I feel like I have as good a shot as anybody out there and I have

Host: The sun hung low over the clay courts, its golden light spilling like molten honey across the white lines and scuffed surface. The faint sound of a ball bouncing — steady, rhythmic — echoed through the empty stadium. The air was thick with the smell of sweat, dust, and hope.

Jack sat on the bleachers, his hands wrapped around a paper cup of lukewarm coffee. His grey eyes followed the distant figure of a young player training alone — relentless, precise, his body a pattern of repetition and resolve. Jeeny stood beside him, her arms folded, dark hair caught by the faint breeze, her eyes shimmering with quiet admiration.

Jeeny: “He reminds me of Michael Chang, you know? The way he moves — not the biggest, not the strongest, but full of belief. I think that’s what Chang meant: ‘Why not me?’ That’s the question every dream begins with.”

Jack: “Belief is a fine thing until it meets the scoreboard. The world doesn’t bend for optimism, Jeeny. It bends for skill, statistics, and strategy.”

Host: The ball cracked sharply against the racket, a clean sound that cut through the evening air. The sky turned a shade deeper, like a canvas darkening before a storm.

Jeeny: “You make it sound so mechanical. But belief isn’t decoration — it’s the engine. Chang won the French Open at seventeen because he believed he could, even when no one else did. Don’t you see, Jack? Every time someone says why not me, the impossible shrinks.”

Jack: “Belief without evidence is just arrogance wearing perfume. The world’s full of people who believe they’ll win — only one lifts the trophy. Chang had more than faith; he had training, discipline, timing. That’s what people forget. The mind doesn’t serve miracles, Jeeny. It serves preparation.”

Host: The wind shifted, lifting a few loose pages of a coaching notebook near their feet. The notes, full of scribbles, numbers, and strategies, fluttered like fragile wings.

Jeeny: “But that’s exactly my point, Jack. Preparation without belief is like writing notes you never read. What drives the hand to keep going when everything hurts? What makes someone stay when the odds crush the air from their lungs? It’s attitude. That’s what Chang was saying — the attitude to say, ‘Maybe I can win this.’”

Jack: “Attitude doesn’t serve when the muscles fail. You can have all the optimism in the world, but when your serve breaks down, reality doesn’t care. You think belief carried him through Becker, through Lendl? No — it was his strategy, his ability to endure.”

Jeeny: “Endurance is born from belief. You endure because you believe it’s worth it.”

Host: The silence between them thickened, filled only by the soft thuds of balls and the sigh of wind over the fence. A cloud passed, dimming the light, and for a moment, the stadium felt suspended — like time was holding its breath.

Jack: “You talk as if belief is oxygen. But tell that to those who trained their whole lives and still fell short. Belief didn’t save them from obscurity. For every Chang, there are a hundred players who believed just as fiercely and vanished into anonymity.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s not failure. Maybe winning isn’t always the measure. Sometimes belief gives meaning even when the world forgets your name. Isn’t that enough?”

Jack: “Meaning doesn’t pay for plane tickets. Meaning doesn’t feed families. You want to romanticize the struggle, but in the end, it’s about results.”

Jeeny: “Results are only the surface, Jack. The heart plays a longer game. Do you remember Jim Valvano? He was dying from cancer, yet he stood on that stage and said, ‘Don’t give up. Don’t ever give up.’ He knew he wouldn’t win that battle, but he fought anyway. That’s belief — the kind that outlives results.”

Host: Jeeny’s voice trembled, but not from weakness. Her eyes glowed, catching the last amber threads of daylight. Jack looked at her — really looked — as if seeing not just the woman but the conviction that lived behind her words.

Jack: “So belief is everything? Even when it’s delusion?”

Jeeny: “No. Belief becomes delusion when it ignores truth. But when it walks beside truth — when it fuels effort, not fantasy — it becomes power. Chang didn’t just believe blindly. He knew his game, his limitations, his pain. But he still said, ‘Why not me?’ That’s courage, not delusion.”

Host: A child’s laughter echoed faintly from the far court — light, fleeting, pure. The moment softened.

Jack: “You think courage is a choice?”

Jeeny: “It’s always a choice. Fear is natural, but courage is rebellion. Every match, every life, is a rebellion against surrender.”

Jack: “You sound like a preacher.”

Jeeny: “Maybe faith and tennis have more in common than you think.”

Host: Jack laughed, low and dry, like a man trying to hide from his own reflection. The lights around the court flickered on, spilling white glow across the lines — harsh, clinical, but oddly comforting.

Jack: “I’ll admit, the way you say it — it almost makes me want to believe again. But I can’t erase the numbers, Jeeny. The stats don’t lie. The best preparation wins most of the time.”

Jeeny: “And yet, sometimes, someone breaks through — not because the numbers said so, but because they didn’t know how to quit. That’s what keeps the game alive. That’s what keeps us alive.”

Jack: “You think that’s enough to rewrite fate?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not fate. But maybe enough to rewrite a moment. And sometimes, that’s all you need — one moment when the world stops saying ‘no’ and you say ‘yes.’”

Host: The training had ended. The player walked off, sweat dripping, head bowed, but a faint smile lingered — the kind that comes not from victory, but from effort. The lights hummed, the air hummed with quiet persistence.

Jack: “When I was younger, I played regional tournaments. Always made it to the quarterfinals, never beyond. I used to tell myself I just needed more luck, more time. But maybe what I really needed was what you’re talking about — belief that burned beyond reason.”

Jeeny: “That’s the part that’s hardest to keep, Jack. Belief isn’t loud. It’s quiet. It’s what whispers when everyone else is shouting ‘you can’t.’”

Host: Jack’s hands tightened around the coffee cup, his eyes distant, his voice softer now.

Jack: “You know, there’s something cruel about dreams. They demand so much and promise so little. And yet — we keep showing up.”

Jeeny: “Because something in us refuses to let the story end without a fight.”

Jack: “Maybe that’s the real tournament — not the one on the court, but the one inside.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The victory isn’t always the trophy. Sometimes, it’s just the moment you choose to play again.”

Host: The wind stilled, and the night finally arrived — deep, blue, and filled with lights flickering like distant stars. The court lay empty now, but its lines still glowed faintly, like memories etched in dust.

Jack: “Maybe I’ve been too afraid to say it out loud, but — why not me?”

Jeeny: “That’s it, Jack. That’s the beginning.”

Host: Jeeny smiled, her eyes reflecting the faint light. Jack sat still, his silhouette carved against the stadium glow, as if something long dormant had finally stirred.

The world around them was silent, but inside, the echo of a new belief began to rise — steady, strong, and alive.

Somewhere, far off, the sound of another ball hitting the court began again — one more soul daring to ask, why not me?