My main purpose is to try in some way to change perceptions and

Host: The morning sun rose slow and soft over the city, spilling gold light across the cracked sidewalks and waking up the hum of traffic. Outside the small community center, a line of wheelchairs, crutches, and walkers stood like silent sentinels waiting for their owners. The air smelled of coffee, hope, and something electric — the quiet courage that lives in people who’ve learned to begin again every day.

Host: Inside, the gym was alive with the soft sound of movement — wheels on polished floors, voices laughing, the thump of a basketball bouncing unevenly but persistently. Jack stood by the side wall, a clipboard in hand, his eyes sharp, his expression focused. Jeeny sat on the edge of a bench, her hair tied back, her eyes following every motion with quiet fascination.

Host: Through the open windows, sunlight fell across a mural on the far wall — painted in vivid blues and reds — showing a figure rising from a wheelchair toward the sky, wings made of light spreading wide behind them.

Jeeny: “You know, Dylan Alcott once said, ‘My main purpose is to try in some way to change perceptions and stigma so that people with disabilities can get out and live the life they deserve to live. That’s what gets me out of bed every day.’”

Jack: (without looking up) “Yeah, I’ve heard that one. Makes a good headline.”

Jeeny: “It’s not a headline, Jack. It’s a mission.”

Jack: “Missions sound noble until you see how slow the world changes.”

Jeeny: “And yet, people like him wake up and try anyway. That’s the part that matters.”

Host: A young man in a wheelchair missed a pass, the ball bouncing away and rolling to Jack’s feet. He stooped, picked it up, and tossed it back with quiet precision. The player caught it and grinned. Jack gave a small nod — almost imperceptible, but enough.

Jack: “You think purpose alone can carry someone through this kind of fight? The systems, the stares, the ceilings?”

Jeeny: “No. But it’s the only thing that keeps people from breaking under it.”

Jack: “You talk like you know.”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “I do. My brother’s been in a chair since he was twelve. I’ve seen people treat him like a ghost they didn’t want to see. And I’ve seen him wheel himself into a room like sunlight — refusing to disappear.”

Jack: (quietly) “That’s brave.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. That’s life. That’s what Dylan Alcott’s talking about. Changing perception isn’t about pity. It’s about equality — about seeing someone not for what’s missing, but for what’s still burning inside them.”

Host: A buzzer sounded faintly from the court. The players laughed — one of them shouting something about “round two.” Jack leaned against the wall, his shoulders loosening, his eyes following the laughter like it was something rare and precious.

Jack: “You know, I used to coach. Back before I got laid off. We had a kid with cerebral palsy. The league didn’t want to let him play. Said it was a liability. I fought for him — but when he finally made it onto the court, the other team just... stopped guarding him. Like he didn’t count.”

Jeeny: (softly) “What did you do?”

Jack: “I pulled the team off the court. Told them if he didn’t get to play for real, nobody did.”

Jeeny: “And what happened?”

Jack: “They let him play. He missed every shot. But when he made one... you’d think the whole world had scored.”

Jeeny: “That’s what it means to change perception, Jack. It’s not about fixing people. It’s about fixing how we see them.”

Host: The light from the window caught Jeeny’s face, turning her eyes gold for a moment — warm, fierce, alive. Jack looked at her, then back at the court, where the game had picked up pace again. The rhythm of wheels and laughter filled the space like music.

Jack: “You ever notice how people like Alcott talk about stigma like it’s a wall they’re still climbing? You’d think we’d be past that by now.”

Jeeny: “We’re not past it because we built the wall higher. Every time we use words like ‘inspiration’ without action, we add another brick.”

Jack: “So what — tear it down one conversation at a time?”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Jack: “That’s too slow.”

Jeeny: “No. That’s how revolutions really work — quietly, personally, persistently.”

Host: The gym grew louder — more motion, more laughter. A player hit a perfect shot from midcourt, his teammates cheering loud enough to fill the walls. For a moment, the sound was everything — pure, unfiltered joy.

Jack: “You think that’s what gets him out of bed every day? The mission? The fight?”

Jeeny: “No. I think it’s moments like that — proof that the fight works.”

Jack: (nodding slowly) “You ever wonder what it feels like — to live every day proving the world wrong?”

Jeeny: “It’s exhausting. But it’s also freedom.”

Host: A little girl rolled in through the side door — maybe eight years old, her hair tied up in a ponytail, her wheelchair decorated with bright stickers. She paused when she saw the game, her eyes wide, her smile blooming slow and genuine.

Jeeny: (whispering) “See that? That’s why people like Dylan do it. Because that little girl’s watching. Because she’ll believe she belongs before the world tells her she doesn’t.”

Jack: (softly) “You think one person can make that big a difference?”

Jeeny: “No. But they can make the first one.”

Host: The little girl wheeled closer, her hands gripping the rims of her chair, the motion uncertain but determined. One of the players noticed her, waved, and tossed her the ball. She caught it — barely — and laughed. The sound filled the gym like sunrise.

Jack: (watching) “You know, maybe purpose isn’t about changing the whole world. Maybe it’s about changing the few worlds close enough to touch.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s the work that lasts. Not the speeches — the small shifts. The moments when someone finally gets to live without apology.”

Host: The game slowed as the players gathered around the girl, showing her how to line up for a shot. She threw the ball; it hit the rim, rolled, and dropped through. The gym erupted. The look on her face — pure disbelief, then pride — burned brighter than the sun itself.

Jack: (quietly) “There it is.”

Jeeny: “What?”

Jack: “The reason to get out of bed.”

Jeeny: “Yes. To make sure someone else can stand — or roll — taller.”

Host: The clock above the court ticked, the game going on, unstoppable. The sound of applause, the sight of smiles, the rhythm of life moving forward despite everything.

Jack: (after a moment) “Maybe that’s the trick — not to aim for perfection, but progress. To wake up every day and try to shift the world an inch closer to decent.”

Jeeny: “And to never think your effort’s too small to matter.”

Host: The sunlight climbed higher through the window now, cutting across the floor like a golden river. Dust particles shimmered in the beam — tiny, weightless, but radiant in motion.

Host: Jeeny turned to Jack, her voice softer now, but filled with quiet conviction.

Jeeny: “People like Dylan Alcott don’t just move in the world, Jack — they move the world itself.”

Jack: (nodding) “And they remind the rest of us that purpose isn’t a luxury. It’s a responsibility.”

Host: The camera panned wide — the court, the laughter, the little girl holding the ball high above her head. And as the sunlight wrapped them all in its glow, it was clear:

Host: The fight wasn’t about pity.
It was about possibility.
It was about changing what the world thought it saw — one fearless, ordinary act at a time.

Host: And maybe that, more than anything, is what gets us all out of bed.