I love the sport of tennis, but I sort of got a little bit away

Host: The afternoon sun hung low over the tennis courts, pouring a golden haze through the chain-link fences. The air shimmered with heat, the sound of balls hitting rackets echoing like a slow heartbeat. Beyond the white lines and fading green paint, a quiet emptiness stretched — the kind that comes not from silence, but from repetition.

At the edge of Court 3, Jack leaned against the fence, his shirt unbuttoned at the collar, a bottle of water in his hand. Jeeny sat on the bench, her hair pulled back, a towel draped around her neck, eyes fixed on the court, as if watching a ghost play.

A faint breeze stirred the dust. Somewhere, a crowd cheered in the distance — not for them, but for someone else, some other match where meaning still lived.

Jeeny: “Ashleigh Barty once said, ‘I love the sport of tennis, but I sort of got a little bit away from what I really wanted to do. It became robotic for me, and that’s not what I wanted. It’s such an amazing sport, and I just really wanted to enjoy it, and I lost that enjoyment and that passion.’”

Jack: “Yeah. I remember when she quit. World number one, and she just… walked away. People thought she’d lost her mind.”

Jeeny: “Maybe she just found it again.”

Host: The sunlight flickered across Jeeny’s face, catching the sweat on her brow, turning it to amber. She looked tired, but not from exertion — from something deeper, something that had to do with purpose.

Jack: “It’s hard to understand walking away from success. Most people would kill for what she had.”

Jeeny: “That’s the problem, Jack. Most people chase success, not meaning. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “Meaning doesn’t pay bills. Or buy freedom. Or let you hold a trophy.”

Jeeny: “And yet, all of that means nothing when you stop feeling alive while doing it.”

Host: The sound of a ball machine began again — thwack, thwack, thwack — each hit perfectly timed, mechanical, almost cruel. Jack watched it, his brow furrowed, as if the rhythm offended him.

Jack: “You call it losing passion. I call it fatigue. Everyone burns out eventually. Doesn’t mean you walk away from the game.”

Jeeny: “But what’s the point of playing if you’ve forgotten why you started? That’s what Barty meant — tennis became a loop. Perfect movements. Empty victories. No heartbeat.”

Jack: “You make it sound poetic. But that’s just work. Every job becomes routine. You push through. That’s discipline.”

Jeeny: “Discipline without joy is just obedience.”

Host: The wind caught a stray tennis ball, rolling it slowly across the court until it hit the net and stopped — perfectly still. Both of them watched it for a moment, saying nothing.

Jeeny: “Don’t you ever feel like that ball, Jack? Like you’ve been rolling so long you forgot who pushed you there in the first place?”

Jack: “You think passion’s supposed to last forever? It doesn’t. It’s like fuel — you burn it, you move forward. When it’s gone, you find more or you stall.”

Jeeny: “No. Passion doesn’t vanish. It hides when you stop listening. When you let the world turn your love into a performance.”

Host: A jet passed overhead, its roar swallowing their silence. When it faded, all that remained was the buzz of cicadas and the soft hum of the ball machine.

Jack: “You really believe she was happier after quitting?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Because she chose to feel again. To breathe. To remember that tennis was never about winning — it was about rhythm, motion, freedom. The second it became robotic, it stopped being hers.”

Jack: “So passion is freedom?”

Jeeny: “No. Passion is you — before the world tells you what to want.”

Host: Jack looked away, the fence’s shadows cutting across his face like the strings of a racket. His voice lowered, raw and unguarded.

Jack: “I used to love what I do too. Waking up every morning to design buildings that felt alive. Then one day I looked at the plans and realized I was just drawing boxes — bigger boxes, smaller boxes. All perfect, all empty.”

Jeeny: “So you understand Barty more than you admit.”

Jack: “Maybe. But she walked away. I couldn’t. There were people depending on me.”

Jeeny: “Sometimes the person depending on you most is the one inside your chest.”

Host: The sun dropped lower, turning the court into a painting of long shadows. The ball machine stopped suddenly, its last ball thudding into the net and rolling away. The silence that followed was almost sacred.

Jack: “You think quitting can be noble?”

Jeeny: “I think knowing when to stop is a form of courage. It takes strength to let go of something everyone else tells you to hold.”

Jack: “But what if you let go and there’s nothing left?”

Jeeny: “Then you make space. And sometimes that space is where life sneaks back in.”

Host: Jeeny stood, walking slowly toward the court, her shoes crunching on the gravel. She picked up the stray ball, turning it in her hand, the yellow fuzz catching the light.

Jeeny: “You know what I think, Jack? The danger isn’t losing passion — it’s pretending you haven’t.”

Jack: “Because admitting it feels like failure.”

Jeeny: “And living without it is.”

Host: Jack stood too, moving beside her. The court lines stretched before them like the boundaries of a life — neat, measured, necessary.

Jack: “Maybe the real game isn’t what happens inside those lines.”

Jeeny: “No. Maybe it’s the moment you realize you can step over them.”

Host: The camera pulled back, capturing them as two small figures standing against a vast horizon, their shadows long, their silhouettes quiet. The sun slipped behind the trees, and the air cooled, heavy with that strange peace that comes after something breaks — but doesn’t end.

Jack: “You think she’ll come back?”

Jeeny: “Maybe. Or maybe she already did — just not to tennis. Maybe she came back to herself.”

Host: A bird cried overhead, cutting through the silence like a note of truth. The net swayed slightly in the breeze, its cords glinting, its emptiness beautiful.

Jeeny tossed the ball gently into the air, let it fall, and smiled.

Jeeny: “Maybe we all need to lose our game sometimes, Jack. Just to remember it’s a game at all.”

Host: And as the light faded, and the court dissolved into shadow, something softened between them — not victory, not defeat, but the quiet return of meaning.

In the distance, the sound of laughter drifted from another court — faint, human, alive.

And in that moment, as the last rays of sun kissed the net, it was clear what Barty had really discovered —

that joy isn’t found in perfection,
but in the permission to feel human again.