Unbeatable: The Legend of Vincent Scott – Chapter 8: The Stand-Up

The moment Vincent Scott stepped onto the sales floor that morning, he felt it. A charge in the air. Like static before a storm. The final day of November. For most, just a Monday. For Vincent, this day was war, celebration, legacy… all rolled into one.

The manager meeting had just ended in the cramped conference room adjacent to the sales floor. Vincent emerged first, cool and confident, followed by Mark Rogers—his managerial counterpart. Mark looked pale and stiff as always, but determined, clipboard in hand. The two of them walked side-by-side into the center of the buzzing sales floor, Block 1.

The department had grown so large since its inception in Block 3 that it had spilled over, expanding like wildfire. Vincent had moved his office here partly for the space… mostly for distance. He needed separation from Keith Dickhauser, whose office—formerly neighboring Vincent’s—had become the epicenter of micromanagement, rage, and paranoia. The farther away Vincent was, the better he could breathe.

Employees formed a massive semi-circle around the center of the floor. Cubicle walls leaned inward as heads popped up like prairie dogs waiting for the daily dose of fire and thunder.

Mark took the lead, stepping into the circle like a substitute teacher praying for order.

“Good morning, everyone,” he offered without inflection. A few murmurs of acknowledgment floated back. “Let’s begin by recognizing a few top performers from the day before Thanksgiving.”

He motioned forward four reps—men and women with tired eyes and coffee-stained lanyards—who took turns describing their wins. The crowd clapped politely.

Vincent stood further back, just past the circle, leaning against the outer cubicle wall, arms folded, observing. His mind wasn’t on the stories being told. He watched reactions. He read energy. And the energy was flat.

Mark attempted to ignite some kind of enthusiasm. “So, do I have everyone’s commitment to do their part today?” he asked, voice forced and robotic.

“Yes,” came the dull response.

Mark glanced at Vincent. “I’m going to turn it over to Vincent from here. Vincent, do you have a few words?”

Vincent gave a long, drawn-out pause, feigning disinterest. “No, I’m good.” he said simply.

A ripple of confusion spread across the group. Mark froze. “Okay…”

“I’m joking, everybody,” Vincent grinned. Laughter exploded like a match to gasoline. “I’ll never pass up the chance to talk to this group of winners.”

The crowd cheered as Vincent strutted toward the center like a showman stepping onto a stage he was born to command. He fed off the noise. This—this—was his theater.

“Good morning, everybody!”

“GOOD MORNING!” came the full-throated response.

“I woke up this morning like a kid on Christmas! Couldn’t sleep. Ran to the shower like there were presents under the tree. And why? Because in our world, Christmas doesn’t come once a year. No… Christmas comes twelve times. And today is one of them. Last day of the month, people. Are you READY?”

“YES!”

“Good,” Vincent nodded, pace quickening. “Because we have $16,000 left to post to hit our number for November. I don’t know why we always cut it so close—probably for the drama—but we’re here now. So let’s finish what we started.”

Cheering. Applause. Even a “Let’s go!” from the back.

He held up the infamous sales report—color-coded, ominous, and worshipped or cursed depending on your placement.

“But wherever your name is on this sheet,” Vincent growled, “don’t let it define you. This—” he said, holding the report aloft, “—doesn’t know your hustle. Doesn’t know your fight. Doesn’t know the effort you put in when no one was looking.”

And then, in a move that made Mark visibly wince, Vincent threw the report into the air. It fluttered and landed like snow across the floor.

The room erupted.

“Don’t look backwards!” Vincent roared. “You define yourself today. One call. One pitch. That’s all it takes.”

He pivoted to the crowd like a preacher on fire. “Show of hands—who here is satisfied with where they are on the sales report?”

A few hands trembled upward. One shot confidently into the air.

“Andy Gamble. Of course.” Vincent grinned. “It’s okay, brother. I’m happy with where I’m at too.” Laughter shook the floor. “But the rest of you? You know you’re not happy with where you are, yet you keep doing the same thing. Why?”

Murmurs. Shuffling. Eye contact exchanged in shared guilt.

“I’ll tell you why. It’s desperation. I’ve been there. One day with no sale leads to two… then five… then a week of self-doubt. And you wake up asking, ‘Do I have to go into that hellhole today?’”

People laughed in acknowledgment.

“You start grasping. You throw out weak programs, low-ball pitches, anything just to say you sold something. But that’s not winning. That’s failing yourself, your customer, and this company. The holy trinity of sales!”

Vincent paced like a tiger now. “You’re not here to pitch. You’re here to persuade. To influence! We don’t do book reports—we find the customer’s pain and press until they can’t breathe without us. If they hang up on you, it means you hit something real.”

More laughter. More nods.

“Unfortunately, we don’t have the time or opportunity to build relationships here—if you want that, go across the hall to the existing customers’ team. If we can’t close in one call, we’re toast.”

A thunderous roar as he fired the shot at the account management team. Even some managers laughed—except Keith, watching from a distance with arms crossed, jaw clenched.

Vincent pointed skyward. “Write this down, commit it to memory. On every single call, you say this:

‘Mr./Mrs. Customer, I understand you say you need to think about this, but you and I both know that if you believed it would work and you’d get ROI, we’d be signing you up right now. So with hundreds of thousands of directories and thousands of monthly searches, how will you NOT get the five customers you need for ROI?’

Then you shut up. Let that silence do the heavy lifting.”

Silence. The floor was locked in. He had them.

“That’s the game, team. The only objection that matters is lack of belief. And your job—your only job—is to get them to believe. Everything else is noise. Callbacks are graveyards. Desperation is death. But belief?”

He tapped his chest. “Belief is life. Belief is commission. Belief is winning.”

The crowd was electric.

“You ready to win today?”

“YES!”

“Then GET OUT THERE AND DO IT!”

And with that final war cry, he turned and motioned to Jimmy at the cube wall. Jimmy slammed the big red button and Queen’s “We Are the Champions” exploded through the speakers.

Vincent raised his hand like a general, waved to the crowd, and began his triumphant walk back through the floor. High-fives. Handshakes. Chest bumps.

Mark stood off to the side, watching silently. Keith glared from the doorway of his office, expression unreadable. The other managers split between admiration and discomfort.

But Vincent? Vincent just walked tall, unbothered and unbeatable.

As the chorus rang out—“No time for losers… ’cause we are the champions… of the world”—he reached his office and looked back one last time.

He wasn’t sure how many more of these moments he’d get. But today…

Today was Christmas. And Vincent Scott had delivered.