“The most valuable gift we can give 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 lists were already set. I made a few calls anyway, hoping someone might give a kid a late shot. A coach said, yes. She had one spot left, and she was willing to take a chance on a name she’d never heard from a father she’d never met.
That coach became one of my closest friends.
I started coming to practice to help out. Then I kept coming back. Five years later, I’m still his assistant coach, and somewhere, a basketball court became the place where I had one of the most meaningful friendships of my adult life. He is forty. I am fifty two years old. He tells people I’m like a big brother to him, and I don’t take that lightly.
We talk a few times a week. About basketball, yes, but also about our kids, our fears, what we’re proud of, what keeps us up at night, and bigger questions that don’t have easy answers. We laugh often. We are there for each other. And as we’ve both said more than once, what we have is rare. Not because we agree on everything, but because we see each other. the real thing Soul beneath the surface.
This kind of friendship is harder to find than people admit.
Which is why what happened recently has left me cold.
He was ready for a new job, a role that would be a game changer for him and his family. I knew the opportunity was on the horizon, but I didn’t know the time.
When my phone rang the other day, I picked it up like I always do. We fell into our usual conversation, simple and continuous. silly joke Update on the kids. Such talk requires no effort because the comfort is already there.
No pep talk. No last minute preparations. No mention of high-stakes. Just two people saying nothing in particular on a typical afternoon.
The next day, he reached out with an update. And then, almost as an afterthought, he mentioned that during our call the day before, he’d been sitting in a waiting room, minutes after walking into his interview.
I sat with it for a while.
“You didn’t tell me,” I said. “I had no idea you were sitting there in the middle of all this.”
The way she laughs. “I know. I didn’t want to talk about the job. I just wanted to talk to you. It kept me calm. Thanks, man.”
I’ve been thinking about that moment ever since.
I wasn’t doing anything remarkable. I didn’t coach him or give him knowledge about pressure and performance at this point. I was just being myself, which is the only way I know how to be when we speak. But for him, in that waiting room, our usual back-and-forth was exactly what he needed.
He just needs a reminder that there’s a world outside that office. A world he was already familiar with. Already liked. Enough already. And our conversation happened without either of us planning it.
I’ve spent many years measuring my worth by visible things. Someone used what I suggested. The moment I said the right thing at the right time and saw something effective happen. We can point to the impact, the big gesture, the obvious intervention, the moment we can point to and say, “I helped.”
But my friend reminded me that presence is its own kind of power. Not the dramatic kind. The just-answer-the-phone kind.
I learned something from watching him coach my son for five years.
The kids who grow the most under his watch aren’t always the most talented. They are the ones who feel seen. He has a gift for looking at a young person and communicating, without having to lecture about it, that he believes in what is already there.
My son has become a better basketball player over the years. But more importantly, he’s becoming the young man he’s always been. And a key part of that is because someone took a chance on his name on a list and then welcomed him.
That thread. coming back Pay attention. Being present and paying attention without an agenda.
We go through our days as the protagonists of our own stories. We are managing our own stressors, our own timelines, our own personal concerns. And in doing so, we sometimes forget that we are also essential characters in the stories of the people around us. Although we don’t always know what scene we’re in for someone else.
There are days when I feel like I don’t have much to offer. The way forward is not clear, and I wonder if I am contributing anything of real value.
And then I think of my friend sitting in the waiting room, not wanting to talk about the moment ahead of him, calling because the sound of a familiar voice is the one thing that can settle his nerves and remind him to come back to himself.
On days when we feel the smallest, we can be the thing holding someone else together. We can be the calm in a storm we didn’t know was brewing.
Our case does not have to be extraordinary. We just need to be present. to answer the phone. To return to practice the next day. A name on a list to say yes to when everyone else has already moved on.
My friend took a chance on my son five years ago and in doing so gave us both more than she will ever fully know. I hope that somewhere in our conversation, I gave him something back. Even in those days when it felt like there was nothing more than two people just hanging out and talking.
We never really know when an ordinary moment becomes the thing that someone needs most. But we can continue to respond, return and trust that our presence and attention are just enough.
about Daniel H. Shapiro
Dr. Daniel H. Shapiro is a keynote speaker, workshop presenter and consultant. He is passionate about human connection and the stories we carry with us. For more information about his book, The 5 Practices of the Caring Mentor, or his consulting and speaking services, see: www.yourinherentgoodness.com.
