“The greatest gift we can give anyone is our presence.” ~Thich Nhat Hanh
Five years back, my son didn’t manage to make a basketball tryout.
We had been away from town, and by the time we returned, the teams were already finalized. Regardless, I made a few calls, hoping someone might allow a kid a last-minute chance. One coach responded positively. He had an open position and was ready to take a gamble on a name he didn’t recognize coming from a father he had never met.
That coach evolved into one of my closest friends.
I began attending practices to assist. Then I continued to return. Five years later, I’m still serving as his assistant coach, and at some point, the basketball court turned into the backdrop for one of the most significant friendships of my adult life. He’s forty. I’m fifty-two. He tells others I’m like a big brother to him, and I value that deeply.
We chat several times a week. About basketball, certainly, but also about our children, our anxieties, our sources of pride, what keeps us awake at night, and the larger questions that lack straightforward answers. We laugh frequently. We’re present for each other. And we’ve both remarked, more than once, that what we share is uncommon. Not because we agree on everything, but because we truly understand one another. The authentic aspects. The essence beneath the exterior.
Such a friendship is harder to come by than many people acknowledge.
Which is why what transpired recently left me speechless.
He had been in consideration for a new position, a role that would transform things for him and his family. I was aware of the opportunity looming, but I was unaware of the timing.
When my phone rang the other day, I answered as I typically do. We slipped into one of our familiar exchanges, relaxed and unhurried. Jokes that are silly. Updates about the kids. The type of conversation that flows effortlessly because the familiarity is already established.
No motivational speeches. No last-minute preparations. No discussion of anything critical. Just two guys chatting about nothing in particular on an ordinary afternoon.
The following day, he contacted me with an update. And then, almost in passing, he indicated that during our chat the previous day, he had been in a waiting area, just moments away from entering his interview.
I paused to reflect on that.
“You didn’t share that with me,” I remarked. “I had no clue you were there amid all of that.”
He chuckled as he always does. “I know. I didn’t wish to discuss the job. I just wanted to speak with you. It helped me stay relaxed. Thanks, man.”
I’ve been pondering that moment ever since.
I wasn’t doing anything extraordinary. I wasn’t guiding him through the situation or imparting wisdom about stress and performance. I was just