I like to keep myself fit at the pace of the game. I just focus

Host: The stadium lay silent now. Floodlights burned in the dark, their cold white glow stretching across an empty field where only moments ago there had been roar, motion, and dust. The echo of the crowd still hung in the air, faint as smoke.

Jeeny sat on the low concrete step near the dugout, her hair tied back, a faint smudge of dirt across her cheek. She held a crumpled notepad, filled with training plans and unfinished thoughts. Jack approached from the field, his shoes dragging slightly against the turf, his face tired but sharp under the floodlight’s glare.

Host: Between them, the evening carried the calm that only follows effort — that strange quiet after the storm of trying.

Jeeny looked up, a small, weary smile crossing her face. She had written on the corner of the page — “I like to keep myself fit at the pace of the game. I just focus on my process, including my fitness, skills, and fielding.” — Shikhar Dhawan.

Jeeny: “You know, I love that quote. There’s something peaceful in it — a man talking about discipline like it’s a form of meditation. He’s not chasing glory, just keeping rhythm with the game.”

Jack: (sitting beside her, stretching his legs out) “Peaceful? It sounds mechanical to me. Routine. Do this, lift that, train here. No wonder athletes burn out. You keep living like a machine, you stop being a man.”

Jeeny: “But Dhawan isn’t talking about being a machine. He’s talking about flow — that moment when your body and mind move together. When you stop thinking about winning or losing, and you just play.”

Jack: “Flow? That’s a nice poetic word for repetition. You train every day, sweat every morning, eat the same, run the same — and for what? For one good over? For one boundary that half the world forgets tomorrow? Doesn’t sound like flow to me. Sounds like survival.”

Host: A gust of night wind rolled across the field, carrying the faint smell of cut grass and distant fireworks from the city. Jeeny pulled her jacket closer, her eyes thoughtful.

Jeeny: “You always think the meaning is in the result, Jack. But sometimes it’s in the repetition itself. You remember those old monks who used to polish a single stone every day for years? It wasn’t about the stone. It was about the self that kept showing up.”

Jack: “Sure. Except monks don’t have to hit sixes on live television. They don’t have a scoreboard measuring their enlightenment.”

Jeeny: (smiling slightly) “Maybe that’s why Dhawan’s quote matters. Because he’s saying — even in the glare of performance, you can still find balance. You can still move at the pace of the game, not the pressure of it.”

Host: The lights above hummed, casting their white halo across the wet grass. A stray ball rolled slowly to a stop near Jack’s shoe. He picked it up, weighed it in his palm — a small, perfect world of red leather and quiet obsession.

Jack: “You sound like one of those motivational coaches now.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But I mean it. Everyone wants to win. Few know how to keep fit — not just the body, but the spirit — through the process. Dhawan’s not talking about chasing records. He’s talking about staying ready, even when no one’s watching.”

Jack: “So you think process matters more than the prize?”

Jeeny: “I think the process is the prize.”

Host: Jack tilted his head, half amused, half intrigued. His eyes followed the empty pitch, where faint chalk lines glimmered under the light — traces of a battle already finished.

Jack: “That’s easy to say when you win. But what about when you fail? When you give it everything — and still lose? What’s the point of process then?”

Jeeny: (her tone softening) “That’s when it matters the most. Because the process is the only thing that doesn’t betray you. The outcome changes, but the work — the work stays yours.”

Host: The silence that followed was long and rich. The stadium lights buzzed above them like watchful stars. Somewhere beyond the bleachers, a dog barked, and the city exhaled.

Jack: “You talk like effort is a kind of religion.”

Jeeny: “Maybe it is. Every day you show up, you offer something — sweat, time, a piece of yourself. It’s not worshiping a god; it’s worshiping consistency.”

Jack: “And you think that’s enough?”

Jeeny: “It’s more than enough. Look at history — anyone who built something lasting had that. Dhawan, Federer, Kobe — they didn’t just chase greatness; they trained through it. They treated every practice session like a confession — honest, deliberate, patient.”

Host: Jack rubbed his neck, his expression distant. There was something almost vulnerable about the way his voice came next.

Jack: “You know, I used to believe that too. I used to think discipline could save me. But it’s a lonely thing — doing the right thing every day when no one claps for you.”

Jeeny: (softly) “It’s not lonely, Jack. It’s sacred. You’re keeping faith with yourself.”

Host: Her words hung there, suspended between them like a fragile flame. The lights flickered once, and Jack’s face caught a faint shadow, the kind that belongs to memory.

Jack: “Sacred… that’s a big word.”

Jeeny: “It’s the right word. Because process is how you stay human. When life gets loud, it’s how you return to your own heartbeat. That’s what Dhawan means by the pace of the game. He’s not fighting time; he’s dancing with it.”

Host: A slow smile tugged at Jack’s lips. He stood, stretched, and tossed the ball high into the night, watching it spin, catch the light, and fall back into his hand.

Jack: “Maybe I’ve been playing the wrong game, then.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe you’ve just been playing at the wrong pace.”

Host: The floodlights began to dim, one by one, as the stadium shut down. The vast field slipped into shadow, leaving only their silhouettes against the dull glow of the exit lights.

Jack: “You really think peace can exist inside pressure?”

Jeeny: (nodding) “Only if you make the pressure part of the rhythm. That’s what mastery really is — not the absence of struggle, but the grace inside it.”

Host: For a long moment, neither of them spoke. The wind shifted, carrying the faint scent of rain. The last of the lights winked out, leaving only the moon, a pale spectator to their quiet understanding.

Jeeny: “You know, Jack… it’s not the scoreboard that tells you if you’ve grown. It’s whether you can still love the game after losing.”

Jack: (quietly) “And you think process teaches that?”

Jeeny: “I think process is that.”

Host: The moonlight fell across the field like a soft blessing, touching the grass, the benches, the ball still resting in Jack’s hand. Jeeny rose, her silhouette small against the open sky, her voice barely above a whisper.

Jeeny: “Dhawan’s right. Keep yourself fit at the pace of the game. Because in the end, the game isn’t life — life is the game.”

Host: Jack smiled, the first real one all night — quiet, genuine, unguarded. The two of them walked across the empty field, their shadows long and parallel in the moonlight, as if the ground itself were listening.

And as they disappeared into the tunnel, the field behind them glimmered softly — not with the memory of victory, but with the steady, enduring light of discipline, focus, and faith — the simple, eternal rhythm of those who never stop showing up.