You gotta lose 'em some of the time. When you do, lose 'em right.

Host: The stadium was empty now — the last echoes of cheers long faded into the cool night air. The field lights still burned, bleaching the world in harsh silver, while the scoreboard loomed in the distance like an unflinching truth: L 4–3.

The stands were littered with paper cups, popcorn boxes, and the ghosts of hope left behind by a crowd that had wanted something more. In the dugout, Jack sat slouched on the bench, a baseball rolling between his fingers, his eyes dark and thoughtful. His jacket hung loose, collar open, dusted with the night’s defeat.

Jeeny stood near the edge of the dugout, one foot on the step, the other planted firmly on the dirt. Her hair was tied back, her face still flushed from adrenaline and disappointment. Between them, on the concrete floor, a crumpled printout fluttered in the wind, its words half-smudged but legible in the light:

“You gotta lose 'em some of the time. When you do, lose 'em right.” — Casey Stengel.

Jeeny: “You hate it, don’t you? That sentence.”

Jack: “I don’t hate it. I just don’t buy it.”

Jeeny: “Why not?”

Jack: “Because there’s no right way to lose. Losing is losing. It’s failure with a polite smile.”

Jeeny: “You think Stengel meant politeness? He was a coach, Jack — not a priest. He meant integrity.”

Jack: “Integrity doesn’t fix the score.”

Jeeny: “But it fixes the soul.”

Host: The wind stirred the infield dust, sending faint spirals across the base paths. The metallic clang of a bat echoed faintly from somewhere deep in the stadium — some janitor or kid taking one last swing under the floodlights.

Jeeny: “You spend your life chasing perfection — and when you don’t get it, you call it meaningless. But losing well, that’s a kind of grace. Most people can’t stomach that.”

Jack: “Grace doesn’t win championships.”

Jeeny: “No, but it builds legends.”

Jack: “Legends don’t pay bills.”

Jeeny: “You think Stengel cared about bills? He cared about character — about how you walk off the field when the crowd’s gone home.”

Host: Jeeny moved closer, sitting on the bench across from him. Her voice softened, but her eyes held fire.

Jeeny: “You know what I love about that quote? It isn’t about baseball at all. It’s about life. We all lose — love, money, chances, people — but most of us go down clawing, bitter, trying to prove the universe cheated us. Stengel’s saying: lose with honor. Lose clean.”

Jack: “Honor’s overrated. Results are what matter.”

Jeeny: “Then you’ve never truly lost something that mattered.”

Jack: “Oh, I’ve lost plenty.”

Jeeny: “No. You’ve escaped plenty. That’s not the same.”

Host: A deep silence settled. The sound of a distant train drifted across the city, long and low — the kind of sound that always reminded people of leaving, of unfinished business. Jack rubbed a hand across his face, then spoke, low and rough.

Jack: “You know, I used to think losing was weakness. My old man drilled it into me — you fight until you win, or you’re not worth a damn. He never taught me what to do when fighting wasn’t enough.”

Jeeny: “Maybe because he never learned it himself.”

Jack: “Maybe.”

Jeeny: “There’s strength in surrender too, Jack.”

Jack: “Surrender is quitting.”

Jeeny: “No. Quitting is giving up. Surrender is acceptance. Knowing when the fight’s over, and walking away with your dignity still intact.”

Host: She leaned forward, elbows on her knees, her gaze steady on his.

Jeeny: “You can’t control the outcome of every game — or every life. But you can control how you lose. Whether you leave behind bitterness or beauty.”

Jack: “You think losing can ever be beautiful?”

Jeeny: “It can if you don’t let it break what’s human in you.”

Host: The lights above flickered once, a faint hum cutting through the silence. The field stretched before them — scarred, uneven, but glimmering like something sacred under the harsh light.

Jack: “You know what’s funny? The best games I ever played were the ones we lost by a hair. Because in those games, you fought for every inch. You left everything out there.”

Jeeny: “That’s what it means to lose right.”

Jack: “You’re saying the effort redeems the failure.”

Jeeny: “No. I’m saying the honesty does.”

Host: She picked up the baseball from the ground, spinning it in her palm. The leather gleamed faintly under the light — a symbol of repetition, of lessons learned through bruises.

Jeeny: “When you lose right, you honor the game, not your ego. You show that your spirit’s bigger than the scoreboard.”

Jack: “And when you win wrong?”

Jeeny: “You betray both.”

Host: A gust of wind swept through, catching the crumpled paper and carrying it across the field. It tumbled past the bases, over the pitcher’s mound, before settling at home plate — the full circle of the night’s sermon.

Jack watched it go, then chuckled softly, shaking his head.

Jack: “You sound like a philosopher disguised as a coach.”

Jeeny: “Maybe philosophy’s just what’s left when the game’s over.”

Jack: “You think Stengel believed all that idealism, or was he just trying to keep losing teams from falling apart?”

Jeeny: “Maybe both. Maybe he understood that what matters isn’t how many times you fall — it’s how you fall. Whether the landing shatters you, or shapes you.”

Host: Jack leaned back, gazing up at the sky — blank, starless, too bright from the stadium lights to show any constellations.

Jack: “I used to think life was a season — that every loss was just a lesson before the next win. But now... I think some losses stay. You just learn how to carry them better.”

Jeeny: “That’s what losing right is — carrying what broke you without letting it define you.”

Jack: “And if it does define you?”

Jeeny: “Then let it define the best in you.”

Host: The lights began to shut down one by one, the field sinking slowly into darkness. A single bulb remained above home plate, glowing like a stubborn promise.

Jeeny: “You know, maybe Stengel wasn’t even talking to the players. Maybe he was talking to himself — to anyone who’s ever stood on a field of effort and seen it all undone.”

Jack: “You think he was saying losing is human?”

Jeeny: “No. He was saying it’s holy.”

Jack: “Holy?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because when you lose right, you reveal what winning can’t — humility, grace, endurance, and love.”

Host: The last light went out, leaving only the faint glow of the moon hanging over the empty field. Jack stood, stretching his back, then looked at Jeeny with something like gratitude in his eyes.

Jack: “You know... I think I finally get it. Winning shows the world what you can do. But losing shows you who you are.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Jack: “Then maybe tonight wasn’t a total loss.”

Jeeny: “It never is, if you lose it right.”

Host: The camera rose slowly, pulling back — the two of them small figures against the vast dark diamond, surrounded by empty stands that had once roared with life.

The wind carried the faintest echo of applause, not for victory, but for endurance. For trying. For showing up.

And as the scene faded, the ghost of Casey Stengel’s wisdom lingered like the last note of an anthem —

that failure is inevitable,
but grace is optional —
and those who choose it
never really lose at all.