I was talking to a friend recently about how, for women, hanging out with friends is often a game of 1. eating, and 2. “catching up.” You meet at a coffee shop. You host each other for dinner. You grab a drink. You talk about your individual lives.
Conversely, the stereotypical male friendship, as I understand it, usually looks like two men engaging in a shared activity and not talking about themselves – maybe not talking at all. This dynamic gets a lot of flack from the non-straight/non-men, but the relationship where two guys pass a ball around next to each other and let the love remain unspoken is one I’ve always been jealous of. For most of my life I didn’t realize that my friendships, too, were allowed to take on this long-coveted shape from time to time.
Don’t get me wrong, I cherish the opportunities I get to verbalize my whims and woes over a little pastry. But a relationship can begin to look something like a dead-end when the only interaction you two have is talking about everything that’s happened to you since you last talked about everything that’s happened to you. It becomes isolating - a reminder of how little time you really spend together.
You know where I’ve never felt lonely? Laughing over a skill-less game of pickleball, or huffing through a brutal workout next to someone who’s also just begging for it to end. Sport in particular has served as my key to an entirely new dimension of friendships. Skiing and tennis have helped me turn coworkers into friends. Running has helped me make the jump from group-hang-acquaintances to one-on-one friends. Roller skating has given me completely new hours with old friends. None of these things I am good at! But all of them I’ve enjoyed for their ability to bring me closer to people.
The demands of sport keep you in the moment – keep you actively experiencing – in a way you just can’t at a coffee table. We need to update and gush and ponder and gossip and vent, and process our lives through each other’s eyes, but we also need to make new memories – embarrass ourselves by getting too sweaty, falling down, becoming overly competitive, dancing little victory dances.
When I think of shared activities, my mind naturally drifts to sports because they seem to contain an inherent bonding quality. But adjacent to the idea of the Shared Activity is the concept of the Third Thing.
Years ago, I listened to John Green describe the magic of Third Things in his essay reviewing the Bonneville Salt Flats. He was referencing, of course, Donald Hall’s The Third Thing, which I finally read today. Donald Hall defines The Third Thing as “objects or practices or habits or arts or institutions or games or human beings that provide a site of joint rapture or contentment.” Personally, I’ve come to understand Third Things as a sort of sixth love language - my favorite of the bunch.
In their essays, both John and Donald reflected on their marriages, but Third Things of course apply to any relationship. I feel most deeply understood by my sister, for example, when we’re in the car together, showing each other songs. Before pressing play, she will explain what she loves so much about the song, what she so eagerly wants me to understand about the song, and I will listen intently, as if I was her, and I will get it.
When life gets intense, we need a third point to fix our eyes to, so that the scary words can pass between us without thought to what our faces look like when they’re said. Quiet focus in place of awkward silence. Conversation eased by the promise of safe return to the activity at hand.
With Sydney it’s music, and theater, and books, and our childhood dog, and endless other things we admire together. With other friends, it’s drawing, or crocheting, or pickleball, or painting, or acting, or running. Working hands or moving feet. A mind partially occupied, letting inhibitions drop just enough to find ease in company. That is where friendship sparks and grows and shines. Whether in silence or in free and reckless conversation, we need to play together.
In my life, it is the most important thing I do.