I've tried to handle winning well, so that maybe we'll win again

Host: The gymnasium was almost silent, save for the faint squeak of sneakers echoing from the rafters. Bleachers folded back, scoreboard lights dimmed to black, the place smelled of sweat, wood polish, and a faint echo of applause that seemed to linger long after the crowd was gone.

Outside, a winter wind howled through the cracks, carrying a whisper of snow. Inside, under the half-light of a single bulb, Jack sat at the end of the bench, his hands clasped, his jacket damp with exhaustion.

Jeeny stood near the free-throw line, watching a lone basketball roll across the court until it stopped at her feet. She picked it up, ran her fingers over the worn rubber, and smiled faintly.

Jeeny: “Mike Krzyzewski once said, ‘I’ve tried to handle winning well, so that maybe we’ll win again, but I’ve also tried to handle failure well. If those serve as good examples for teachers and kids, then I hope that would be a contribution I have made to sport. Not just basketball, but to sport.’”

Jack: (his voice low, tired) “Coach K… the man who turned victories into lessons and defeats into sermons. A saint in sneakers.”

Host: The light flickered, casting their shadows across the court, long and wavering, like ghosts of past games.

Jeeny: “You sound cynical, Jack.”

Jack: “Not cynical. Realistic. People love quoting wisdom after they’ve already won. It’s easier to be noble when you’ve got trophies to polish.”

Jeeny: “And yet, you and I both know the ones who win don’t always learn. Maybe he was one of the few who did.”

Host: The ball slipped from Jeeny’s hands and bounced once, twice, echoing through the hall. She walked toward the bench, her footsteps soft on the polished floor.

Jeeny: “He said something important there — not about victory, but about handling failure. Everyone wants to teach how to win. No one teaches how to lose.”

Jack: “Because losing doesn’t sell posters or tickets. Nobody remembers the runner-up speech.”

Jeeny: (sitting beside him) “But they remember grace. They remember dignity. They remember someone who doesn’t crumble when the scoreboard turns red.”

Jack: (smirking) “You mean someone like you?”

Jeeny: (smiling) “Someone who tries.”

Host: The wind rattled the high windows. Somewhere in the dark, a metal doo