It's amazing, it doesn't feel like it has been 10 years since

Host: The late afternoon light drifted through the tennis club’s wide windows, washing the empty court in soft gold. The air was thick with the faint scent of clay, sun, and memories. In the distance, a single racket lay abandoned near the net, its strings catching the light like a spider’s web.

Host: Jack stood near the sidelines, his hands buried deep in his pockets, watching the dust settle where the ball used to fly. Jeeny leaned against the fence, her hair brushed back by the breeze, her eyes fixed on the court like she was watching a ghost play.

Host: The world outside the club moved on — the sound of traffic, a distant radio, children laughing somewhere beyond the trees. But inside, time seemed to have stopped.

Jeeny: “You’ve been standing there for half an hour. You look like a man watching his past.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “Maybe I am. You know what Gabriela Sabatini said once? ‘It’s amazing — it doesn’t feel like it has been 10 years since retirement.’ That’s exactly how it feels. Like you wake up one day, and the roar of the crowd is just... gone.”

Jeeny: “And you think it should feel longer?”

Jack: “I think it should feel different. Ten years — it sounds like a lifetime. But when you’ve lived with adrenaline as your morning coffee, silence feels unnatural.”

Host: A small gust of wind moved across the court, lifting dust in a delicate spiral. Jack’s eyes followed it, as though it carried the echo of applause, the memory of youth, the weight of what once was.

Jeeny: “You’re not really talking about tennis, are you?”

Jack: “No. I’m talking about ending. About the space after something that defined you disappears.”

Jeeny: “That’s what people don’t tell you about success. It doesn’t prepare you for the silence that comes after.”

Jack: (nods slowly) “Yeah. The silence is worse than losing. At least when you lose, you feel something. Retirement... it’s like you walk off the court, and the world keeps playing without you.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the lesson — the game was never yours to keep. You were just passing through.”

Jack: “Tell that to someone who spent twenty years chasing perfection.”

Jeeny: “Perfection doesn’t retire, Jack. People do.”

Host: The sunlight shifted, splitting through the high windows, cutting the court in half — one side lit, one side shadowed. The symbolism wasn’t lost on either of them.

Jack: “You know what the cruelest part is? You think time will change you — make you different, wiser, softer. But then you walk in here, see the lines, the net, the light — and you’re right back where you were. Ten years disappear like they never happened.”

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s not cruelty. Maybe it’s mercy. The universe reminding you that parts of you never age.”

Jack: “You mean nostalgia?”

Jeeny: “No. Recognition. The self that never left.”

Jack: “That’s dangerous. You start chasing it. You start wanting to be that person again.”

Jeeny: “Why not? Why not pick up the racket, the brush, the dream — whatever it was? Who says the second act can’t be better than the first?”

Jack: (laughs softly) “Because the body remembers what the soul denies. It’s not the same. The swing isn’t as sharp. The instincts aren’t as fast. The crowd has moved on.”

Jeeny: “But maybe the meaning is deeper. You’re no longer chasing victory. You’re chasing peace.”

Host: A faint sound — the hollow bounce of a ball — echoed through the space. Somewhere, a young player was still training, the sound of her footsteps rhythmic, alive. Jeeny turned toward the sound, smiling.

Jeeny: “Listen to that. The next generation. Doesn’t it make you happy?”

Jack: (quietly) “It makes me ache.”

Jeeny: “Because it’s not you?”

Jack: “Because I know what she’s feeling right now. That mix of hunger and hope. The belief that it’ll last forever.”

Jeeny: “You envy her.”

Jack: “I remember her. That version of me.”

Jeeny: “You talk like youth is a disease that you survived.”

Jack: “Maybe it is. You spend your prime thinking you’ll never slow down. Then one day, you blink — and ten years are gone. And it doesn’t feel like time passed — it feels like time just... skipped you.”

Host: His voice trembled slightly, just enough to betray the weight beneath his composure. The light caught the side of his face, showing the faint lines carved by both laughter and regret.

Jeeny: “Jack, maybe that’s the beauty of it. When time passes gently — when ten years don’t feel like ten years — it means you’ve carried something timeless with you. The love for what you did.”

Jack: “Or the inability to let it go.”

Jeeny: “Those two are closer than you think.”

Jack: “You always find a way to make loss sound poetic.”

Jeeny: “Because it is. Look at Gabriela Sabatini — she didn’t talk about loss. She said it was amazing. That’s not regret. That’s gratitude. She didn’t mourn the time gone — she marveled at it.”

Jack: (softly, after a pause) “Yeah... she did, didn’t she? ‘It’s amazing, it doesn’t feel like it has been 10 years since retirement.’ Maybe that’s the mark of a good life — when the years slip by quietly because you lived them fully.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The time doesn’t hurt when it’s filled with meaning.”

Jack: “And yet here we are, standing in an empty court, trying to convince ourselves that the silence means peace.”

Jeeny: “Maybe silence isn’t peace. Maybe it’s space — waiting for what’s next.”

Host: The last rays of light faded, leaving the court bathed in soft twilight. The sounds of the outside world — laughter, cars, life — grew louder. The court seemed to breathe again.

Jeeny: “You could coach, you know. Or teach. You still have that fire.”

Jack: “Fire without purpose just burns.”

Jeeny: “Then give it purpose. Pass it on. Let it light someone else’s court.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “You make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. But neither was starting. And you did that once, didn’t you?”

Host: Jeeny walked out onto the court, her shoes crunching softly on the clay. She bent down, picked up the racket, and tossed it toward him. It landed near his feet with a dull thud.

Jeeny: “Go on. Hit a few. Just for old time’s sake.”

Jack: (hesitates, then laughs) “I’ll pull a muscle.”

Jeeny: “So what? It’s only time catching up.”

Host: He bent down, picked up the racket, and turned it in his hands, feeling the familiar weight. The grip, though worn, still fit his palm perfectly — like a handshake with an old friend.

Jack: “It feels lighter than I remember.”

Jeeny: “That’s because you’re not carrying the pressure anymore.”

Jack: (looking around, then softly) “You know something? It really doesn’t feel like ten years.”

Jeeny: “That’s how you know it was real.”

Host: The camera would have pulled back then — two figures standing at the center of an empty court, framed by light and shadow, the sound of a ball hitting a distant racket echoing like a heartbeat.

Host: Because the years that don’t feel like years are the ones that never truly leave us —
The ones made of motion, passion, and love,
Where even in stillness, the game never really ends.