If you want to be the best, you've got the beat the best, and the

Host: The night hung thick with humidity, and the city’s pulse beat beneath the neon lights like a living heart refusing to sleep. In a small gym tucked behind an alley of flickering signs, the smell of sweat and leather filled the air. A heavy bag swung rhythmically, punctuated by the dull thud of gloves meeting resistance. The sound was steady, like a heartbeat — relentless, human, raw.

Jack stood shirtless, his shoulders glistening with sweat under a single buzzing lightbulb, his breath controlled but heavy. Jeeny sat nearby, perched on a metal bench, a small notebook on her lap, watching him with an expression between admiration and worry.

The clock on the wall ticked like a judge counting down destinies.

Jeeny: “You’ve been here for hours, Jack. The bag looks like it’s bleeding dust. Don’t you think you’ve had enough for one night?”

Jack: “Enough? There’s no such thing when you’re chasing the top.”

He struck the bag once more — a sharp, echoing sound — then turned, eyes cold but alive.

Jack: “You know what Max Holloway said? ‘If you want to be the best, you’ve got to beat the best — and the best is blessed, baby.’ That’s it. That’s the creed. Nothing mystical. No shortcuts.”

Host: The gym light flickered, casting his shadow in jagged, trembling outlines across the walls. Jeeny closed her notebook and looked up, her deep brown eyes reflecting the light like calm water disturbed by a ripple.

Jeeny: “You talk like being the best means destroying whoever stands before you. But Max said ‘blessed.’ Don’t you think there’s more to it than just fighting? Maybe the ‘blessing’ isn’t about winning — maybe it’s about grace.”

Jack smirked, wiping the sweat from his brow.

Jack: “Grace doesn’t win championships, Jeeny. The ring doesn’t reward poetry. It rewards impact. You either hit harder, think sharper, or you fall.”

Jeeny: “But what happens when you win and lose yourself in the process? You’ve been chasing ghosts, Jack. Every fight, every punch — it’s like you’re trying to kill something invisible.”

Host: A moment of silence. The rain began to tap lightly against the gym’s tin roof, a sound like soft applause from an unseen crowd.

Jack leaned against the wall, exhaling slowly.

Jack: “You don’t understand. You can’t. In this world, you’re either the one remembered or the one forgotten. You think Ali, Jordan, or Holloway got there by being kind? No — they became legends because they refused to bow, even when the world begged them to.”

Jeeny: “They became legends because they stood for something beyond themselves. Ali didn’t fight just to win — he fought for belief, for identity, for those without a voice. His greatness wasn’t in his punches, Jack — it was in his soul.”

Host: The word hung between them like a spark refusing to die.

Jack’s jaw tightened. His eyes dropped to the floor, tracing the faint outline of chalk from earlier training.

Jack: “Soul doesn’t pay the bills. Not in this world.”

Jeeny: “But it keeps you human. Without it, you’re just another machine built to win, to consume, to destroy. Is that what you want — to be the best machine?”

Host: Jack’s breathing slowed. The light above them hummed, a lonely symphony in the midnight gym.

Jack: “You think I want this?” His voice broke slightly. “Every night I walk out of here, I wonder if I’ve already peaked — if every hit I throw is just a shadow of the man I used to be. But the only way to silence that voice is to fight harder, to keep proving I’m not done.”

Jeeny stood, her notebook falling to the floor with a soft thud. She approached him, her small frame barely reaching his shoulder, but her voice carried power.

Jeeny: “Proving it to who, Jack? To the crowd that forgets by tomorrow? To the sponsors who move on to the next fighter? Or to that broken boy inside you who never believed he was enough?”

Host: The rain intensified, a thousand soft bullets against the roof, drowning out the hum of the city. Jack’s eyes flickered, a mixture of anger and pain.

Jack: “Don’t psychoanalyze me, Jeeny. This isn’t about childhood or emotion. It’s about survival. Only the strong stay standing. Look at history — the world doesn’t remember kindness; it remembers conquest. Alexander, Napoleon, Mayweather — they took their thrones. Nobody handed them grace.”

Jeeny: “And yet, history also remembers those who gave — not just those who took. Gandhi, Mother Teresa, Mandela. Their strength came from compassion, not domination. Their victories didn’t come from fists, but from the fire of spirit.”

Host: Jack turned away, gripping the punching bag as if it could steady him. His knuckles pressed into the leather, the veins in his arms tense and trembling.

Jack: “Different battles, Jeeny. Some of us don’t get to choose peace. Some of us only know war.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe that’s why you’ll never be truly blessed, Jack.”

Host: The words struck harder than any punch. Jack froze. The sound of the rain seemed to vanish into silence.

Jeeny: “Blessed doesn’t mean untouchable. It means grateful. It means aware of what you fight for — not just that you fight. Max Holloway called himself ‘Blessed’ not because he was unbeatable, but because he understood the beauty of the battle itself. He fought with respect, with heart. That’s what made him the best.”

Jack: “You think gratitude can beat talent? Heart can beat training?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes, yes. Because heart doesn’t give up when logic says you should. Because gratitude makes every victory sacred. That’s what separates the great from the merely skilled.”

Host: A gust of wind blew through a cracked window, scattering a few old posters of past fights — names and faces fading with time.

Jack bent down, picking up one of them — his own face, younger, smiling, eyes full of naive fire. He stared for a long moment.

Jack: “Maybe I forgot that part. The love. The blessing.”

Jeeny: “Then remember it now. You don’t need to destroy the best to become the best. You just need to honor them — and rise to meet them with your full self intact.”

Host: The rain softened, becoming a steady whisper. The tension in the air loosened.

Jack: “You always find a way to turn my world upside down.”

Jeeny smiled faintly.

Jeeny: “Maybe it needs to be upside down sometimes — that’s how the light gets in.”

Host: Jack chuckled — a low, rough sound that carried both defeat and relief. He dropped the poster and reached for his towel, the weight on his shoulders a little lighter.

Jack: “Alright, philosopher. You win this round. Maybe ‘blessed’ doesn’t mean chosen — maybe it means awakened.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. And once you see that, every fight becomes sacred, not savage.”

Host: The two stood in quiet understanding. The lightbulb flickered one last time before steadying, the rain outside turning into a gentle drizzle. Jack looked toward the door, his reflection shimmering faintly in a puddle of sweat and light.

Jack: “Tomorrow, I’ll train again. But maybe this time, I’ll fight for something worth fighting for.”

Jeeny: “Then you’ll already be the best.”

Host: The gym fell silent except for the rhythmic drip of rain through a small leak in the ceiling — like the measured heartbeat of time itself. The camera of life pulled back slowly, the two figures standing together beneath the dim light, two souls no longer in conflict, but in understanding.

And as the city sighed beyond the walls, the word “Blessed” lingered — not as a title of victory, but as a whisper of truth.