By Michael Degnan

“Sorry for being late,” my dad says, meeting me in line at the back of the ballroom. “What did I miss?” He runs his hand through his long, wavy gray hair and smiles an easy smile, one somehow unburdened by guilt. I’m about to ask what the hold-up was, but he’s the type of guy who lies about why he’s going to the drugstore, so I just move on. 

“Turns out Tim Gagliardi is as good at motivational speeches as he was at basketball,” I say, and judging from the applause he had received from the packed room—especially the handful of dudes wearing Gagliardi’s old Heat jersey—I wasn’t alone in thinking that. I wasn’t sure what a keynote at the Miami Realtors Convention would be like, but there wasn’t any talk about real estate. Gagliardi focused on resilience and adaptability, putting each in the context of his career: playing for eight teams in fourteen years, having to move with his wife and kid from city to city, experiencing different expectations with each team, from being the leading scorer to a role player and mentor.

There aren’t many people in the room now—most have spilled out into the spacious, beige hallways for coffee and blueberry muffins. Several men and women in pressed shirts are sitting at circular banquet tables, scrolling on their phones. And then there’s our line, made up entirely of men, presumably the biggest NBA fans of the crowd, waiting for the chance for a handshake and a selfie.

“I’ve been thinking about resilience and adaptability a lot recently,” I say, “so it was like he was talking directly to me.” My therapist told me just last week that these were two virtues that I should cultivate to better deal with the stress in my life, especially the disruption caused by my parents’ divorce a couple of years ago.

My dad doesn’t pick up on the subtext, or he decides not to linger on it if he does, and instead he asks me what I’m going to say to Tim Gagliardi when it’s my turn, which will only be a moment from now.

“Remember what you told me when I was a kid and didn’t want to go camping?”

He nods, and we say it in unison: “Tim Gagliardi loves camping and so will you.” We both laugh.

“I’m going to tell him that and thank him. It’s because of him that I love nature and why I’m now working here, trying to restore the Everglades.”

My dad is still nodding, then stops and raises his chin. “Actually, you love nature because of me.” He points at his chest. “I took you camping. Your mother didn’t want any part of it, but I also figured out how to get you to go along with it. That line about Tim Gagliardi? I made it up.”

With his chin out, he looks like he’s posing for a portrait, a wannabe Napoleon. Maybe he’s proud of himself and taking credit, but it could be that he’s trying to prevent me from making a fool of myself in front of my childhood idol. Like so many things with this man, it’s hard to tell.

Then, it’s my turn.

I step up and crane my neck. You don’t know how big 6’10” is until it is right next to you. Tim Gagliardi smiles and shakes my hand.

I say hi, and somehow I start to talk. I thank him for his remarks and tell him that his points about resilience and adaptability were exactly what I needed to hear. Then I thank him for his time with the Bullets, my home team, and try to explain how much fun it was to root for him. I always wore 8 for my soccer and basketball teams because of him.

He’s gracious, as I had expected, and takes my phone to do a selfie with me and my dad. He has already turned to the next guy in line—a man with brown hair starting to gray, holding a basketball card and a Sharpie—when I step back and say, “Sorry, one more thing: do you like camping?”

He laughs. “I’ve never gotten that one before, but yeah, I do. My dad used to take me camping, and I’ve done the same with my son.” He pauses and purses his lips, then goes on. “There was a lot that was hard about being a father while in the NBA, and I’m not sure that I did a good job. But when we camped for two weeks in the offseason—well, that was one of the few times when I felt like I was a good dad.” 

I smile. “I’m sure your son would say you were a good father.” 

My dad nods, again putting his chin out.

Later, in my studio apartment, I pull up the selfie. We have the type of smiles you see at the end of a 10k or on a summit. Maybe we accomplished something too, or maybe I did at least. Saying what I did about Tim Gagliardi’s son was as close as I had come in years to thanking my dad for anything. I text him the photo—just the pic, no message—grab a beer from my mini fridge, and turn on the Heat game.