Can 5 Seconds Make a Difference?

Numbers on the Board - 4 Men Making an Impact with Authenticity

In sports, we know that five seconds can change everything—it can be the difference between the greatest victory and a devastating defeat.

In life, five seconds can be the difference between staying in our comfort zone and choosing to take a risk—and maybe, just maybe, letting life surprise us with something unexpectedly magical.

During NBA All-Star Weekend last year, I stepped outside my comfort zone and took my son to see a live taping of the Numbers on the Board podcast in San Francisco.

If you’re not familiar, NOB is a basketball podcast hosted by Kenny Beecham, Mike Heard, Darrick Miller, and Pierre Andresen—four Gen Zers who defy the tired stereotype that their generation lacks drive or work ethic. Their passion is matched by their hustle—the kind of relentless effort, creative output, and presence that’s genuinely inspiring. I don’t know if they sleep.

I’m a 49-year-old single mom and psychotherapist. I love bird watching and nature photography. I have a master’s degree in environmental science and a B.A. in art history. On paper, I’m not exactly a basketball podcast’s target audience, and it might seem unlikely that four young men hosting one would change my life.

But they did. And this is that story.

I grew up in Santa Barbara, California—the youngest of four. While my mom took my two older sisters on weekend outings, my brother and I stayed home with my dad, playing sports or watching whatever game happened to be on television. He was a physician, and it wasn’t unusual for NBA and college coaches, team owners, and professional athletes to join us for dinner. The stories he loved most were about his time spent with Dick Enberg, Al McGuire, and Billy Packer—sometimes at a ranch in Wyoming, sometimes at the Final Four.

From a young age, I listened closely—not just to the rules or the scores, but to the stories behind the players. I was drawn to the ones who were underestimated. The overlooked. The ones who had something to prove. Maybe, as the youngest child, I understood that feeling. Maybe I had something to prove, too.

All these years later, my 21-year-old son and I share a love of basketball. He knows every stat, box score, and advanced metric. I share the players’ backstories—where they come from, what shaped them, what they’re carrying onto the court. He introduced me to Kenny Beecham—first through Small Ball on YouTube, then through Numbers on the Board.

I remember watching that first Small Ball video. Kenny broke down the game possession by possession, explaining not just what happened, but why it happened—how a defensive rotation was late by half a step, how spacing created an opening no one else noticed. It wasn’t loud or flashy. It was thoughtful. Precise.

What struck me most wasn’t just his basketball IQ, but how clearly he translated it. He made complex strategy feel accessible without dumbing it down. He was sharp and funny, yes—but also disciplined in his thinking. He reminded me of the broadcasters I grew up listening to—the ones my dad admired—except he was building it all himself, in his own space, without a production team behind him.

Suddenly, I cared about teams I’d barely followed before. I was watching the game differently—more attentive, more curious. His show didn’t just entertain me. It sharpened how I saw the sport.

And then, one day, in the middle of talking about basketball, Kenny did something that mattered far beyond the game. He mentioned his anxiety.

As a therapist, I noticed.

As the mother of a son who struggles with anxiety, I felt it.

Here was a smart, successful young man—close to my son’s age—speaking with honesty that felt deeply real. Like Kevin Love, DeMar DeRozan, John Wall, and Tyrell Terry before him, he showed a quiet courage that dismantles stigma and invites others to speak up.

My son saw himself in that moment. And it shifted the way we talked about anxiety—more openness, less defensiveness, more space.

After that, I listened differently.

I still admired the basketball analysis—the way Kenny, Pierre, Mike, and Darrick dissected possessions, debated strategy, and pulled historical context into present-day conversations. Their recall is exceptional. Their chemistry seamless. They don’t chase headlines; they chase understanding.

But now I was paying attention to something else.

The way they spoke to one another. The ease. The trust.

What they were building wasn’t just smart sports media. It was emotional safety.

There’s one moment I’ll never forget.

They were grading teams midway through the season and debating whether the Warriors might miss the play-in. Kenny had been quieter than usual. So subtle you might miss it. And then he said:

“Sorry, my anxiety’s kicking my ass right now.”

Without hesitation, Pierre responded:“No, you’re good. We rockin’…”

And the conversation continued.

No awkward pause. No minimizing. No grand speech about mental health.

Mike and Darrick didn’t overreact. They didn’t rush to fix it. They simply stayed with him.

And Kenny kept going.

People often imagine therapy happens in stiff rooms with scripted language.

But what I witnessed in those five seconds was more instructive than anything I could teach.

What they modeled in that moment—and in their friendship week after week—was a masterclass in authenticity, presence, and support.

Five seconds.

Five seconds that showed my son what it looks like to struggle and still belong.

Five seconds that reminded me how there is strength in vulnerability.

And their bond—unwavering, steady, and generous—is something we don’t see modeled often enough, especially between men.

When my son turned 21, NBA All-Star Weekend happened to be in San Francisco. Numbers on the Board was doing a live show. The stars aligned. I bought tickets. When I told him, his first response was:

“Mom, you are not asking a question if they have Q&A.”

He knew me. He knew I’d want to tell them how brilliant they are. And he also knew we’d likely be the only mother-son duo in the room. He wanted to blend in. I love him more than anything, so I promised I wouldn’t say a word and I would take up as little space as possible.

The show exceeded our expectations. They were even sharper in person—funny, insightful, generous with the crowd. I was grateful simply to be there with my son.

After the show, he left to meet a friend. I saw the end of the long line of people waiting to talk to all of them and I decided I had to thank them—not just for the basketball content, but for what they had given my son and me.

And then the doubt crept in.

What am I doing?

I don’t belong here.

They won’t care what I have to say.

I felt a familiar rush of anxiety.

So I told myself what I tell my clients—and what I tell my son:

Be brave. Be authentic.

Just notice the anxiety and know that it will pass.

So I stayed.

When I finally reached them, emotion overtook me. I could barely speak. Not polished. Not eloquent. Just honest. I told them I’m a mom. That their podcast means something deeper than basketball in our home. That Kenny’s openness about anxiety has truly helped my son. That what they model about friendship matters more than they may ever know.

They listened. So kindly.

And I stepped aside.

A few days later, my son called.

“Turn on Kenny’s podcast—minute 59.”

And there it was. Kenny shouting me out.

Not only did he remember me and why I said- it had meant something to him. To all of them.

That was the moment everything shifted for me.

I thought I was the one being changed by them.

I hadn’t considered that maybe I had changed something for them too.

That night in San Francisco, I stepped outside my comfort zone. Life met me there.

And it reminded me of something we all forget:

We don’t always know the impact we’re having.

Kenny sharing his anxiety changed conversations in my home and in my office.

Pierre saying, “We rockin’,” changed the way my son understands friendship and vulnerability.

Four friends modeling loyalty and ease reshaped what I point to as an example of healthy connection between men- between people.

And maybe - hopefully- a middle-aged mom, standing in line with tears in her eyes, reminded them that their work reaches further than they realize.

Five seconds.

Five seconds of honesty.

Five seconds of grace.

Five seconds of being real instead of composed.

We tend to think life-changing moments are grand and cinematic.

But more often, they’re small. Subtle. Human.

A sentence. A response.A look that says, “You’re good.”

We are changing each other all the time—usually without knowing it.

Impact doesn’t require perfection. It requires presence.

It doesn’t take a lifetime to change someone’s life.

Sometimes it takes five seconds.