Of course, on the road with me, I've got my coach, my own private

Host: The morning sun broke through the gym’s high windows, slicing across rows of machines, weights, and sweat-streaked mirrors. The sound of a tennis ball hitting the wall echoed rhythmically — sharp, relentless, like the heartbeat of ambition. The air smelled of rubber, chalk, and effort.

Jack stood near the baseline of an indoor practice court, his grey eyes fixed on the lines, his racket dangling at his side. A towel hung around his neck, and his shirt clung to him, soaked through with the kind of exhaustion that only comes from chasing perfection.

Across from him, Jeeny leaned against the fence, watching. She wasn’t sweating — not physically. But the weight in her eyes suggested she’d carried her own share of invisible battles.

A quote from Kevin Anderson had started the argument — casual, offhand, but suddenly, it had become something else entirely.

Jeeny: (tilting her head) “He said it like it’s normal — ‘I’ve got my coach, my physiotherapist, a mental coach, a fitness trainer, a racquet technician…’ a whole team just for him. Do you think success has to be that crowded now?”

Jack: (grinning wryly) “You say ‘crowded,’ I say ‘necessary.’ You don’t conquer the top alone anymore. Anderson’s right — it takes an army to build a champion.”

Jeeny: (crosses her arms) “Or maybe it takes an army to keep one afraid of falling.”

Host: The ball hit the wall again — thwack, thwack — an echo like questions unanswered. The air pulsed with determination, but also something quieter — a kind of loneliness disguised as discipline.

Jack: “Come on, Jeeny. You talk like having help is a weakness. Every great athlete — Federer, Serena, Messi — they’ve all got people behind them. It’s not dependence; it’s precision. Everyone has their role. One handles the body, one the mind, one the strategy.”

Jeeny: (steps closer, voice low but fierce) “And who handles the soul, Jack?”

Jack: (pauses, his grip on the racket tightening) “The soul?”

Jeeny: “Yeah. The part of you that actually wants to play. The part that started before the cameras, before the schedules, before the contracts. The part that played for joy, not for metrics.”

Jack: (half-laughs, half-sighs) “Joy doesn’t win championships.”

Jeeny: “And obsession doesn’t build peace.”

Host: The light shifted, cutting through a fine dust that shimmered in the air — tiny golden specks suspended between them. For a moment, even the sound of the ball machine seemed to pause.

Jack: “You think it’s wrong to take success seriously? You think Anderson or Nadal or any of them could’ve reached their peak without that machine around them? This isn’t a hobby, Jeeny. It’s war. And wars are won by strategy, not sentiment.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “But after every war, Jack… someone has to rebuild the human inside the soldier.”

Jack: (looks away) “You always turn things poetic.”

Jeeny: “Because that’s what’s missing in your kind of logic. You want the win — I get it. But when does the win start owning you? When does your team stop building you and start consuming you?”

Host: The sound of a ball dropping broke the silence — soft, anticlimactic. Jack’s gaze followed it as it rolled to a stop near his shoe. He didn’t move to pick it up.

Jack: (finally) “You think I don’t know what that feels like? Every day it’s another adjustment, another drill, another voice telling you what’s wrong, what’s weak, what’s missing. You start feeling like a project, not a person.”

Jeeny: (gently) “Then why keep doing it?”

Jack: “Because when you stop, you disappear. There’s always someone younger, faster, hungrier. You blink, and you’re forgotten. Out there, it’s not enough to love the game — you have to be perfect at it. And perfection’s expensive.”

Jeeny: “So you build a temple of people to worship it for you.”

Jack: (half-smiles, pained) “Yeah. Something like that.”

Host: A train whistle wailed in the distance, faint but clear — the kind of sound that made you think of departures, of time slipping by unseen.

Jeeny: “You know what I think? The bigger the team, the smaller the player’s voice becomes. Everyone pulling, shaping, correcting — until the artist’s impulse turns into a committee decision.”

Jack: “Or maybe that’s evolution. Individual genius is a myth. You build greatness through structure, through discipline, through science.”

Jeeny: “No, Jack. You build machines through science. You build greatness through meaning.”

Host: Her words hit like a serve, sharp and direct. Jack didn’t answer at first — he just stood still, the weight of her statement pressing against him like a held breath.

Jack: (finally) “You know, my old coach used to say something similar. He told me once, ‘The stronger your team, the louder the silence gets when you’re alone.’ I didn’t get it then.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: (shrugs) “Now… it echoes a bit too loud.”

Jeeny: (softly) “Because silence doesn’t care how many people you pay to fill it.”

Host: The light shifted again — this time warmer, gentler, as if the morning sun was trying to push through the high glass. Sweat glistened on Jack’s forehead, but there was a new stillness in him — a rare kind of quiet reflection.

Jack: “You think success ruins people, Jeeny?”

Jeeny: “No. I think forgetting why you wanted it ruins people.”

Jack: (nods slowly) “Maybe. Maybe that’s the truth Anderson didn’t say. Behind every coach, every therapist, every trainer… there’s still one person holding the racket, trying to remember why he picked it up in the first place.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The team can build the body, sharpen the mind — but only you can wake the heart.”

Host: A shaft of sunlight finally pierced through the window, falling across the court. It hit the white line, glowing like a thin thread of purpose, a reminder of direction. Jack lifted his racket, bouncing a ball once, then twice.

Jack: (quietly) “You know, it’s funny. The more help I get, the less I feel like I own my own game. But maybe… maybe that’s the price. Success demands company — but joy demands solitude.”

Jeeny: (smiles faintly) “Then find a way to live between them.”

Jack: “Between the roar and the silence?”

Jeeny: “Yes. Between the team and the self. Between the win and the reason you wanted to win.”

Host: The ball struck, clean and perfect, echoing through the empty gym. For a moment, the sound carried something different — not competition, not strain — but freedom.

Jack lowered his racket, exhaling. His face softened, and the faintest hint of peace crossed it.

Jack: (turning to Jeeny) “You know, maybe that’s what all of this is about. The big team, the endless training — it’s not to make me unstoppable. It’s to make sure I don’t stop.”

Jeeny: (smiling softly) “And maybe my job is to remind you when to pause.”

Host: The sunlight spread, filling the court with gold, warming the cold floor that had seen too many battles fought for trophies and too few fought for meaning.

The air shimmered with something lighter now — not victory, but balance.

Jack and Jeeny stood there for a long while, the world quiet around them, the court lines glowing, the dust dancing in beams of new light.

And for once, Jack didn’t feel the weight of his team, his expectations, or his hunger.
He just felt the rhythm of his own pulse, steady and human — enough to remind him that behind every perfect system, there still beats a single, imperfect, irreplaceable heart.