I moved to a new neighborhood and a new school when I entered the second grade. “They have great schools,” my parents told me when explaining how I would benefit.
“Mine is good, too,” I would reply in the confident-but-actually-anxious way that most seven-year-olds would.
“Yes, honey. It is.” My mom would reply. And that was that.
I don’t recall many of the details of that season, but I am confident I felt all the things many of us do in moments of significant transitions where we don’t know what to expect, who we’ll meet, and if we’ll find our place.
Which is to say, I was nervous, worried, and trying to hide those things beneath my favorite red and orange striped t-shirt that my mom had purchased for me in Hilton Head the summer leading up to my new school.
Cool clothes are my in. Right?
(Not my shirt, but also not too far off the ‘blaring sunset’ look I thought would prove a friend-maker).
The first few days were rough, especially recess time.
I didn’t have Chris. Or Brian. Or Nicole. My first-grade pals were doing their thing a few miles across town, and I was alone at my great school.
Eventually, I learned to make my way forward by blending into the large huddle of second and third-grade boys who would always gather in the open blacktop at the center of the playground area during recess.
Each day, two boys from that group would emerge as team captains and then pick their respective teams for a tag football game.
(Nerf - the official football of elementary playgrounds across the US. Used until the foam is aboslutely-and-totally worthless).
And no matter who showed up, the one guarantee was this: everybody from the huddle eventually got picked.
Typically, I was chosen by a team captain somewhere near the very end and then I spent the recess minutes playing wide receiver for my team.
This was not because I was a gifted ball-catcher or particularly a fast runner, but because elementary school tag football does not usually have kids blocking at the line or playing running back.
The whole game is about the singular quarterback looking out at his fourteen or fifteen receivers and then throwing to one of those kids.
For two weeks, I received no passes.
Until…
Until the day Casey Kinane took over as my team’s quarterback. I don’t know what shift in the second and third-grade boys' social dynamic occurred, but somehow Casey was suddenly the new Chosen One who got to hold the ball every single offensive play.
And on one of the very first times he had a chance to throw the ball, guess what?
He noticed me!
And how could he not in one sense? I was perpetually wide open because no one bothered to cover me. Who is that kid, anyway?
More than noticed, Casey loaded up and sent the ball sailing directly toward me…
Here’s the thing:
Casey and I ended up being friends throughout elementary, middle, and high school. Not super close friends, but more like light roast and dark roast coffee - always hanging out in the same vicinity but appreciated by different crowds of people.
Casey was the kind of friend who you never see again after high school graduation, and maybe even the kind of friend whose name and face is slowly forgotten as the years pass and reunions go unattended.
In my case, however, even though I have not seen Casey since we graduated high school, I vividly remember both Casey’s name and face because when Casey through that ball he gifted me something that literally changed my relationship to my new school, my recess rhythm, and myself.1
Casey’s pass told me that I was one of the guys.
I was a Hilltop Elementary School kid.
I was a Wyoming Cowboy (the name of the Cincinnati suburb-and-mascot to which we had moved).
And all because I had been seen.
I had been trusted.
I had someone take the very thing that made them significant in that moment (the ball!) and offer that to me.
—
What are some of the significant moments in your life when someone let you know that you belonged?
Maybe it was the way they…
held your hand
shared their lunch
offered a crayon
provided a seat
invited your gifts front and center
listened with empathy
remembered your name
gave you the credit
laughed alongside you
welcomed you through the door of a place filled with strangers
ensured that the favorite food that you mentioned in the interviewing process showed up on your desk on your very first day of work
saw all the mess, failure, emptiness, and shame… and embraced you
passed you the ball.
Regardless of when, where, and how it is happened, the bottom line is this: we don’t easily forget the people who have helped us feel like we belong because belonging is a feeling that runs to the very core of what it means to be human, and it’s everything.
Also, it’s urgent.
We live in a time when millions of people on this world’s playground are donning their coolest clothes/titles/resumes and going out…
for a pass,
for someone to see them,
for someone to recognize their unique voice, gifts, and contributions….
…and it’s crickets.
Or maybe it’s that everybody is a quarterback, and for a wide variety of reasons we more naturally default to holding onto the ball these days - my thing, my way, in my own little world thank-you-very-much.
Or maybe it’s both. We’re receivers with nobody reaching out and quarterbacks failing to reach out.
No matter how you spin the metaphor, the fundamental truth that the US Surgeon General and his Advisory have made clear is this: we are living amidst an epidemic of loneliness and isolation, and the hunger to belong meaningfully, genuinely, and fully is acute.
Perhaps it’s time to air it out, as they say in football?
—
Casey Kinane passed the ball, and it is not an understatement to say that from that moment a new future filled with possibility, excitement, and fun began to emerge.
And if that kind of hope-filled vision is an inviting idea for your life, here’s the thing:
You can’t control whether or not someone else…
Throws you the ball.
Entrusts you to be a partner in the action.
Gives you a chance to be part of the main thing.
But what can you do? Take whatever gift, talent, or offering you have - and toss it someone’s way.
Baked goods, creative projects, carpooling, art, music, writing, people-gathering for an event, listening, and football tosses all count, among the (many) options out there.
What would it look like for you to toss the ball to someone today?
—
Oh yeah… I should mention: I caught Casey’s ball :) Kids even started to cover me when I went out for future catches.
And years later, Casey and I were on a high school recreation basketball team together.
Can you guess who on my team I especially loved…
passing to?
providing an assist to?
setting up for success?
The feeling of belonging runs decades deep.
Which means that one day many weeks or months or even years later that person to whom you gifted the feeling of belonging will…
Pass the ball back to you.
Provide you an assist.
Set you up for success.
That’s the rhythm of belonging.
The beauty of belonging.
The gift of belonging.
If you have an email for Casey, forward this along please! He’s not on social media and (almost) imperceptible on the internet, which feels fairly avant-garde and even refreshing to discover these days.
I was dying to learn whether or not you caught the pass! You held me captive to the very end. Great story.
It’s interesting to me that I know exactly who my Casey is. If you’d asked me before this blog I would not have had a clue, Blessings!