There are 50 people fitter than me between the top 70 to 150 in

Host: The night was humid — a heavy, electric kind of air that clung to the skin and carried the scent of clay dust and defeat. Beyond the tall floodlights, the empty tennis court glowed faintly, ghostlike — its white lines sharp against the deep red earth, its silence thick with echoes of old applause.

In the stands, Jack sat on the edge of the lowest row, elbows on his knees, a water bottle rolling idly at his feet. Across the court, Jeeny leaned against the chain-link fence, her dark hair pulled back, the faintest smile playing on her lips as she watched him.

For a long moment, neither spoke. The night hummed with the ghost of competition — that peculiar mix of glory and exhaustion that only comes when the crowd has left and you’re left alone with your own sweat.

Jeeny: “Bernard Tomic once said — ‘There are 50 people fitter than me between the top 70 to 150 in the world. There are some players not as fit as me inside the top 10 in the world. Will fitness help them? I don’t think so.’”

Jack: (chuckling) “Classic Tomic. Always knew how to turn arrogance into philosophy.”

Jeeny: “Or honesty. Maybe both.”

Jack: “You think that’s honesty? Sounds like an excuse dressed in logic. The man basically said hard work doesn’t matter if you’re talented enough.”

Jeeny: “Or that talent can’t always be measured by sweat. Maybe he meant that greatness isn’t just a physical thing — it’s mental, emotional, even spiritual.”

Host: The lights flickered, then steadied, their glow casting long shadows across the clay. The night carried the faint scent of rain coming in from the horizon, and the echo of a ball hitting the ground somewhere distant — rhythmic, solitary.

Jack: “You can spin it however you want, but that’s dangerous thinking. The minute you stop believing in discipline, you start believing in excuses. Fitness isn’t everything — but it’s something. It’s the one thing you can control.”

Jeeny: “Control doesn’t always create greatness. Look at Federer — graceful, effortless. He played like he was born to defy gravity, not condition it.”

Jack: “And you think that just happened? You think he didn’t train until his lungs burned? People romanticize genius because it’s prettier than watching someone suffer for it.”

Jeeny: “And yet genius still exists — the kind that can’t be taught or trained. The spark that burns differently. Tomic’s point wasn’t that effort doesn’t matter. It’s that effort alone doesn’t make you extraordinary.”

Host: The wind picked up, carrying dust across the court. Jack stood, walking toward the net, his sneakers crunching softly over the gravel.

Jack: “You always defend the poets of laziness.”

Jeeny: (laughing) “And you always worship the martyrs of effort.”

Jack: “Because the martyrs are the ones who build things that last.”

Jeeny: “And the poets are the ones who remind us why we bother building them in the first place.”

Host: She walked toward him now, slow, deliberate, the sound of her footsteps merging with the soft buzz of the lights. They met at the net — two halves of a single, endless debate that neither wanted to win.

Jack: “You know what I think? Talent is the most overrated word in the dictionary. People use it to avoid admitting someone just wanted it more.”

Jeeny: “And I think obsession is the most misunderstood one. People hide behind effort because it feels noble. But sometimes, all that grinding — it’s just noise without direction.”

Jack: “So you’d rather rely on instinct?”

Jeeny: “I’d rather rely on awareness. You can train your body all you want, but if you don’t know who you are, you’ll never play from the soul.”

Host: The moonlight broke through the clouds, falling across the court, illuminating the net between them — a delicate barrier, both literal and metaphorical.

Jack: “You think soul wins championships?”

Jeeny: “Sometimes. Look at Muhammad Ali — he fought as much with conviction as with fists. Or Diego Maradona — pure chaos, pure genius. You can’t quantify what made them great.”

Jack: “And yet, without discipline, they’d have burned out before they began.”

Jeeny: “But without vision, they’d have never mattered.”

Host: Her words hung there — heavy, luminous, true. The sound of the distant rally stopped; the night deepened.

Jack leaned on the net, his voice quieter now.

Jack: “So, what — fitness is irrelevant?”

Jeeny: “No. Fitness is foundation. But the house isn’t built from muscle — it’s built from meaning. Tomic was just saying that being the fittest doesn’t make you the fiercest.”

Jack: “Tell that to Nadal’s knees.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Even he said once — if you lose passion, no amount of strength can save you.”

Host: The rain began — light at first, whispering against the clay. Jeeny lifted her face to it, smiling as if it were something familiar, a long-forgotten rhythm returning.

Jeeny: “You see, Jack — we keep trying to measure success like a science. As if effort and outcome are equations. But life isn’t math. It’s music. You can practice your scales forever and still never write a song that makes someone feel.”

Jack: (softly) “So talent is the melody.”

Jeeny: “And effort is the rhythm. You need both — but without the melody, it’s just noise.”

Host: A flash of lightning broke across the horizon, bright and brief. Jack closed his eyes for a moment, the rain now streaking down his face, turning sweat into surrender.

Jack: “You think Tomic believed that? Or was he just justifying mediocrity?”

Jeeny: “Maybe both. Maybe he was wrestling with the same thing you are — the fear that even our best efforts don’t always equal greatness. And maybe that’s what made him honest.”

Jack: (quietly) “So effort without purpose, purpose without soul — both empty.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. The real game is finding the balance — where discipline meets desire.”

Host: They stood there, the rain falling harder now, turning the clay into a living texture beneath their feet — red, slick, honest. The lights shimmered, their reflections breaking in puddles, like the blurred mirror of ambition.

Jeeny: (softly) “You know, maybe that’s what separates champions from the rest — not fitness, not talent, but alignment. When body, mind, and heart stop fighting each other and finally move as one.”

Jack: “And how often does that happen?”

Jeeny: “Rarely. That’s why greatness feels like a miracle.”

Host: She turned, walking slowly toward the bench by the sideline. Jack followed, silent. When they sat, the rain softened again — a rhythm now, not a storm.

Jack: “You ever think that maybe we overcomplicate it all? Maybe the truth is simple — some people win, some don’t. And trying to explain why is just ego.”

Jeeny: “Maybe. But I think the truth is that winning and losing aren’t opposites. They’re different verses of the same song. You learn from both — if you’re listening.”

Host: She smiled, faintly, her gaze fixed on the rain-slick court — a battlefield turned mirror. Jack followed her eyes, watching the light ripple across the puddles, each one holding a fragment of their reflection.

And in that shimmering silence, Bernard Tomic’s words seemed to find new weight — not arrogance, not deflection, but a quiet confession:

That fitness alone cannot forge greatness.
That talent alone cannot sustain it.

That every player — every human — stands somewhere between exhaustion and instinct,
between what can be trained and what can only be felt.

And in the end, the greatest victories are not those of the body —
but of the soul finally learning its own rhythm,
where discipline meets desire,
and the game becomes truth.