You don't buy experience at the pharmacy. You acquire it through

Host: The locker room smelled of wet grass, sweat, and something old—like dreams that had been washed too many times but never quite came clean. Evening light slanted through the high windows, cutting across the haze of dust that hung above the benches. The muffled cheers from the stadium outside had faded hours ago; only the echoes of a lost match remained.

Jack sat on the bench, still in his half-open tracksuit, mud splattered across his boots. His hands were clasped, his head bowed, his eyes fixed on the worn floor tiles. Jeeny stood by the door, a clipboard in her hands, her hair tied back, strands loose around her face. The sound of the showers dripped from a leaky pipe, slow and relentless, like a metronome of defeat.

The quote had been printed on a banner hanging over the locker room wall:

“You don't buy experience at the pharmacy. You acquire it through games over time.”
— Agustin Castillo

Jeeny: (softly) “He said that after a loss just like this one. The press wanted excuses. He gave them honesty.”

Jack: (without looking up) “Honesty doesn’t fill the scoreboard.”

Jeeny: “No. But it fills the years.”

Host: Jack lifted his head. His grey eyes, weary and sharp, caught the light for the first time. He looked like a man who’d been carrying more than the match on his shoulders.

Jack: “You sound like one of those federation speeches—‘Patience, process, progress.’ But patience doesn’t pay rent. People remember trophies, not lessons.”

Jeeny: (sitting beside him) “And yet, every champion you admire started exactly here—on the floor after losing, trying to make sense of it.”

Jack: “Don’t romanticize failure, Jeeny. Experience doesn’t come from losing—it comes from winning enough to know why you lost before.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “That’s one way to see it. But Agustin Castillo wasn’t talking about trophies. He was talking about time—about scars. The kind that don’t show in stats or contracts.”

Jack: (gruffly) “Time doesn’t teach. It only tests.”

Jeeny: “But you can’t pass a test you never take.”

Host: The room fell silent again. The sound of the leaking pipe seemed louder now, like a small, steady applause for persistence.

Jeeny stood, walked to the banner, and traced the words with her finger.

Jeeny: “You don’t buy experience at the pharmacy. It’s not a pill you take when you’re tired. It’s something you bleed for. Every match, every failure—it’s a dose of reality.”

Jack: (leaning back, voice heavy) “Reality’s overrated. You can have all the experience in the world and still lose to a kid with instinct.”

Jeeny: “Instinct fades. Experience refines it.”

Jack: “You sound like a coach.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “And you sound like a man afraid of getting old.”

Host: The jab landed softly, but it lingered. Jack’s jaw tightened, his fingers drumming against his knee. The sunlight was fading now, turning the room the color of rust.

Jack: “You know what experience really is, Jeeny? It’s knowing what you can’t change and hating it anyway.”

Jeeny: “Or it’s learning to change what you can, quietly.”

Host: A gust of wind rattled the window, bringing with it the faint sound of children playing somewhere beyond the stadium. Their laughter floated in—light, effortless, cruelly innocent.

Jeeny listened, her expression softening.

Jeeny: “Those kids out there—they don’t know failure yet. But they’ll have to. Every player does. That’s what Castillo meant: you can’t buy maturity. You live it, mistake by mistake.”

Jack: “Then why does it always feel like punishment?”

Jeeny: “Because growth always hurts when you’re still in it.”

Host: Jack stood, pacing, his hands running through his hair. His voice sharpened, almost trembling between pride and exhaustion.

Jack: “You don’t understand, Jeeny. When you’re out there, the world doesn’t care about growth. It cares about goals. The kid who misses his chance doesn’t get experience—he gets forgotten.”

Jeeny: “Not if someone remembers to teach him.”

Jack: (turning to her) “And who taught you, then? Who gave you this wisdom you wear like armor?”

Jeeny: (after a pause) “Failure did.”

Host: The silence cracked open between them, filled with old echoes—missed chances, wrong calls, late apologies. The light dimmed further, the room turning almost blue in the dusk.

Jeeny walked toward the lockers, pulling open one of the old wooden doors. Inside hung a faded jersey, number 7, its colors long washed away.

Jeeny: “This belonged to my brother. He played here ten years ago. Everyone said he’d be a star. He tore his ACL in his third game. Never played again.”

Jack: (softly) “I didn’t know.”

Jeeny: “He taught me what Castillo meant before I ever read it. You don’t buy experience. You earn it in pain—and in the patience to keep showing up.”

Jack: “What happened to him?”

Jeeny: (smiling sadly) “He teaches kids now. Says he finally learned what the game really is.”

Jack: (quietly) “Which is?”

Jeeny: “A mirror. It shows you who you are when no one’s watching.”

Host: The rain started again—gentle, steady, forgiving. The smell of grass from outside drifted in through the vents. Jack sat down beside her again, his shoulders slumping, his voice softer now, stripped of anger.

Jack: “You really think failure can be a teacher?”

Jeeny: “It’s the only one that doesn’t lie.”

Jack: “And what about youth? You think experience can be taught to those who haven’t lived it?”

Jeeny: “No. But it can be shared. That’s what coaches do. That’s what mentors do. That’s what we’re supposed to do.”

Jack: “You think they’ll listen?”

Jeeny: (shrugs) “Not yet. But one day, when they lose, they’ll remember. That’s how the cycle works. You learn, you fall, you pass it on.”

Host: The lights flickered, then dimmed, leaving only the soft glow of the exit sign—red, pulsing like a heartbeat. The stadium outside was dark now, but in the distance, a few spotlights still burned on the empty field.

Jack looked out toward them through the small window, his face calm for the first time that night.

Jack: “You know, when I started, I thought experience was just repetition. Now I see it’s something else—something that stains you, reshapes you.”

Jeeny: “Yes. It’s not what you know. It’s what you’ve survived.”

Jack: (smiles faintly) “And what you still choose to love despite it.”

Jeeny: “That’s the real game.”

Host: The rain eased, leaving a soft hush over everything. The two of them sat side by side, the banner above them still fluttering slightly from the draft.

Jack reached up, touched the edge of it, and read the words again under his breath.

Jack: “You don’t buy experience at the pharmacy…”

Jeeny: “…you acquire it through games over time.”

Host: For a long moment, they just sat there, listening to the quiet world beyond the walls. The lights from the field reflected faintly on the locker room’s tiles, glowing like fallen stars.

And in that dim stillness, both understood: experience was not a medal, nor a scar—it was the invisible thread stitching loss to wisdom, defeat to purpose, youth to future.

The game never ended. It only taught.

The rain stopped. The locker room exhaled.
And somewhere outside, a whistle blew, as if life itself was calling for the next match.