People may say I developed an iron will, but what really happened

Host: The dawn came slow and merciless, bleeding pale gold across the tennis court like truth across regret. The net sagged slightly under the weight of dew, the lines freshly chalked, white against the bruised-blue of the morning. Beyond the court, the world still slept — but here, the air already trembled with discipline, the scent of sweat, and something more sacred: persistence.

Jack stood on one side of the baseline, racket in hand, his breath rising in soft clouds. His muscles glistened with effort, his shirt damp, his movements sharp — the kind of sharpness that doesn’t come from aggression, but control. Across from him, Jeeny sat on the edge of the court, her notebook open on her knee, watching him with quiet fascination — or perhaps concern.

The faint hum of the stadium lights overhead broke the silence, mingling with the thwack of ball meeting string. Each stroke echoed — steady, relentless — like a heartbeat that refused to surrender.

Jeeny: (softly) “Ivan Lendl once said, *‘People may say I developed an iron will, but what