The ideal attitude is to be physically loose and mentally tight.

Host: The sky was the color of early steel, a morning just before sunrise, when the world holds its breath. Fog drifted low across the tennis court, blurring the lines between shadow and clarity. The faint thwack of a ball echoed in rhythm — sharp, measured, almost meditative.

Jack stood at the baseline, sweat already forming along his brow, his movements precise but tense. His muscles were coils of discipline, his mind a storm of calculation.

Jeeny sat on the bleachers, a cup of coffee warming her hands, watching him move like a man fighting an invisible opponent.

The sun began to rise, casting streaks of gold and blue across the mist, and with it came that feeling of something about to begin.

Jeeny: softly, almost to herself “Arthur Ashe once said, ‘The ideal attitude is to be physically loose and mentally tight.’”

Host: Jack’s racket paused midair. The ball rolled toward the net, stopping at his feet.

Jack: half-smirking, catching his breath “That’s rich, coming from a tennis legend. Easy to say when you’ve already mastered the balance.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly why it’s true. He wasn’t talking about tennis, Jack. He was talking about life.”

Jack: grabbing the ball, bouncing it twice against the clay “Life doesn’t have a referee, Jeeny. You can’t call a timeout when you’re losing.”

Jeeny: “No. But you can control how you play.”

Host: The fog began to lift slightly, revealing the lines of the court like faint scars beneath new light. Jack served again, the ball slicing through the air — clean, powerful — but his body remained rigid, his jaw tight.

Jeeny: “You’re overthinking.”

Jack: gritting his teeth “That’s what winners do.”

Jeeny: “No. That’s what tired people do.”

Host: He froze, racket still raised, her words hitting harder than the serve.

Jeeny: “Ashe knew what he was talking about. He lived with pressure most of his life — not just from the game, but from the world. A Black man on the world stage of tennis in the ’60s. The tighter the world got around him, the looser he became. That’s not weakness, Jack. That’s grace.”

Jack: breathing heavily “Grace doesn’t win championships.”

Jeeny: “No, but it wins peace.”

Host: He threw the racket toward the bench, the sound of it clattering breaking the calm. The fog seemed to thicken again, swallowing the court in grey silence.

Jack: “You think I don’t want peace? You think I like being wound up like this?”

Jeeny: standing, walking toward him “Then why do you hold on so tight?”

Jack: “Because if I don’t, I fall apart.”

Host: The wind stirred, carrying with it the faint scent of wet clay and early rain. Jeeny stopped just short of him, her eyes calm, unflinching.

Jeeny: “Maybe that’s the problem. You confuse control with strength.”

Jack: bitterly “And what would you know about strength?”

Jeeny: “Enough to know it’s not always in the grip — sometimes it’s in the release.”

Host: A moment of stillness. Jack looked at her, then at his hands — veins pulsing, fingers trembling from tension.

Jeeny: gently “Arthur Ashe faced heart surgery, racism, and the world’s judgment — and still played with elegance. You think he stayed calm because he didn’t care? No. He cared so deeply that he had to learn how not to break himself in half caring.”

Jack: “You think being loose in the body helps with that?”

Jeeny: “It helps you feel the rhythm instead of fighting it. You can’t fight life and win, Jack. You have to play it.”

Host: A bird called in the distance, its sound faint but clear. The sunlight pierced the fog, painting the net in thin gold threads.

Jack: sighing “I don’t know how to let go.”

Jeeny: smiling faintly “Start by breathing.”

Host: He did — a long, reluctant exhale that seemed to carry years of frustration with it. His shoulders lowered slightly, and for a moment, he looked less like a soldier and more like a man learning to live again.

Jack: “You make it sound simple.”

Jeeny: “Simple doesn’t mean easy.”

Host: She stepped onto the court beside him, her boots leaving faint prints in the clay.

Jeeny: “You know, Ashe said something else once — ‘Start where you are. Use what you have. Do what you can.’ That’s what this means, Jack. Be present. Be focused. But don’t strangle the moment trying to own it.”

Jack: picking up his racket again “You sound like a coach.”

Jeeny: “Only for lost causes.”

Jack: grins faintly “Then I’m in good company.”

Host: The light grew stronger now, scattering the fog completely. The court was visible again, every line, every crack — clear, unforgiving, but beautiful.

Jeeny moved to the other side of the net, picking up a spare racket.

Jeeny: “Come on. Play with me.”

Jack: “You don’t even like tennis.”

Jeeny: “I don’t have to like it. I just have to be present.”

Host: He laughed — a real laugh, the kind that startled even him. He tossed her the ball, and she caught it clumsily, laughing too.

Jeeny: “See? You’re already loosening up.”

Jack: mocking “Don’t start quoting motivational posters now.”

Jeeny: “Wouldn’t dare. Just remember — loose body, tight mind.”

Host: She served — a clumsy, uneven serve that barely cleared the net. Jack caught it midair, grinning.

Jack: “Terrible form.”

Jeeny: “Perfect attitude.”

Host: The sound of their laughter filled the court, mixing with the hum of the waking city. For the first time in weeks, Jack’s movements looked effortless, his body following instinct rather than instruction.

The racket sang as it struck the ball — clean, fluid, unburdened.

Jack: between swings “You know, maybe Ashe was right. The best athletes aren’t the ones who fight hardest — they’re the ones who trust the rhythm.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. You can’t force excellence. You have to invite it.”

Host: The rally continued — back and forth, each hit a conversation, each return an unspoken truth. Sweat glistened, but tension faded. They moved like two halves of one breath — controlled mind, free body.

Finally, the ball rolled out of bounds. Jeeny dropped her racket, panting and smiling.

Jeeny: “You’re smiling. That’s new.”

Jack: still catching his breath “Feels strange. Like remembering a language I forgot.”

Jeeny: “It’s the language of ease.”

Host: The sun climbed higher, gilding their skin, softening everything it touched. The court shimmered now — alive, like a stage where something had shifted.

Jack: quietly “Physically loose. Mentally tight.”

Jeeny: “The perfect paradox.”

Jack: “The perfect truth.”

Host: The wind carried their laughter across the morning — light, effortless, human. Jack dropped to the bench, wiping his brow, while Jeeny leaned against the net, looking at him with a small, knowing smile.

Jeeny: “You see? You don’t have to control the world, Jack. Just master your balance within it.”

Jack: nodding slowly “Maybe being strong isn’t about holding on tighter. Maybe it’s about knowing when to breathe.”

Jeeny: “Now you sound like Ashe.”

Host: They sat there in silence as the morning bloomed — two figures bathed in new light, their worries dissolved into motion, their minds steady, their bodies unburdened.

And as the sun rose fully, Jack whispered — not to Jeeny, but to himself:

Jack: “Loose in the body. Tight in the mind. Alive in between.”

Host: The wind rustled the net, the sun warmed their faces, and somewhere in that quiet, golden hour, Jack finally understood — control wasn’t about gripping harder. It was about moving freely while never letting the focus slip.

And as they walked off the court, side by side, the world — for once — felt perfectly balanced.