During COVID, I was still training, working on my fitness and my

Host: The Florida sun hung low above the empty tennis courts, casting long, stretched shadows across the cracked, pale-green surface. A warm, sticky wind carried the scent of salt and cut grass, mingling with the echo of a tennis ball bouncing somewhere in the distance. The world outside was silent, locked behind closed doors and screens; the pandemic had stolen the roar of crowds, the buzz of streets, the touch of routine.

Jack sat on the edge of a bleacher, his hands clasped, his eyes grey and distant. Across from him, Jeeny stood by the fence, her hair fluttering in the breeze, her face half in shadow, half in the gold of sunset.

Host: They had come here every evening that summer, when the city stood still, to breathe, to argue, to feel something human again.

Jeeny: “I read an interview with Jennifer Brady today,” she said, her voice gentle but bright. “She said, ‘During COVID, I was still training, working on my fitness and my tennis. I was able to practice and play near where I live in Orlando.’ I don’t know, Jack… that kind of discipline feels like hope to me. Like a light that refused to go out.”

Jack: (a dry chuckle) “Hope, or habit? You think she was chasing light — I think she was just afraid to stop. Some people can’t bear stillness. They call it ‘training’ because ‘escaping’ sounds weak.”

Host: The wind carried the sound of a racket’s faint thwack, like a heartbeat in the distance. Jeeny turned toward the sound, her eyes softening.

Jeeny: “Maybe it was an escape. But even an escape can be sacred. When the world fell silent, people like her — athletes, artists, doctors — they kept moving, working, fighting. That’s not fear, Jack. That’s faith — in the body, in purpose, in the day that would come after.”

Jack: “Faith doesn’t win you a match. Preparation does. If anything, it shows how selfish humans can be. While millions were struggling to breathe, she was out there hitting balls, perfecting her serve. For what? To be ready when the world came back? It’s like training for a war that might never end.”

Host: The sunlight slipped through the chain-link fence, drawing diamonds on the concrete between them. Jeeny’s hands tightened around the wire.

Jeeny: “Don’t you see? That’s exactly why it matters. When the world paused, the human spirit needed proof it could still move. Her training wasn’t just about tennis. It was a defiance. A way of saying, ‘I still exist, I still create, I still breathe.’ It’s the same reason people sang on balconies in Italy. The same reason artists kept painting, and nurses kept showing up even when they were exhausted.”

Jack: “You’re romanticizing it. Some people just need control. It’s easier to run laps than to face the truth that the world is fragile. That death doesn’t care how many push-ups you do.”

Host: A pause hung between them, heavy and warm. The buzz of cicadas filled the air, and the light on Jack’s face flickered with the movement of leaves.

Jeeny: “But control isn’t always selfish, Jack. Sometimes it’s a ritual — a way to survive the chaos. Remember when you kept fixing your father’s old radio after he passed? You spent weeks doing that. Not because you needed a working radio, but because you couldn’t stand the silence.”

Jack: (quietly) “That was different.”

Jeeny: “Was it?”

Host: The air grew still, and for a moment, even the distant ball stopped bouncing. Jack’s jaw tightened.

Jack: “I wasn’t trying to be a hero. I just… didn’t know what else to do. It gave me a task, something to hold onto. But that’s not noble. That’s just survival.”

Jeeny: “And isn’t that what she was doing too? Surviving — through motion, through discipline. Maybe we all had our own versions of training during those days. Some of us wrote, some of us ran, some of us just breathed. Maybe the noblest thing we did was to keep trying.”

Host: The light deepened into amber, brushing Jeeny’s face like flame. Jack looked at her — the fire in her eyes, the fervor that made her seem both fragile and unbreakable.

Jack: “You talk like there’s meaning in every act of motion. But not everyone who kept moving found peace. Some of them burned out. They pushed so hard to stay ‘strong’ that they forgot how to feel. Like those frontline workers who never took a day off, until they just… collapsed. What good is endurance without rest, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “Maybe endurance and rest aren’t opposites. Maybe one feeds the other. The body must rest to move again. The soul must move to find rest. Brady didn’t say she was chasing victory — she said she kept training. That’s a verb, Jack. A process, not a goal.”

Host: The evening light shifted, and a shadow fell across Jack’s face, softening his edges.

Jack: “You make it sound poetic. But life’s not a poem — it’s a routine. It’s sweat, soreness, pain. The ones who made it through weren’t necessarily the hopeful. They were the ones who could adapt. Maybe Brady kept training because she’s a professional. That’s her job.”

Jeeny: “And what’s wrong with that? To turn routine into meaning — that’s the heart of being human. You call it discipline, I call it devotion. Maybe faith doesn’t always look like prayer. Sometimes it looks like a woman in Orlando, running under the sun, alone, with no crowd, no coach, no guarantee.”

Host: The heat of her words rippled in the air. Jack looked away, his eyes drawn to a single leaf spiraling down onto the court, landing softly beside his foot.

Jack: “You really think that kind of endurance is faith?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because she didn’t stop when no one was watching. The world had forgotten the game, but she remembered herself.”

Host: Silence settled again — a deep, breathing, honest silence. Somewhere in the distance, the ball resumed its rhythm, a slow, steady pulse that seemed to match the beat of their conversation.

Jack: “You know, during the lockdown, I didn’t train. I barely worked. I’d just sit and scroll through the news, counting numbers, watching the death toll rise. It felt like waiting for the end. I thought — if I stop, maybe the world will too.”

Jeeny: (softly) “And did it?”

Jack: “No. The world kept going. Without me. Without us.”

Host: His voice broke slightly — not in volume, but in texture. Like a string pulled too tight. Jeeny took a step closer, the sound of her shoes echoing against the concrete.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the lesson. That the world keeps moving — with or without our permission. The choice is whether we move with it.”

Jack: (after a pause) “You sound like you’ve found peace with that.”

Jeeny: “Not peace — just purpose. Maybe what Brady did, what all of us did in small ways, was our way of saying: ‘We can’t control the storm, but we can still breathe, still build, still move.’”

Host: The sky darkened, and the first streetlights flickered alive. The air smelled of dust and dew, a soft transition between day and night.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s not about winning or losing — it’s about showing up. Even when there’s no audience.”

Jeeny: “Especially then.”

Host: The lights from the court came on — cold, white, and humbling. The nets swayed gently, the shadows of their bodies stretching like threads between the poles.

Jack: “So you’d call that faith.”

Jeeny: “I’d call it life. The part that refuses to stop, even when everything else does.”

Host: Jack nodded slowly, the corners of his mouth softening into the faintest smile. The wind passed through the trees, carrying the echo of their words into the night.

And somewhere, far beyond their small court in Orlando, a woman still trained — her racket slicing through the air, her breath a reminder that motion itself can be a prayer.

The lights hummed, the stars emerged, and for a brief moment, the world — fragile, wounded, but still turning — felt whole again.