Win or lose, I believe in giving my best and that is what I

Host: The gymnasium was almost empty, save for the faint echo of a shuttlecock striking floorboards in the distance — the sound of repetition, of focus, of someone refusing to stop even when no one was watching. The air smelled of resin, sweat, and purpose.

It was late — past midnight — when Jack sat on the edge of the bleachers, unlacing his shoes, his grey eyes heavy but alive. Across the court, Jeeny leaned against a pillar, her arms crossed, a towel around her neck. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, sharp and cold, throwing long, perfect shadows.

On the wall beside them, a single poster hung — faded but proud — Lin Dan, mid-smash, frozen in mid-air. Beneath his image, a quote read:

“Win or lose, I believe in giving my best and that is what I always do.” — Lin Dan

Jeeny: (reading aloud) “Win or lose, I believe in giving my best…” Sounds simple, doesn’t it? But only someone who’s tasted both can say it with peace.”

Jack: “Or with exhaustion.”

Jeeny: “You mean the kind that doesn’t come from the body?”

Jack: “Exactly. The kind that comes from always wanting more — and knowing you already gave everything.”

Jeeny: “You think that’s defeat?”

Jack: “No. I think that’s honesty.”

Host: The gym lights flickered, humming with the electricity of memory. Jeeny walked slowly toward the center court, the soles of her shoes whispering against the wooden floor. Jack followed, his steps heavy but steady.

Jeeny: “Lin Dan was a perfectionist. Every match, every move, every ounce of his body committed to precision. But when he said win or lose, he was talking about something beyond medals.”

Jack: “You think so?”

Jeeny: “Yes. I think he was talking about identity. About living with yourself after the scoreboard fades.”

Jack: “That’s easy to say when you’ve won everything worth winning.”

Jeeny: “Or harder. Because after you’ve touched the peak, there’s nothing left to climb — only the quiet question of who am I now?”

Host: A draft of cold air slipped in through the side door, stirring the banners that hung above the court. They rippled like flags of memory, colors muted by time.

Jack: “You know, when I was younger, I thought success was permanent. Like if you trained hard enough, if you gave your best, the world would remember.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now I think the world forgets. Fast. But maybe that’s why giving your best matters — not for remembrance, but for peace.”

Jeeny: “Peace doesn’t come from victory. It comes from knowing you didn’t hold back.”

Jack: “Even when it wasn’t enough?”

Jeeny: “Especially then.”

Host: The court lights brightened briefly, reflecting off the floor — a perfect sheen of sweat, effort, and echoes. Jack picked up a stray shuttlecock, turning it in his hand, its feathers worn, its edges frayed.

Jack: “You know what this reminds me of? The last match I played in college. Semi-finals. Lost by two points. I remember walking off the court feeling like I’d failed. But the next morning, I woke up... and it felt different. Like I’d left everything I had there. I couldn’t give more — and somehow that felt like winning.”

Jeeny: “That’s what he meant, Jack. Winning and losing are temporary. Giving your best — that’s eternal. It’s the one thing no one can take from you.”

Jack: “Maybe. But the world doesn’t build statues for effort.”

Jeeny: “No. But you don’t live your life in marble. You live it in moments. And those moments — the honest ones — they build something stronger.”

Host: The sound of a distant door closing echoed through the gym. The night deepened. Jeeny sat down cross-legged on the floor, her towel falling into her lap. Jack joined her, his elbows on his knees, head bowed slightly — not in defeat, but in thought.

Jeeny: “You know why Lin Dan was admired, even by his rivals? Because he played every point like it was the last. He didn’t wait for the score to tell him how much to care.”

Jack: “So you’re saying greatness isn’t talent, it’s consistency?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s integrity. The commitment to show up with the same fire, whether the crowd is cheering or gone.”

Jack: “That’s hard to sustain.”

Jeeny: “That’s why so few do it.”

Host: A shuttlecock rolled slowly across the court, nudged by a stray gust of air. Jack caught it before it stopped moving, holding it up against the light. The white feathers glowed softly, like a relic.

Jack: “You ever think people are afraid of losing not because of the failure, but because it exposes how much they cared?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But caring’s the bravest thing you can do. You can fake skill, fake confidence — but not care. Care costs you everything.”

Jack: “And yet we still do it.”

Jeeny: “Because we know — deep down — that care’s what gives meaning to effort.”

Host: The rain began again outside, faint at first, then harder — drumming on the roof, syncing with their heartbeats.

Jeeny tilted her face upward, closing her eyes, breathing in the faint scent of dust and rain.

Jeeny: “You know, I think giving your best is a form of love. It’s saying, I respect this moment enough to meet it fully.”

Jack: “Even when no one’s watching?”

Jeeny: “Especially then. Because that’s when it’s pure.”

Jack: “So losing doesn’t erase it?”

Jeeny: “No. Losing only proves you were brave enough to try.”

Host: Jack smiled, slow and tired, the kind of smile that grows from acceptance rather than victory. He stood, stretched his arms, and glanced up at Lin Dan’s poster again.

The image — frozen mid-motion — seemed to shimmer slightly in the flickering light, like it too was alive with memory.

Jack: “Funny, isn’t it? The best ones don’t talk about winning. They talk about giving.”

Jeeny: “Because they learned that success isn’t measured by applause — it’s measured by honesty.”

Jack: “And giving your best is the most honest thing there is.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. It’s what turns effort into art.”

Host: The lights dimmed, one by one, until only the court’s center spotlight remained, shining on the faded white line that divided the space.

Jack walked to that line, placed the shuttlecock down, and whispered:

Jack: “Win or lose… I still play.”

Jeeny smiled, the light catching the edge of her hair.

Jeeny: “That’s the difference between players and legends.”

Host: Outside, the rain stopped, leaving the air fresh and trembling with renewal. The gym fell silent, a sacred hush.

And in that silence, Lin Dan’s words seemed to echo softly, rising above the empty court — not as a quote, but as truth made muscle:

that victory fades,
records break,
crowds forget,

but the act of giving your best,
again and again,
until it hurts —
that’s what makes the game,
and life itself,
worth playing.