The smile helps me keep a positive attitude and go on to the next

Host: The gymnasium lights burned low, humming faintly above the polished wood floor. The echo of a volleyball still lingered in the air, like the last note of a song that refused to end. The bleachers stood empty now, except for a single scoreboard light still blinking, its numbers frozen — victory or loss, it no longer mattered.

Outside, a storm was gathering, soft thunder rolling beyond the tall glass windows, a rhythm that matched the pulse of exhaustion in the room.

At center court sat Jeeny, legs crossed, still in her jersey, sweat glistening on her brow, her hair pulled back, loose strands sticking to her cheek. Her hands rested on her knees, her eyes distant but alive — the calm after a storm that happens on the inside.

Jack leaned against the wall, jacket slung over his shoulder, the whistle around his neck still swaying faintly. His grey eyes studied her like a puzzle he’d been trying to solve for years.

Between them, taped to the ball cart, was a quote — written in bold marker, the ink smudged from use and sweat:
"The smile helps me keep a positive attitude and go on to the next play." — Jordan Larson.

Jack: “You always do that, you know. Smile after every mistake.”

Jeeny: (grinning) “Maybe that’s why I keep getting back up.”

Jack: “Or maybe it’s just denial disguised as optimism.”

Host: His voice was calm but edged with that familiar tone — sharp, skeptical, like he couldn’t help dissecting the emotion out of anything human.

Jeeny: “You’d rather I sulk?”

Jack: “I’d rather you be honest. No one smiles like that after missing a spike.”

Jeeny: “You’re wrong. Sometimes I smile because I missed.”

Jack: (raising an eyebrow) “That makes no sense.”

Jeeny: “It makes perfect sense. The smile isn’t for what happened. It’s for what happens next.”

Host: The gym lights flickered as the storm outside grew louder. A single ball rolled across the floor and bumped gently against Jeeny’s foot, as if reminding her of the unfinished game.

Jack: “You sound like you’ve rehearsed that answer.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I have. You learn it after years on the court. You fall, you fail, you miss. If you let the mistake live in your body, it’ll poison the next move. The smile releases it.”

Jack: “So it’s a performance.”

Jeeny: “No, it’s permission.”

Host: Her eyes flicked up toward him, calm but fierce — the kind of steadiness that only comes from breaking and rebuilding a thousand times.

Jeeny: “Jordan Larson wasn’t talking about pretending to be happy. She was talking about resilience — about not letting a single moment define who you are. A smile is the bridge between failure and the next chance.”

Jack: “You make it sound sacred.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is.”

Host: The thunder cracked, shaking the glass. For a moment, the lights dimmed to near darkness, and the shadows of the two figures stretched across the gym floor, long and overlapping.

Jack: “You think positivity’s enough to fix failure?”

Jeeny: “No. But it’s the only way to survive it.”

Jack: “That’s naive.”

Jeeny: “No — it’s necessary. You can’t play scared. You can’t live scared either.”

Host: She picked up the volleyball, spinning it slowly in her hands. The ball’s worn surface was covered in scuffs — every mark a story of impact, of friction, of effort that didn’t always land right.

Jeeny: “You see this? Every mark is a mistake — and proof that it’s been in play. That’s what the smile is for. It says: I’m still in play.”

Jack: (softly) “And when you lose?”

Jeeny: “You smile bigger. Because it means you cared enough to hurt.”

Host: The rain began to hit the windows in rhythmic bursts, like a thousand small applauses from the night.

Jack: “You know, that’s not how I was raised. In my world, failure wasn’t an option. You either performed or you didn’t belong. There was no smiling through it.”

Jeeny: “That’s not strength, Jack. That’s fear wearing pride as armor.”

Jack: (pauses, staring at the floor) “Maybe. But it got results.”

Jeeny: “Results aren’t the same as joy.”

Host: Her voice softened, but it carried weight — the kind that doesn’t need to be loud to be heard.

Jeeny: “Larson’s smile isn’t about happiness. It’s about alignment — with the moment, the motion, the purpose. You don’t smile because it’s easy. You smile because it’s your way of saying: I’m not done yet.”

Jack: “So the smile is defiance.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Grace disguised as grit.”

Host: The lights hummed back to full power, flooding the gym with pale gold. Sweat glimmered on the floorboards; the faint echo of their voices filled the space like a forgotten anthem.

Jack: “You ever fake it?”

Jeeny: “The smile?” (She chuckles) “All the time. But sometimes the act becomes the truth. It’s not about lying to yourself — it’s about reminding your body to believe again.”

Jack: “You really think that works?”

Jeeny: “I know it does. Because the body listens to the heart’s language. And the heart’s language isn’t words — it’s rhythm, gesture, resilience.”

Host: She tossed the ball gently toward him. He caught it without looking, his expression unreadable — somewhere between doubt and admiration.

Jack: “You’d make a terrible cynic.”

Jeeny: “And you’d make a terrible optimist.”

Jack: (smirking) “So we balance each other out.”

Jeeny: “No. We translate each other.”

Host: The storm outside began to fade, leaving behind the sound of rain easing into quiet. The world seemed to breathe again.

Jack: “You know, it’s funny. That smile — it’s not strength I see when you do it. It’s mercy.”

Jeeny: (tilting her head) “Mercy?”

Jack: “Yeah. Mercy for yourself. For being human enough to mess up and human enough to try again.”

Jeeny: “Maybe mercy is the strongest thing there is.”

Host: She walked toward the bleachers, sitting halfway up, looking out across the empty court. The scoreboard lights flickered once, then went dark — the final point erased by time.

Jeeny: “You know, Larson said that after one of her toughest losses — not after winning gold. That’s what people forget. Her smile wasn’t victory. It was recovery.”

Jack: (quietly) “Recovery… yeah. I could use some of that.”

Jeeny: (softly, with warmth) “Then start with a smile.”

Host: The camera would pull back now — the vast gym, dimly lit, the storm outside slowly retreating to silence. The two figures sat facing opposite ends of the court, but the space between them pulsed with something alive — not triumph, not defeat, but the courage to continue.

And on the wall, the quote glowed faintly under the flickering light — as if written in breath rather than ink:

"The smile helps me keep a positive attitude and go on to the next play." — Jordan Larson.

Because sometimes resilience isn’t loud.
It isn’t heroic.
It’s just a smile — fragile, defiant, and utterly human —
the quiet promise that the game is not yet over.