In my humble opinion, change is stupid.

Host: The night had fallen over a quiet tennis court on the outskirts of the city. The floodlights burned with a tired whiteness, casting long, trembling shadows across the lines of chalk that marked victory and defeat. The net hung slightly uneven, as though it too had grown weary of dividing one side from another.

The air was thick with the scent of rain-soaked clay, and somewhere beyond the court, a single dog barked — that lonely kind of bark that feels like memory.

Jack sat on the bench, his tennis racket resting across his lap, the strings still vibrating from the last serve. His face was calm, unreadable — but there was something in his eyes, a flicker of unspoken exhaustion.

Jeeny walked slowly toward him, her steps echoing faintly against the empty bleachers. She was still holding a ball, turning it over in her hands, as if trying to understand the world through its perfect roundness.

Jeeny: (half-smiling) “Rafael Nadal once said, ‘In my humble opinion, change is stupid.’”

Jack: (snorts softly) “Yeah. I like that. For once, a man who doesn’t pretend to worship progress.”

Host: A soft wind brushed through the trees, carrying with it the faintest trace of music from a nearby café. The lights buzzed, flickered, then steadied again — as if uncertain whether to hold or surrender.

Jeeny: “But isn’t that strange, Jack? Coming from Nadal — a man who adapted his game countless times to stay great. He changed rackets, strategies, even his serve. How can he call change stupid?”

Jack: (leans back, voice low) “Because he’s not talking about technique. He’s talking about essence. His soul doesn’t change. The way he fights, the way he bleeds for every point — that’s constant. The rest is noise. People confuse movement for progress.”

Jeeny: (sits beside him) “But isn’t constancy the very thing that kills us? That keeps us trapped? The world moves, Jack. People evolve. If we stayed the same, we’d still be swinging wooden rackets and fearing thunder.”

Jack: (turns to her) “And yet, we were happier then. Simpler. Now everyone’s obsessed with ‘reinventing’ themselves — careers, faces, feelings. Change has become a religion. We kneel to it without asking what we’re changing into.”

Host: The ball slipped from Jeeny’s hand, rolling slowly across the court, until it rested against the net, trembling in the soft breeze. Her eyes followed it, deep and thoughtful.

Jeeny: “But Jack, think about it — every living thing changes. The river erodes its bed. The body heals, decays, renews. Even Nadal — his knees, his back — he had to evolve or break. Isn’t change the proof that we’re alive?”

Jack: (shakes his head) “That’s biology, not philosophy. Evolution isn’t the same as obsession. Nadal’s not saying never adapt. He’s saying: don’t worship the idea of changing for its own sake. Some things should be stubborn — like loyalty, love, truth. You change those, you lose who you are.”

Jeeny: “But maybe who you are isn’t meant to stay the same.”

Jack: (smirks) “Spoken like a modern poet. Always chasing reinvention. Tell me, Jeeny — how many times can a person rewrite themselves before the pages stop meaning anything?”

Host: The silence that followed was heavy, the kind that settles into the heart before the mind can argue. The moonlight cut across the court, splitting them in half — two halves of a single truth, separated by a line of chalk.

Jeeny: (softly) “You sound like my father. He used to say, ‘Don’t fix what isn’t broken.’ But one day, he refused to learn new ways at work. The world changed around him, and he didn’t. He was gone in six months. Sometimes refusing change breaks you faster.”

Jack: (voice lower) “And sometimes change breaks you worse. You forget what you stood for. You dissolve into trends, into noise. Look at sports, at business, even art — everyone’s rebranding, repackaging, pivoting. No one stands still long enough to mean something.”

Jeeny: “Standing still isn’t meaning, Jack. It’s decay disguised as comfort.”

Jack: “And change isn’t life. It’s distraction disguised as growth.”

Host: The wind rose, whirling dust from the clay court into the air, where it hung like red smoke under the floodlights. Jeeny’s hair whipped around her face as she stood, her eyes shining with the heat of belief.

Jeeny: “You think Nadal meant to reject growth — but I think he meant to reject panic. He wasn’t afraid of change. He was tired of people chasing it without purpose. Real change — the kind that matters — isn’t loud, it’s quiet. It happens inside, not outside.”

Jack: (nods slowly) “Exactly. That’s the difference between evolution and chaos. Nadal didn’t reinvent himself to please the crowd. He adapted to stay true to himself. The stupid kind of change — the kind he meant — is the one that erases you while pretending to improve you.”

Jeeny: (softly, almost whispering) “So maybe the lesson is: change should come from conviction, not convenience.”

Jack: (smiles faintly) “Now that, I can agree with.”

Host: The rain began again — a thin, gentle drizzle that darkened the court, softening the white chalk lines until they bled into the clay. The sound of it was rhythmic, like applause from ghosts.

Jack: (watching the lines fade) “See that? The boundaries wash away, and suddenly the game doesn’t make sense anymore. That’s what change does when it’s mindless — it erases the frame that gives meaning.”

Jeeny: (kneels, tracing a finger through the wet clay) “But sometimes, Jack, the beauty begins when the frame dissolves. Maybe when we stop clinging to the old boundaries, we finally see what the world looks like beyond the court.”

Host: The lights flickered again, then dimmed, as if the night itself were taking a breath. Jack stood, stretching, the old racket creaking slightly in his grip. He looked at Jeeny — her face calm, wet with rain, but radiant with something like hope.

Jack: (quietly) “Maybe you’re right. Maybe change isn’t stupid. Maybe we just use it stupidly.”

Jeeny: (smiles) “That’s the first honest thing you’ve said all night.”

Jack: (grins) “Don’t get used to it.”

Host: They both laughed, the sound breaking through the stillness like a clean serve cutting the air. The rain fell harder, drumming on the court, on their shoulders, on the metal bleachers — a percussion of impermanence.

And as they walked off together, side by side, their footprints merged into the red clay — temporary, imperfect, and alive.

Above them, the floodlights finally went out, leaving only the faint glow of the moon — steady, ancient, unchanging — watching over two souls who had both learned, in their own way, that change is only stupid when it forgets to remember where it came from.