Winning is an amazing feeling. You don't get that in business;

Host: The stadium was empty now—its lights still burning, but its soul already gone. The echo of cheers hung in the air, like smoke refusing to fade. A few paper cups and plastic flags lay scattered across the stands, the ghosts of celebration left behind.

On the field, under the wide arch of the floodlights, Jack stood alone, hands in his pockets, his grey eyes reflecting the scoreboard still glowing faintly in the distance. The number was final. The victory real. Yet his expression was… still.

Jeeny approached from the sideline, her heels sinking slightly into the grass, her black hair moving like ink in the wind. She held two bottles of water, one extended toward him.

Host: The night air was cold, almost metallic, filled with the smell of sweat, rain, and something unnameable—that strange emptiness that follows triumph.

Jeeny: “You should be smiling, Jack. You won. It’s over.”

Jack: “Yeah. It’s over.”

Jeeny: “That’s it? No celebration speech? No jumping on tables? You just pulled off the biggest merger of your career.”

Jack: “Winning’s not the same out here, Jeeny. It’s not a game. It’s just numbers on a screen.”

Jeeny: “Tony Fernandes once said, ‘Winning is an amazing feeling. You don’t get that in business; you don’t get that in many things.’ Maybe you’re just in the wrong arena.”

Jack: “Maybe the arena’s fine. Maybe it’s me that’s empty.”

Host: The wind stirred, carrying a shiver through the grass. The scoreboard flickered, its lights humming softly like an old heartbeat refusing to stop.

Jeeny: “Do you remember that charity football match we went to last year? The one with all the kids?”

Jack: “Yeah. The one where that little boy scored from halfway.”

Jeeny: “You should’ve seen your face when it happened. You were shouting, laughing, almost crying. That was winning. Not this.”

Jack: “That was different. That was pure. No contracts, no calculations. Just a moment.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s what Fernandes meant. Business gives you results, but it doesn’t give you victories. Victories are felt, not recorded.”

Jack: “You make it sound like emotion is currency.”

Jeeny: “It is. It’s the only one that matters.”

Host: She sat down on the bench, her hands clasped around the bottle, watching him. He paced, the way he always did when his mind was trying to make peace with his heart. The stadium felt too large, too empty for two people and one truth that neither could ignore.

Jack: “You know what I hate? The moment after winning. That drop—when the crowd’s gone, the noise fades, and all you’ve got left is yourself. It’s like climbing Everest and realizing there’s no air up there.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s because you climb for the summit, not for the sky.”

Jack: “And what am I supposed to climb for, Jeeny? Feeling? Meaning? Those don’t pay the bills.”

Jeeny: “No, but they pay the soul.”

Jack: “The soul’s overrated.”

Jeeny: “That’s something only a man who’s lost it would say.”

Host: The floodlights above them buzzed, one of them crackling faintly before dimming. The darkness began to creep slowly inward, like a tide swallowing the edges of the field.

Jeeny: “You used to believe in more, Jack. Remember when we first started this company? You said it wasn’t about money, it was about building something that would matter.”

Jack: “And it did matter—for a while. But then the game changed. We started playing against people who only care about the scoreboard.”

Jeeny: “So you started playing like them.”

Jack: “You have to, or you get crushed.”

Jeeny: “And what’s the point of winning, if you lose yourself doing it?”

Jack: “You tell me. You’ve been on both sides of that line.”

Jeeny: “I have. And I learned that winning without feeling is just survival with a better PR team.”

Host: The wind picked up, lifting the edges of the flags, flapping them weakly like forgotten applause. The night deepened, the lights fading to a soft amber that turned the grass into a field of gold ghosts.

Jack: “You ever think maybe we’re not supposed to win all the time?”

Jeeny: “No one’s supposed to. That’s what makes it amazing when it happens.”

Jack: “But then it’s gone in five minutes. You spend years fighting for something, then one announcement, one cheer, and it’s over. The world moves on, and you’re just tired.”

Jeeny: “Maybe the win isn’t supposed to last, Jack. Maybe it’s supposed to remind you you’re still alive.”

Jack: “You talk like losing is holy.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. It’s what makes winning sacred.”

Host: Jack stopped, his shadow long against the field, his breath visible in the cold air. He looked up toward the stands, empty now, but filled with the echoes of voices that once believed.

Jack: “You ever notice how winning feels like a high—but one that always needs a next one?”

Jeeny: “That’s why they call it addictive. It’s not the victory we chase—it’s the validation.”

Jack: “So what do you do when the cheering stops?”

Jeeny: “You learn to cheer for yourself.”

Jack: “That sounds lonely.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. It’s freedom.”

Host: The silence of the stadium grew thicker, almost beautiful in its emptiness. Somewhere in the distance, a security light blinked, and a bird swept low over the field, as if to collect the last echo of human noise.

Jeeny: “You know, I think that’s what Tony Fernandes meant. When he said you don’t get that feeling in business. Because business is about winning on paper, not in the heart. But when you win for something real—for a team, for a dream, for a child—you feel it here.” (She taps her chest.)

Jack: “So what’s the point of all this then? All these years, all this effort, if it doesn’t mean anything?”

Jeeny: “It does. But not for the moment you’re thinking of. The feeling of winning—it’s not in the trophy, Jack. It’s in the people who fought beside you to get it.”

Jack: “And what if there’s no one left beside you?”

Jeeny: “Then you’ve been playing the wrong game.”

Host: A long pause. The wind eased. The floodlights began to dim, one by one, until only a single beam shone over them like a spotlight. The field looked infinite in its quiet, as if waiting for them to understand something it had always known.

Jack: “You’re saying I’ve spent my life chasing a kind of victory that can’t be kept.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. I’m saying you’ve forgotten how to feel it when you do.”

Host: He looked at her then—really looked—as if seeing her through all the years of battles, meetings, numbers, and deals. And for the first time in a long while, his expression softened.

Jack: “Maybe I just need a different kind of win.”

Jeeny: “You do. The kind that doesn’t come with confetti, but with peace.”

Host: The lights finally went out, leaving only the moonlight to guide them. Jeeny smiled, sliding her hand into his as they walked toward the exit. The grass beneath their feet was wet, but alive.

Host: Behind them, the scoreboard went dark, the numbers erased, but the field—the place of struggle, hope, and heart—remained.

Host: And as they walked away, the night seemed to whisper—that winning, like living, isn’t about what you earn, but about what you feel when you finally stop running.