Fitness of a top-class squash player is very important, and

Host: The morning light streamed through the high windows of the old gym, catching on a fine haze of dust and sweat. The air was sharp with the smell of rubber, chalk, and effort — that scent that only ever exists in places where people come to fight themselves.

The echo of a squash ball ricocheted violently against glass — thud, crack, thud — rhythmically, obsessively, like a heartbeat that refused to slow down. Jack stood on the far side of the court, drenched, his shirt clinging to his frame, his breathing ragged but defiant.

Outside the glass, Jeeny leaned against the wall, her arms folded, watching. She wasn’t there to play. She was there to witness.

On the bulletin board beside her, a faded quote was tacked up, the paper curling at the corners:
“Fitness of a top-class squash player is very important, and talent only can't do the job. They have to get training regularly for at least eight hours a day so that they could put some good show in a two-hour match.” — Jahangir Khan.

Jeeny: calling through the glass “Eight hours, Jack. You barely last forty minutes before you start swearing at gravity.”

Jack: panting, grinning between gasps “That’s because gravity’s a sore loser.”

Jeeny: “You sound like a man who confuses sarcasm for endurance.”

Jack: tossing the ball up, hitting it hard again “Maybe. But at least I keep showing up.”

Host: The ball hit the wall with a violent smack, rebounding like an accusation. Each swing of his arm was heavy, deliberate, but it carried the stubborn rhythm of someone who refused to be mediocre.

Jeeny: stepping closer, voice softer now “You know, that’s what Jahangir meant — showing up, even when it hurts. Talent’s the spark. But discipline’s the oxygen.”

Jack: leaning on his racquet, breath shallow “And here I thought oxygen came from lungs.”

Jeeny: “Not in sports. In sports, it comes from repetition — the kind of madness that makes you live the same day over and over just to shave off one second.”

Jack: laughs weakly “You make obsession sound noble.”

Jeeny: “It is. So long as it’s aimed at mastery, not vanity.”

Host: The court was silent for a moment — only the sound of his breathing filled the space. He dropped the ball again, watched it bounce, then caught it midair. There was focus in his eyes now — the calm that comes after complaint, the surrender that breeds strength.

Jack: “You think it’s really worth it? All those hours for two hours of glory?”

Jeeny: “It’s not about the match. It’s about who you become during the hours no one’s watching.”

Jack: “Sounds poetic. But all I feel right now is my lungs staging a rebellion.”

Jeeny: “That’s how you know you’re alive.”

Jack: smirking “That’s also how you know you’re thirty-five.”

Host: She laughed, shaking her head. The echo of his earlier swings seemed to linger in the air, like ghosts of effort refusing to die. There was something sacred about the repetition — a devotion beyond ambition.

Jeeny: “You know, Jahangir Khan trained eight hours a day for years. Every single day. No shortcuts. He didn’t rely on talent — he built endurance until even exhaustion surrendered to him.”

Jack: nodding slowly “I read that. He won over five hundred matches in a row. Never lost for five years.”

Jeeny: “Because he understood something simple — brilliance is built in boredom.”

Jack: quietly “Yeah. You don’t rise when you’re inspired. You rise when you’re exhausted.”

Host: The fluorescent lights hummed softly above them. Sweat ran down his temple, caught the light like a single falling star. Outside the court, the world went on — traffic, sunlight, everything ordinary. Inside, time was measured only in heartbeats and breath.

Jeeny: “You know, I used to think talent was everything. That the gifted ones just had it. But the older I get, the more I see that genius is just commitment in disguise.”

Jack: “Talent’s easy. You’re born with it. Discipline’s what you have to fall in love with.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And that’s harder. Because discipline doesn’t seduce — it demands.”

Jack: grinning “And you think I’ve got it?”

Jeeny: smiling back “You’ve got the fight. The rest comes from the hours you’re willing to waste becoming extraordinary.”

Host: The ball dropped from his hand. He watched it roll across the floor — then, without hesitation, he picked it up again. Not dramatically. Just… faithfully.

Jack: “You know, I think about that a lot — how much life happens behind the scenes. People see the match, not the hours. They see the winning, not the work.”

Jeeny: “That’s the tragedy and the truth. The applause never knows your scars.”

Jack: after a pause “But maybe it shouldn’t. Maybe beauty’s in how invisible the pain is.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe beauty’s in the pain itself — in the persistence that says, ‘I’m still here.’”

Host: Her words landed gently, like the first drop of rain before a storm. Jack straightened, adjusting his grip on the racquet. The exhaustion in his face hadn’t vanished — but something else had risen beneath it: purpose.

Jack: muttering to himself “Eight hours a day…”

Jeeny: teasing “Don’t worry. You’re only seven and a half short.”

Jack: smiling “Guess I’d better start.”

Jeeny: “Guess you’d better remember why.”

Jack: “Why?”

Jeeny: quietly “Because excellence isn’t a moment — it’s a maintenance.”

Host: He nodded, stepped back into position, and served again. The ball hit the wall with renewed force — louder, sharper, more certain. Sweat streaked his face, but his movements grew cleaner, steadier, honest.

Jeeny: watching him “You know, that’s the thing about great athletes. They don’t chase perfection — they practice devotion. Over and over. Until even fatigue becomes a kind of faith.”

Jack: breathing hard, but smiling “You sound like a preacher.”

Jeeny: “Maybe I am. Every gym is a church. Every repetition’s a prayer.”

Host: The camera would linger on the scene — the flash of the ball, the sound of exertion echoing through the empty court, the soft rain finally breaking outside.

In the end, there was no crowd, no victory. Just motion, will, and the quiet holiness of work.

And as the storm rolled over the gym, Jahangir Khan’s words would echo like thunder made of truth:

“Fitness of a top-class squash player is very important, and talent only can’t do the job. They have to get training regularly for at least eight hours a day so that they could put some good show in a two-hour match.”

Because greatness is not born —
it is built.

Brick by repetition,
sweat by second,
hour by hour —

until talent becomes endurance,
and endurance
becomes grace.