You are not going to be young forever, but my motto is, 'You

Host: The gym was nearly empty, except for the echo of a basketball bouncing across the hardwood floor. A single lamp hung from the ceiling, its light flickering like an old memory refusing to die. Outside, the city was quiet, fog curling through the streets like ghosts of forgotten games.

Jack sat on the bench, his elbows resting on his knees, the sweat on his forehead catching the dim light. His eyes — sharp, grey, unreadable — followed the ball rolling back toward the center line.

Jeeny entered from the side door, her hands tucked into the pockets of her worn coat. The sound of her footsteps echoed softly, like the ticking of a clock reminding him that time never stops.

Host: She watched him for a moment, her expression caught between admiration and sadness.

Jeeny: “You still come here, even when no one’s watching.”

Jack: (half-smirking) “The court doesn’t need an audience, Jeeny. It just needs someone who remembers how it used to feel.”

Jeeny: “You mean how you used to feel.”

Host: A pause hung in the air, heavy as the dust in the light. Jack leaned back, his muscles tense beneath the thin shirt.

Jack: “You are not going to be young forever. But my motto is — you can’t change what I was.”

Host: The quote lingered, almost like a prayer or a defense. The lamp flickered again, and Jeeny’s face softened in its light.

Jeeny: “You talk like you’re already gone, Jack. Like the man who used to play here died with the applause.”

Jack: “Maybe he did. Maybe that’s the point. You can’t rewrite your prime. You can only live with the echoes.”

Jeeny: “But that’s not living. That’s haunting yourself.”

Host: The ball rolled back again, slow and patient. Jack stopped it with his foot, the rubber squeaking against the floor.

Jack: “You don’t get it. People love to talk about change, about moving on. But some parts of you are built into the bones. You can’t just evolve past your truth.”

Jeeny: “And what truth is that?”

Jack: “That once, I was great. I was someone. You can’t erase that — and you shouldn’t try to. Look at Ben Wallace — undrafted, underestimated, but he became a legend because of how he played, not how long he played. He said it himself: You can’t change what I was. That’s all a man can hope for — to have been something real, once.”

Jeeny: “But greatness isn’t meant to be embalmed, Jack. It’s meant to be lived through. You think Wallace meant it as a wall — but maybe he meant it as a root. You can’t change what you were, but you can grow from it.”

Host: Jack’s jaw tightened, his eyes flicking up to meet hers. There was a tremor — not of anger, but of fear.

Jack: “You ever think maybe I don’t want to grow? Maybe I just want to hold on to what made sense. Back then, everything was simple — score, win, repeat. Now it’s bills, meetings, broken promises. Where’s the scoreboard for that?”

Jeeny: “Maybe the scoreboard’s in the people you love, Jack. Or the ones you hurt.”

Host: Her voice wavered, not from weakness, but from memory.

Jack: “Don’t turn this into a sermon, Jeeny.”

Jeeny: “I’m not preaching. I’m reminding you that you’re still alive. That the game didn’t end — it just changed arenas.”

Host: The silence that followed felt like the moment before a final buzzer — all tension, all heartbeat.

Jack: “You think it’s that easy? You think you can just pivot from what you were to what you are now? Like it’s another play in the book?”

Jeeny: “No. But you can try. And maybe that’s what youth really is — not the years, but the courage to start again.”

Host: The words hit him like a shot clock winding down. He looked at her, the way a man looks at an opponent who knows his next move before he does.

Jack: “You talk like it’s all choice. But time doesn’t ask. It just takes. Look at all the old fighters, the broken stars. They didn’t stop because they wanted to — they stopped because their bodies betrayed them. You can’t will yourself back to what you were.”

Jeeny: “No, but you can will yourself to be something else. Nelson Mandela spent 27 years in prison — 27 years, Jack — and when he came out, he didn’t mourn the years he lost. He became the man the years prepared him to be. You think he couldn’t say the same? You can’t change what I was — but he didn’t let that stop him from becoming more.”

Host: Jack’s fingers curled around the ball, gripping it tightly. His breathing deepened, the sound echoing through the empty gym.

Jack: “So you think pain is supposed to teach us something?”

Jeeny: “It always does. Whether you listen is up to you.”

Host: The lamp buzzed, a low hum cutting through the silence. Jack stood, spinning the ball slowly in his hands.

Jack: “You know, I used to believe in redemption. But redemption feels like another word for denial. Like telling yourself you can undo what’s done.”

Jeeny: “Redemption isn’t denial. It’s acceptance. It’s looking your past in the face and saying, ‘Yes, that was me. But I’m not done yet.’”

Host: Jack stopped spinning the ball. It rested in his palms, still and heavy.

Jack: “You really believe people can change?”

Jeeny: “I believe they must. Or the world stops moving.”

Host: The rain began to fall outside — soft, rhythmic, steady. It painted the windows in silver streaks, each drop catching the light like a tiny truth falling from the sky.

Jack: “Then why does it feel like I’m running in circles? Like every step forward pulls me back to the same place?”

Jeeny: “Because you’re measuring yourself by what you were, not who you’re becoming.”

Host: Her words lingered, finding a home somewhere deep in him.

Jack: (quietly) “You know what’s funny? I can still hear the crowd sometimes. Late at night. It’s like they’re waiting for me to make one more play.”

Jeeny: “Maybe they’re not waiting, Jack. Maybe they’re cheering — for the man who’s still standing, even after the final whistle.”

Host: Jack looked down at the ball, his reflection faintly mirrored in its gloss. He bounced it once, twice, then let it roll away into the dark.

Jack: “You make it sound poetic.”

Jeeny: “It is. So is aging, if you let it be.”

Host: He gave a low laugh, the kind that sounds like both surrender and understanding.

Jack: “Maybe you’re right. Maybe the past isn’t a prison — it’s a monument. You can visit it, but you don’t have to live there.”

Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host: The rain eased, replaced by the faint glow of the city lights bleeding through the fog. Jeeny moved closer, her voice soft now.

Jeeny: “You can’t change what you were, Jack. But you can decide what you’ll be when the echoes fade.”

Host: He nodded, his shoulders loosening as if the weight of years had finally found a place to rest.

Jack: “Then maybe it’s time to stop listening to the echoes.”

Host: The lamp flickered once more, then went out, leaving them in the half-light of memory and possibility.

In the dark, their silhouettes stood still — two figures caught between what was and what could be — while the sound of rain outside became the rhythm of something new beginning.