to drain from the room.

Jeeny moved closer, crouching beside him.

Jeeny: “You can’t control the refs. You can’t control the weather. You can’t control if someone misses a block. But you can control how you walk out of this room. Angry or aware. Bitter or better.”

Jack: (quietly) “That sounds rehearsed.”

Jeeny: “That’s because it’s true. Truth always sounds practiced when it’s been lived through enough times.”

Host: Jack exhaled slowly. The weight on his shoulders wasn’t gone, but it had shifted — from anger to acceptance, from chaos to contemplation.

Jack: “You know, it’s strange. We spend our lives trying to control outcomes — careers, love, success — but the only thing we actually have power over is what’s inside.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Control isn’t about grasping; it’s about grounding.”

Jack: “You should put that on a poster.”

Jeeny: “No. Posters are for motivation. This is for survival.”

Host: The heater kicked on with a low hum, spreading warmth through the cold air. Jeeny stood and reached for his helmet, turning it in her hands.

Jeeny: “You know what I love about this quote? It’s not about power — it’s about peace. Trubisky didn’t say, ‘I control the game.’ He said, ‘I control me.’ That’s where real victory lives.”

Jack: “You make it sound spiritual.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Every day you step on this field — or into life — you’re not fighting the world, Jack. You’re fighting your own doubt.”

Host: Jack ran a hand over his face, slow and thoughtful. The rage had cooled, replaced by something quieter — that strange humility that comes after the noise of failure.

Jack: “You ever think control’s less about mastery and more about surrender?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s not about dominating your emotions — it’s about directing them. Let them move you, not drown you.”

Jack: “So, anger’s okay?”

Jeeny: “Of course. As long as you let it teach you instead of own you.”

Host: The overhead light flickered once, the hum of the stadium faint beyond the concrete walls. For the first time all night, Jack smiled — not wide, but real.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? All season, the coaches talk about controlling the ball. No one talks about controlling yourself.”

Jeeny: “Because that’s the harder game. The one that doesn’t end at the buzzer.”

Jack: “And the only one you can’t fake.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The clock on the wall hit midnight. The game was officially behind them. The next one had already begun — the one inside.

Jeeny picked up his playbook, placed it beside him gently.

Jeeny: “Tomorrow, you’ll get another chance to practice it — not perfection, but composure.”

Jack: “And if I lose again?”

Jeeny: “Then you start over again. Effort’s the only thing that doesn’t expire.”

Host: He nodded, looking down at his hands — strong, bruised, but steady.

Jack: “You know, maybe that’s what control really is — showing up, even when you’d rather quit.”

Jeeny: “Yes. That’s the quietest kind of courage there is.”

Host: Outside, the wind picked up. The echoes of the empty stadium faded. Inside, something else remained — a kind of calm that wasn’t victory, but wasn’t defeat either.

And as the two stood beneath the harsh light of the locker room, Trubisky’s words lingered — no longer a quote, but a mantra carved into the air:

That control isn’t about the scoreboard,
but the self.

That you can’t always decide what happens,
but you can decide who you are when it does.

And that every day,
no matter the outcome,
there’s one game you can always win —
the one where you give your effort,
guard your attitude,
and master your emotion
without ever needing to dominate the world.

Host: The lights dimmed.
The helmets gleamed dully under their hooks.
And Jack, finally,
stood up.