My dad's a fitness freak himself.

Host:
The morning mist curled low over the cricket field, silver and still. The dew on the grass shimmered like scattered diamonds, catching the faint light of a sun not yet fully risen. Somewhere, a distant crow cried out, its echo slicing through the quiet.

In the middle of the empty field stood Jack, tall, lean, his breath visible in the cool air. His hands rested on his knees after another long sprint, his chest rising and falling with the rhythm of a man who fights silence with motion.

On the bench near the sideline, Jeeny watched him, a thermos mug steaming beside her, her eyes full of a curious blend of amusement and concern. The grass, the cold, the light — all conspired to make the world feel like a beginning.

On the ground beside her lay a folded magazine, the headline half-visible:
“Ben Stokes: My dad’s a fitness freak himself.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “You know, I read somewhere that Ben Stokes said his dad was a fitness freak. Sounds a bit like you.”

Jack: (breathing hard, straightening up) “A freak, huh? I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Jeeny: “You should. But I think he meant it differently — not just about muscles or stamina. More like discipline. The kind that borders on obsession.”

Jack: (grinning wryly) “Obsession’s just another word for commitment, Jeeny. People call it crazy until it wins.”

Jeeny: (raising an eyebrow) “And when it doesn’t?”

Jack: (shrugging) “Then it builds character. Pain’s the tuition you pay for strength.”

Host:
The wind moved softly through the trees lining the field, stirring the banners left from yesterday’s match. A forgotten bat leaned against the fence, its shadow stretched long by the early light. Jack’s breath steadied as he turned his gaze toward the horizon — the kind of gaze that wasn’t looking outward, but inward.

Jeeny: “You and your father — you trained like this, didn’t you?”

Jack: (after a long pause) “Every morning before dawn. He’d wake me before the sky even remembered color. We didn’t talk much. Just ran. He said words slow you down.”

Jeeny: “That sounds… harsh.”

Jack: “It was. But it made sense back then. He didn’t believe in comfort — said it dulls the edge of ambition. So, we ran. Every single day. Rain, snow, sickness. Didn’t matter.”

Jeeny: (softly) “And now you do the same.”

Jack: (nodding) “Yeah. Guess it’s my inheritance.”

Host:
The light broke through the mist, scattering it into ribbons. The world brightened, and with it came that subtle shift — the one between memory and confession. Jack’s shoulders, though strong, carried something invisible: a weight that had nothing to do with running.

Jeeny: “You ever wonder if he pushed himself that hard because he was chasing something — or running from it?”

Jack: (smiling tightly) “Probably both. Fitness was his religion. His body was his proof of control. When everything else in his life fell apart — the job, the marriage, the money — the one thing he could still command was himself.”

Jeeny: “So he built himself into a fortress.”

Jack: “Exactly. And he tried to make me one, too.”

Jeeny: “Did it work?”

Jack: (quietly) “Depends what you call success. I’m strong. I don’t break. But sometimes I wonder if I ever learned how to bend.”

Host:
A silence settled between them. The kind that doesn’t feel empty, but earned. The sun now rose completely, turning the grass into liquid gold. Jack’s breath came slower, softer, his eyes distant — seeing a past version of himself sprinting beside his father, both running toward something they could never quite name.

Jeeny: “You know, Stokes probably said it with pride. There’s love in the word freak when it’s about your dad — even if it sounds rough.”

Jack: “Yeah. Pride and pain make good roommates.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “And which one do you keep the rent paid for?”

Jack: (half-laughing) “Depends on the day. Some days I’m proud of what he taught me — the discipline, the focus. Other days, I’m angry he forgot to teach me how to rest.”

Jeeny: “Maybe he didn’t forget. Maybe he just didn’t know how.”

Jack: “Maybe.” (beat) “But the funny thing about training your whole life for control — one day, you realize the body listens better than the heart ever did.”

Host:
The sound of the city began to creep into the quiet — distant traffic, a barking dog, life waking up. Yet in this corner of the world, time still felt suspended, as if the morning itself refused to move on without finishing the conversation.

Jeeny: “Do you ever run for joy anymore? Not for strength or survival — just for the feeling of it?”

Jack: (looking away) “Not really. Joy slows you down.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. Joy is what keeps you running when the pain starts.”

Jack: (smiling faintly) “You really believe that?”

Jeeny: “I do. Because joy isn’t the absence of discipline. It’s the reason discipline matters.”

Host:
Her voice lingered in the air, softer than the wind, but heavier than truth. Jack’s expression softened, his eyes following the sunlight now spreading across the grass, across the chalk lines, across the place where his father once stood — shouting from the sidelines, stopwatch in hand.

Jack: “You know… I used to think he wanted me to be strong for him. But maybe he just didn’t know another language for love.”

Jeeny: “That’s the hardest thing about fathers, isn’t it? They say discipline, and mean devotion. They say strength, and mean care. But they never say it plain.”

Jack: (after a pause) “And sons learn to listen for the silence between the words.”

Jeeny: (smiling faintly) “And daughters learn to translate it.”

Host:
The ball rolled gently across the grass, catching a final flicker of sunlight before coming to rest at Jeeny’s feet. She picked it up, turning it slowly in her hands — the leather rough, warm, familiar.

She tossed it toward Jack, who caught it easily, his hands remembering the reflex before his mind did.

Jack: (grinning slightly) “You know, he used to tell me — pain is the tax you pay for excellence.”

Jeeny: “And what do you tell yourself now?”

Jack: (looking toward the horizon) “That maybe excellence isn’t worth as much as peace.”

Jeeny: (nodding) “Now that sounds like strength.”

Host:
The camera panned out — the two of them standing on the field bathed in golden light, the outlines of their shadows long and merging. The world was fully awake now, yet for a moment, time stood reverent.

And as the wind carried the scent of grass and memory, Jack’s voice broke the quiet, calm and resolute:

“He built his body to survive.
I’m learning to use mine to live.”

Host:
The scene faded, leaving only the whisper of wind over the field — and the faint echo of footsteps,
the rhythm of a man finally running not from the past,
but with it.