As I got older and started moving up the ranking, the matches got

Host: The stadium was empty now, its lights dimmed to a ghostly glow. The echo of the crowd still hung in the air, like a memory refusing to leave. Raindrops began to fall, tapping against the metal bleachers, soft yet insistent — the kind of rain that smells like iron and loneliness.

At the center of the court, under the muted halo of a single floodlight, Jack stood, his hands deep in his coat pockets, eyes locked on the faint white lines that divided the ground. Jeeny sat on the bench, her umbrella tilted, watching him with a quiet sadness.

The quote that had brought them here lingered in the air — John McEnroe’s confession: “As I got older and started moving up the ranking, the matches got more important, and my emotions ratcheted up. I guess I hid my real feelings behind the anger.”

Jeeny: “He didn’t just talk about tennis, Jack. He talked about life. We all do that — hide our real feelings behind anger. It’s a mask that feels safer than showing what’s underneath.”

Jack: “Safer? Maybe. But it’s also more honest, don’t you think? At least anger is real. It’s not some manufactured smile or forgiveness you don’t mean. When McEnroe shouted on the court, at least you knew he cared.”

Host: A flash of lightning illuminated the court, casting their shadows long and uneven. The wind carried a distant whistle from the city, a lonely sound that seemed to mirror the silence between them.

Jeeny: “But anger is only a surface, Jack. It’s not what he was feeling — it’s what he was hiding. The fear, the vulnerability, the pressure of being watched by millions. The anger wasn’t his truth; it was his armor.”

Jack: “Armor keeps you alive, Jeeny. You don’t walk into a fight without one. If you start exposing every emotion, every weakness, people will tear you apart. You’ve seen it — heroes, athletes, leaders — they’re all devoured the moment they show doubt.”

Jeeny: “You sound like you’ve been there.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened, his eyes still on the court, as if the lines themselves held some answer. The rain thickened, drumming on the ground like a slow, relentless heartbeat.

Jack: “I’ve seen what happens when you let the world see your cracks. I was a manager once, a rising one. The more I moved up, the more every word was scrutinized, every mistake magnified. So I got angry. It was easier than being afraid. And it worked — until it didn’t.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly what McEnroe meant. The anger didn’t just protect him — it isolated him. You too, Jack. You think it’s armor, but it becomes a wall.”

Host: A pause. The sound of rain softened for a moment, replaced by the hiss of wind through the fence. Jack turned, his eyes reflecting the pale light — grey, sharp, and yet strangely vulnerable.

Jack: “Walls keep things out, Jeeny. That’s the point.”

Jeeny: “And they keep you in. Do you remember how Nelson Mandela talked about anger after he left prison? He said if he didn’t leave his bitterness behind when he walked through that door, he’d still be in prison. He understood that anger becomes a cell if you don’t open it.”

Jack: “Mandela was a saint, Jeeny. Ordinary people don’t work that way.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Ordinary people break the same way. The only difference is whether we let our anger become our language, or our silence.”

Host: The wind shifted, carrying the smell of wet concrete and burnt streetlights. Jack walked toward the bench, his steps measured, his breath visible in the cold.

Jack: “You talk about anger like it’s a choice. Like I can just turn it off.”

Jeeny: “You can’t turn it off, no. But you can understand it. That’s what McEnroe realized — his rage wasn’t the disease; it was the symptom. The real illness was the fear of failing, of being seen as human.”

Jack: “So what — we should just cry on national television? Tell everyone we’re scared?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not to the world, but to someone. To yourself. The moment you can name what you’re feeling, it stops controlling you. That’s what the great ones learn — the strength is not in anger, but in honesty.”

Host: A gust of wind blew the umbrella from Jeeny’s hand. It spun, tumbling across the court, until it collapsed near the net — a small, broken shape in the rain.

Jack followed it with his eyes, then sighed and walked over, picking it up. The rain clung to his coat, dripping from his hair.

Jack: “You talk like the heart can always win, Jeeny. But the world doesn’t reward honesty. It rewards control, discipline, image. McEnroe’s anger made him a legend, not his vulnerability.”

Jeeny: “And yet his words today are about the pain behind that legend. Doesn’t that tell you something? Even he wished he could’ve shown more of the man, not just the fighter.”

Jack: “Maybe. But you can’t undo a life built on performance. Once the world knows you one way, that’s who you are to them — forever.”

Jeeny: “Unless you rewrite the story.”

Host: The rain began to lighten, the clouds slowly thinning, revealing faint threads of moonlight. Jack stood still, umbrella in one hand, his face turned upward as if to test whether he could still feel the sky.

Jeeny: “Jack… when was the last time you let yourself feel something without anger attached to it?”

Jack: “I don’t even remember. Maybe when I was a kid. Before I learned that the world doesn’t care about your feelings, only your results.”

Jeeny: “That’s the lie, Jack. The world may not care, but people do. And you’re one of them. That’s why this still hurts.”

Host: Jack’s hand tightened around the umbrella. His eyes closed, a long breath escaping from his chest, half a sigh, half a confession.

Jack: “You know… when I was in that office, the day they told me I was done, I didn’t feel sad. I felt furious. But later, sitting in my car, I realized I wasn’t angry at them. I was angry at myself — for being afraid to admit I was tired. For pretending to be strong all the time.”

Jeeny: “And that, Jack, was your real moment of strength. Not the meetings, not the control, not the anger — but the truth that came after.”

Host: A soft silence fell between them. The rain had stopped, leaving only the smell of wet asphalt and hope. The moonlight cut through the mist, resting gently on their faces.

Jack: “You think maybe that’s what McEnroe meant — that his rage was just a disguise for fear? That under all the shouting, there was just a kid who didn’t want to lose?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Because that’s all of us, Jack. We’re all just kids trying to win something — respect, love, peace — and when we can’t, we get angry. But the real victory comes when we stop fighting the feeling and start understanding it.”

Host: The camera of moonlight pulled back, revealing the court now still, silent, and empty — except for the two of them, small figures in a vast space of reflection.

Jack: “So maybe the trick isn’t to hide your feelings behind anger, but to learn what they’re trying to say.”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because every anger is a message — a call from a part of you that still cares.”

Host: Jack smiled faintly, for the first time that night, his eyes no longer cold, but alive with something quiet — a recognition, perhaps, or a forgiveness.

The rainwater on the court reflected their faces, blurred but together, like two truths finally learning to coexist.

Host: “And as the last drops fell from the bleachers, the anger that once defined him began to dissolve — not into defeat, but into clarity. Because sometimes, the loudest shout hides the softest truth: that all we ever wanted was to be understood.”