Failure and things of this sort - you can take it one of two

Host:
The shooting range lay quiet beneath the weight of a late autumn sky — wide, gray, and heavy, like a mind before confession. The air smelled faintly of metal, rain, and regret. Beyond the low hum of wind through the trees, there was nothing but stillness — the kind that follows when something has gone wrong, but life refuses to stop.

On the bench beside the targets, Jack sat with a thermos of coffee cooling in his hands. His jacket was worn, his eyes sharp yet distant, as if tracking something invisible. Across from him, Jeeny stood, hands in her pockets, watching him with the calm patience of someone who knew silence was a necessary prelude to truth.

A single rifle rested between them — gleaming, disassembled, like an idea dismantled and waiting to be rebuilt.

Jeeny: softly “Matt Emmons once said, ‘Failure and things of this sort — you can take it one of two ways. You can either let that hurt you and really affect the way that you live your life in the future, or you can use that as an opportunity for growth.’”

Jack: quietly “He would know. One shot away from gold, and he hit the wrong target.”

Jeeny: nodding “Athens, 2004. One mistake that followed him for years.”

Jack: softly “And yet he kept competing.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Because the target isn’t failure — it’s recovery.”

Jack: quietly “Funny thing about shooting — and life. You can spend years aiming for perfection, and all it takes is one breath too long to lose it.”

Jeeny: softly “And all it takes to redeem it is one breath more.”

Host: The wind picked up, stirring a few leaves across the gravel. The sun slipped behind a thin veil of cloud, and the range was wrapped in a muted, silver light. Everything seemed suspended — not erased, but paused — like a lesson mid-sentence.

Jack: after a pause “People romanticize failure. Say it builds character. But the truth is, it breaks you first. And sometimes you never rebuild the same way.”

Jeeny: quietly “You’re right. It hurts. It ruins confidence, shatters rhythm. But what Emmons meant wasn’t denial — it was discipline.”

Jack: softly “To stand back up?”

Jeeny: nodding “Exactly. Not because it doesn’t hurt, but because you learn to build strength around the pain instead of from it.”

Jack: after a pause “That’s a fine line.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “All growth is. Between scar and skin, lesson and loss.”

Host: The sky lightened slightly, and the air seemed to clear — the storm that never arrived choosing instead to stay in the distance. The world smelled like iron and forgiveness.

Jeeny: quietly “You know, I watched his interview once. He said missing that shot taught him humility. That before, he wanted perfection; after, he wanted peace.”

Jack: softly “Peace is harder to aim for.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “That’s why it’s worth hitting.”

Jack: after a pause “I used to think success was linear — like a series of bullseyes. You hit enough, and you win. Now I think it’s more like recoil. You can’t control the shot — only how you absorb it.”

Jeeny: nodding “Exactly. The body reacts, the mind learns, the soul adjusts. Growth isn’t triumph. It’s calibration.”

Jack: quietly “Then failure isn’t the opposite of success — it’s the test that measures it.”

Jeeny: softly “And the only real miss is refusing to aim again.”

Host: The sound of metal clicked softly as Jack began to reassemble the rifle, each motion deliberate, meditative — like prayer made mechanical. The precision of it, the rhythm, seemed to steady the air around them.

Jeeny: after a moment “You know what I love about Emmons’ story? It’s not about redemption. It’s about perspective. He didn’t erase failure — he reframed it.”

Jack: quietly “He made it part of his story instead of the end of it.”

Jeeny: nodding “Yes. That’s what growth is — changing the grammar of your past.”

Jack: after a pause “So instead of ‘I failed,’ it becomes ‘I learned.’”

Jeeny: smiling “Exactly. Failure’s just success in translation.”

Jack: softly “That’s poetic for an economist.”

Jeeny: grinning “That’s because pain makes philosophers of us all.”

Host: A faint gunshot cracked in the distance — another shooter, another chance. The echo rolled across the valley, lingering like a memory that refused to fade completely.

Jeeny: softly “What’s worse, Jack? Missing the target or being too afraid to shoot again?”

Jack: after a pause “Fear’s a quieter failure. It pretends to protect you but really just locks the chamber.”

Jeeny: nodding “That’s why growth is a decision, not a reaction.”

Jack: quietly “And decisions are harder to make when your hands still remember the tremor.”

Jeeny: softly “That’s when faith steps in. Not in God necessarily — but in the idea that the next shot matters more than the last.”

Jack: after a long silence “You ever miss something so badly it echoes?”

Jeeny: quietly “Of course. But echoes are just reminders that sound existed. That effort mattered.”

Jack: softly “So failure’s a kind of proof?”

Jeeny: nodding “Proof you tried. Proof you cared. Proof you were alive.”

Host: The clouds began to break, revealing slivers of light across the far end of the range. The targets glowed faintly in the new sun — a field of opportunity painted in red and white.

Jeeny: after a pause “You know, there’s something holy about trying again after failure. It’s the most human prayer there is.”

Jack: quietly “The prayer of persistence.”

Jeeny: softly “Yes. The belief that no mistake defines you unless you choose to stand still inside it.”

Jack: nodding slowly “And the courage to keep aiming, knowing the world remembers the misses more than the hits.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Maybe. But the soul remembers the trying.”

Jack: after a long silence “Then maybe failure’s not an end — just a rehearsal for resilience.”

Jeeny: softly “Exactly. Growth isn’t about perfection. It’s about the will to reload.”

Host: The light settled gently over them now. Jack raised the rifle, breathing steady, eyes clear. The sound of the next shot cracked through the silence — sharp, confident, free.

A moment later, he lowered the gun, exhaled, and smiled faintly.

And in that quiet moment — between noise and calm, aim and release — Matt Emmons’ words seemed to live again, not as advice, but as truth carved into air:

That failure is not a wound,
but an invitation —
a call to look deeper at the self,
to decide whether to live in fear
or grow in grace.

That we are measured not by how often we miss,
but by how courageously we take aim again.

That the soul, like the marksman,
learns not from perfection,
but from adjustment —
the art of realigning hope
after recoil.

And that life, in the end,
is less about hitting every target
and more about the faith
to keep pulling the trigger
of possibility.

Fade out.