Wipe the tears away, stand up, be a man, run your business, find

Host: The factory floor smelled of iron, sweat, and the faint memory of burnt coffee. Outside, the rain hit the corrugated roof in hard, relentless rhythm — a percussion that matched the quiet beating inside Jack’s chest. The machines were still for once, their usual roar replaced by the dull hum of distant thunder.

Host: Jack stood by the window, his reflection dim and exhausted. His hands, still calloused from work, rested against the cold glass. Behind him, Jeeny sat on a stool, surrounded by scattered papers, blueprints, and an open ledger that looked more like a battlefield than a balance sheet.

Host: The clock on the wall ticked loudly, counting seconds like debts.

Jeeny: “You’ve been staring at that window for twenty minutes, Jack.”

Jack: “I’m calculating the price of failure.”

Jeeny: “And?”

Jack: “Too expensive.”

Host: The lights flickered, once, twice — the tired electricity of a business on its last breath.

Jack: “Kevin Plank said, ‘Wipe the tears away, stand up, be a man, run your business, find a way.’ He built Under Armour out of his grandmother’s basement. While I’m standing here watching everything I built sink like a stone.”

Jeeny: “So, wipe your tears, stand up, and find a way.”

Jack: “You make it sound like a motivational poster.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it’s supposed to.”

Host: Her voice was soft but steady, carrying that same quiet conviction she always had — the one that infuriated him because it never wavered, even when everything else did.

Jack: “You don’t get it, Jeeny. I’ve been fighting for years. Loans, layoffs, long nights. I’ve mortgaged the house, maxed the cards. There’s no ‘way’ left.”

Jeeny: “There’s always a way. Maybe not the one you want, but one that keeps you moving.”

Jack: “And what if movement just delays the fall?”

Jeeny: “Then you fall forward.”

Host: A flash of lightning illuminated her face — calm, wet with reflection, eyes glowing like dark glass. Jack turned away from the window, his jaw tight, his voice sharp.

Jack: “You talk like you’ve never lost anything.”

Jeeny: “I have. I just didn’t let it define me.”

Jack: “Easy words from someone who doesn’t carry payroll.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Hard words from someone who’s had to start over, alone.”

Host: The rain outside grew heavier, a chorus of persistence. She stood, crossing to him, her small frame dwarfed by the vast, empty space of the factory.

Jeeny: “You think being a man means not breaking? It means breaking and rebuilding. That’s what Plank meant. ‘Wipe the tears away’ — not don’t cry. He meant cry, but don’t stay there. Pain’s not weakness. It’s fuel.”

Jack: “Fuel burns out.”

Jeeny: “Only if you don’t feed it with purpose.”

Host: He gave a low laugh — dry, bitter, hollow.

Jack: “Purpose doesn’t pay the bills.”

Jeeny: “No. But it’s what keeps you from drowning in them.”

Host: The two stood facing each other, thunder rumbling in the distance. Between them — the wreckage of dreams and the faint glimmer of something still alive.

Jack: “You ever wonder why people like Plank make it and the rest of us don’t? Maybe it’s not effort. Maybe it’s luck.”

Jeeny: “Luck favors the stubborn. You think Under Armour was luck? He sold shirts from his car. Slept in warehouses. Ate failure for breakfast. The difference isn’t opportunity, Jack — it’s ownership. He didn’t wait for permission to keep fighting.”

Jack: “So what? You want me to just grit my teeth and try harder?”

Jeeny: “No. I want you to believe harder.”

Host: Jack looked at her — really looked at her. The lines of exhaustion on her face mirrored his own. But her eyes, unlike his, still held flame.

Jack: “Believe in what, Jeeny? The bank doesn’t care about belief. The world doesn’t care.”

Jeeny: “Then believe in yourself enough to make them care.”

Host: She stepped closer, lowering her voice, steady, deliberate.

Jeeny: “You built something from nothing. That’s what men like Plank, Musk, Jobs — all of them — understand. They weren’t gods, Jack. They were desperate. But they never mistook desperation for defeat.”

Jack: “You make resilience sound romantic.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. It’s brutal. It’s waking up after failure and pretending you can win anyway. It’s holding the line when everything tells you to run.”

Host: A deep silence settled. The rain softened, turning to mist. Jack’s shoulders loosened, a quiet resignation replacing the weight of pride.

Jack: “You think that’s strength?”

Jeeny: “No. I think that’s manhood.”

Host: Jack turned toward the factory floor — empty now, save for a few broken pallets and the skeleton of a dream that refused to die.

Jack: “You know, my father used to say the same thing. When the recession hit, he lost everything — our house, the shop. But he kept waking up at dawn, shaving, putting on his tie like he still had somewhere to be. I used to think he was delusional.”

Jeeny: “Maybe he just refused to let loss take his dignity.”

Jack: “Yeah. He died broke, but not broken.”

Jeeny: “Then don’t let him be the last man in your family to do that.”

Host: Her words landed like a quiet blow — gentle but deep. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly overhead, the hum of life returning in small, stubborn ways.

Jack: “Wipe the tears away,” he murmured, half to himself.

Jeeny: “Stand up.”

Jack: “Be a man.”

Jeeny: “Run your business.”

Jack: “Find a way.”

Host: The mantra hung between them — simple, solid, undeniable. Jack exhaled slowly, as if letting go of something invisible but heavy.

Host: He reached for the light switch, flooding the factory in pale illumination. The empty space suddenly looked different — not dead, just waiting.

Jack: “You know what? Maybe we can cut down operations. Move online. Pivot to repairs instead of production. It won’t be pretty, but it’ll keep us alive.”

Jeeny: “That’s the way.”

Jack: “It’s not victory.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s survival. And survival is the start of every comeback.”

Host: The storm outside began to fade, leaving the world soaked and shining. Jack walked toward the door, his steps heavier but surer. Jeeny followed, her hand brushing the old metal doorframe as if blessing it with memory.

Host: As they stepped into the cool night, the air was clean, washed of dust and defeat. The streetlights reflected off the wet pavement, turning it into a path of molten silver.

Jack: “You really think I can do this?”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. I know you can. You just have to remember that courage isn’t loud. Sometimes it’s just the sound of footsteps in the rain — refusing to stop.”

Host: He looked out into the distance — the city glowing like a far-off promise. Then he nodded once, the ghost of a smile flickering beneath the fatigue.

Jack: “Alright then. No more tears.”

Jeeny: “Good. Let the rain cry for you.”

Host: They walked on — two silhouettes moving through the wet night, one rebuilding, one reminding. Above them, the storm clouds thinned, revealing a quiet crescent moon — pale, patient, and unbroken.

Host: And beneath that muted silver light, the world seemed to whisper Plank’s creed once more — not as a command, but as a heartbeat:

Wipe the tears away. Stand up. Be a man. Run your business. Find a way.