You don't cheat anybody out of their experience, whatever it is.

Host:
The tennis court was empty now, save for the scattered yellow balls resting like forgotten suns on the green. The late afternoon light slanted low across the net, turning the white lines into streaks of molten gold. A faint echo of rallies — laughter, shouts, the thwack of rackets — still seemed to hum in the silence, like the ghost of movement refusing to fade.

Jack sat on the bench near the baseline, his jacket draped over the handle of a racket, watching the wind ripple through the nylon strings. Across from him, Jeeny leaned on the opposite post, her hair tied loosely, her eyes distant but sharp — the gaze of someone who understood that stillness, too, could be an act of motion.

Jeeny: “Andre Agassi once said — ‘You don’t cheat anybody out of their experience, whatever it is.’”
Jack: [smiling faintly] “That’s pure Agassi. A man who lived both the glory and the grind.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. Someone who learned that pain isn’t an interruption of life — it’s part of it.”
Jack: “So, what does it mean? Don’t protect people from their own lessons?”
Jeeny: “Yes. Or don’t interrupt the rhythm of their becoming. Even love shouldn’t save people from their truth.”
Jack: [leaning forward] “That’s hard though. Watching someone you care about walk into a mistake.”
Jeeny: “It is. But trying to save them would only rob them of the wisdom they’d find in the fall.”

Host:
The wind picked up, carrying the faint smell of cut grass and resin. Somewhere far off, a sprinkler hissed, the steady rhythm of water hitting dust. Jack looked down at the racket, his reflection bending slightly in its taut grid of strings.

Jack: “You know, it’s funny coming from Agassi — a man who spent half his life pretending to love a sport he hated.”
Jeeny: “That’s why it’s powerful. He lived the paradox — winning for the world, losing himself.”
Jack: “He cheated no one else, but maybe he cheated himself?”
Jeeny: “Maybe at first. But later, he learned to stop doing that too. He learned that honesty isn’t about comfort — it’s about alignment.”
Jack: “So even the worst experiences deserve to exist.”
Jeeny: “Yes. Because they’re the only ones that teach humility.”

Host:
A ball rolled across the court, carried by the breeze. Jeeny stepped forward, picked it up, turned it slowly in her hand — the felt rough, the weight familiar, like an old truth rediscovered.

Jack: “You ever try to protect someone from what they needed to learn?”
Jeeny: [softly] “Once. It backfired.”
Jack: “How?”
Jeeny: “They didn’t grow — they just waited for me to fix things again. I realized I’d turned love into dependency.”
Jack: “So love’s not rescue?”
Jeeny: “No. It’s witnessing.”
Jack: “That’s a hard way to love.”
Jeeny: “It’s the only honest way.”

Host:
The light softened, turning the court into a stage of gold and shadow. Jack leaned back, stretching his legs, watching the sky blur from blue to amber.

Jack: “You know, I think about how often we do this — interfere in other people’s journeys. Parents, partners, teachers — we want to steer.”
Jeeny: “Because we mistake guidance for control.”
Jack: “And care for correction.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. But growth doesn’t come from borrowed wisdom. It comes from impact — the raw, unfiltered kind.”
Jack: “Like a racket meeting the ball.”
Jeeny: [smiling] “Yes. The noise, the tension, the release — that’s life.”

Host:
A bird darted across the court, its shadow gliding over the net and vanishing beyond the far fence. The world seemed to pause in quiet acknowledgment of the metaphor.

Jeeny: “You know, Agassi’s life is proof that experience can’t be outsourced. You can’t read about suffering and understand it. You have to live it — in your own sweat, your own mistakes.”
Jack: “That’s what’s terrifying about being alive. No shortcuts.”
Jeeny: “And no guarantees.”
Jack: “You think we ever stop trying to cheat the process?”
Jeeny: “No. But we get better at catching ourselves.”
Jack: “So wisdom isn’t avoiding pain — it’s recognizing it as necessary.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. Pain’s not the enemy of joy. It’s the editor.”

Host:
The first insects began to hum in the grass beyond the fence. The sky deepened — a wash of violet and honey — the kind of beauty that only comes when day gives up gracefully to night.

Jack stood, walked to the net, resting his hands on it. He stared down at its fragile weave, the tension holding it together.

Jack: “You know, when I was younger, I thought helping meant fixing. I thought love meant shielding someone from pain. But it’s selfish, isn’t it?”
Jeeny: “It is. Because what you’re really protecting is yourself — from discomfort, from watching them suffer.”
Jack: “And from admitting that their pain is out of your control.”
Jeeny: “Yes. Real compassion doesn’t interfere. It accompanies.”
Jack: “So you walk beside them, not in front.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. You can hand them a light, but they still have to walk through the dark.”

Host:
The sun dipped lower, a final flash of orange before surrender. Jeeny walked to join Jack, standing beside him at the net. Their reflections met faintly in the glossy surface of the court.

Jeeny: “You see, that’s what Agassi’s quote means to me — to let people experience life as it is. Don’t edit it, don’t sanitize it.”
Jack: “Even when it’s ugly?”
Jeeny: “Especially then. Because ugliness teaches proportion. Without it, beauty’s meaningless.”
Jack: “You sound like a poet disguised as a coach.”
Jeeny: “Maybe they’re the same thing. Both teach you how to lose with grace.”
Jack: [nodding] “And how to see loss as part of the lesson.”
Jeeny: “Exactly. You don’t cheat anyone out of the fall, because it’s the fall that teaches balance.”

Host:
A silence settled — not heavy, but alive. The kind of silence that only exists between two people who understand the weight of what’s been said.

Jack looked out across the court, the fading lines, the open expanse that stretched beyond the fences — into everything.

Jack: “You know, I think that’s why experience matters more than advice. Advice is clean; experience is messy. But the mess is where the truth hides.”
Jeeny: “And we spend too much time cleaning what’s meant to teach us.”
Jack: “You think that’s why Agassi always came back stronger — because he stopped trying to play perfectly?”
Jeeny: “Yes. He learned that perfection cheats the game. Honesty doesn’t.”
Jack: “So imperfection’s the only fair play.”
Jeeny: “Exactly.”

Host:
The last of the sunlight vanished, leaving only the pale hum of the floodlights flickering on. The court glowed white now, empty yet luminous, like memory itself.

Jack gathered the loose balls, tossing them one by one into the wire basket. Jeeny picked up the last one, turned it in her hand, and smiled before dropping it in.

Jack: “You know, Jeeny… maybe that’s the truest kind of respect — letting people earn their bruises.”
Jeeny: “And trusting they’ll heal stronger because of them.”
Jack: “That’s not easy.”
Jeeny: “No. But neither is love.”
Jack: [quietly] “Or living.”
Jeeny: “And both are worth the struggle.”

Host:
They turned off the lights, the court falling back into darkness. The air smelled faintly of rain now, and the night hummed with a low, steady calm — the sound of the world continuing its practice.

They walked side by side toward the parking lot, their shadows merging, stretching long and familiar across the pavement.

And as the wind moved softly through the chain-link fence,
the truth of Andre Agassi’s words remained —

that every soul must earn its own wisdom,
every failure must speak its own language.

That love, if pure, does not protect,
but permits —
the joy, the pain, the repetition, the revelation.

And that to truly respect another’s journey
is to stand beside it,
not rewrite it —

because life, like tennis,
is not won by perfection,
but by the courage
to play every point.