“The most valuable gift we can offer anyone is our attention.” ~ Thich Nhat Hanh
Five years ago, my son missed a basketball tryout.
We were out of town and by the time we got back, the rosters were already assembled. Anyway, I called a few, hoping someone would give the kid a belated gift. One of the coaches said yes. He had one spot left and was willing to risk a name he had never heard from a father he had never met.
This coach became one of my closest friends.
I started going to practices to help out. Then I kept coming back. Five years later, I’m still his assistant coach, and a basketball court somewhere became the place where one of the most significant friendships of my adult life ended up. He is forty years old. I am fifty-two years old. He tells people that I’m like a big brother to him and I don’t take that lightly.
We talk several times a week. About basketball, yes, but also about our children, our fears, what we’re proud of, what keeps us up at night, and the bigger questions that aren’t easy to answer. We laugh often. We are there for each other. And we’ve both said more than once that what we have is rare. Not because we agree on everything, but because we see each other. The real stuff. The soul is beneath the surface.
This kind of friendship is harder to find than people admit.
That’s why the recent events left me cold.
She was preparing for a new job, a role that would change her and her family. I knew the opportunity was on the horizon, but I didn’t know the timing.
When my phone rang the other day, I answered it like I always do. We fell into one of our usual conversations, easy and unhurried. Stupid jokes. Updates on the children. Speech that requires no effort because the comfort is already there.
No pep talk. No last minute preparation. It’s not a big deal. Just two guys talking about nothing on a normal afternoon.
The next day he looked for the update. Then, almost as an afterthought, he mentioned that during our call the day before, he was sitting in a waiting room a few minutes after walking into the interview.
I sat with this for a moment.
“You didn’t tell me,” I said. “I had no idea you were sitting in the middle of it all.”
He laughed as usual. “I know. I didn’t want to talk about work. I just wanted to talk to you. That calmed me down. Thanks, buddy.”
I’ve been thinking about this moment ever since.
I didn’t do anything remarkable. I didn’t teach him in the moment or give him wisdom about pressure and performance. I was just being myself, that’s the only thing I know how to be when we talk. But for him, our casual running back and forth in that waiting room was exactly what he needed.
He just needed a reminder that there was a world outside the office. A world where he was already known. I already liked it. Enough already. And without any of us planning it, this became our conversation.
I spent many years measuring my worth by the things I could see. Someone used the advice I gave. The moment I said the right thing at the right time and saw something useful happen. We tend to think of impact in these terms, the grand gesture, the obvious intervention, the moment we can point and say, “I helped.”
But my friend reminded me that presence is its own kind of power. Not the dramatic kind. The kind that only answers the phone.
There’s something I learned from watching my son coach for five years.
The children who grow the most under his supervision are not always the most talented. They are the ones who feel seen. He has a gift for looking at a young person and communicating without speaking that he believes in what he already has.
My son has become a better basketball player over the years. But more than that, he is growing into the young man he was always meant to be. And a key part of that is someone risking their name on a list and then continuously hailing it.
This is the thread. Returning. Attention. Being present and paying attention without an agenda.
We live our days as protagonists of our own stories. We manage our own pressures, our own timelines, our own personal concerns. And sometimes we forget that we are also indispensable actors in the history of the people around us. Although we don’t always know which scene we are in for someone else.
There are days when I feel like I don’t have much to offer. The way forward is unclear and I wonder if I am contributing anything of real value.
Then I remember my friend sitting in the waiting room, not wanting to talk about the moment ahead, calling me because a familiar voice was the only thing that could calm his nerves and remind him to come back to himself.
On days when we feel the smallest, we may be the ones holding someone together. We may be the calm in a storm we didn’t know was coming.
We don’t have to be extraordinary to matter. We just have to be present. Pick up the phone. Return to practice the next day. Say yes to a name on a list when everyone else has moved on.
My boyfriend took a chance on my son five years ago and in doing so gave us both more than he could ever know. I hope that somewhere in the course of our conversations I have offered him something back. Even on days when it felt like nothing more than two people just hanging out and talking.
We never really know when an ordinary moment will become what someone needs most. But we can choose to keep responding, come back, and trust that our presence and attention is just enough.
About Daniel H. Shapiro
Dr. Daniel H. Shapiro is the keynote speaker, workshop leader and mentor. He is passionate about human relationships and the stories we carry with us. To learn more about her book, The 5 Practices of a Caring Mentor, or her mentoring and speaking services, check out: www.yourinherentgoodness.com.
