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 stories they bring onto the court. He introduced me to Kenny Beecham—first through Small Ball on YouTube, then through the podcast Numbers on the Board.

I remember watching that first Small Ball and I was immediately blown away. Kenny broke down the games, explaining not just what happened, but why it happened. He talked about players' strengths and weaknesses. He analyzed what was happening in the league - with coaches and players- how the game has changed. He was thoughtful. Precise.

What struck me most wasn’t just his basketball IQ, but how clearly he translated it, and with such a clear love of the game. 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—those friends of my dad who were considered legends in their time - except Kenny was building these insightful shows himself, in his own space, without a production team behind him.

I have followed basketball for decades, yet after listening to Small Ball and NOB, I now watch the game differently - I care about teams I barely followed before. I am more attentive, more curious. Their shows aren't just entertainment. They sharpen how I watch and analyze the game.

And then, one day, in the middle of a NOB, 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, and John Wall before him, he showed a quiet courage that dismantled stigma and invited others to speak up.

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

After hearing about Kenny's anxiety, I listened to their podcasts in a new way.

I still admired their basketball analysis—the way Kenny, Pierre, Mike, and Darrick dissect possessions, debate strategy, and pull historical context into present-day conversations. Their recall is exceptional. Their chemistry - seamless.

But now I was paying attention to something else - the way they speak to one another.

What they demonstrate in every show isn't just brilliant sports analysis. It is emotional ease and trust.

There was one moment that was so subtle, you could almost miss it, but it was profoundly important:

They were grading teams midway through the season and debating whether the Warriors might miss the play-in. Kenny had been quieter than usual. When he started to weigh in on the topic, he said:

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

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

And the conversation continued.

No awkward pauses from the guys. No grand speech about mental health.

Mike and Darrick didn’t overreact. They didn't rush to fill in or fix anything. They simply stayed in the moment.

And Kenny kept going. Flawlessly.

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 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 I was surprised because my 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 fear and 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. That I tell all my clients to listen to them for what they model as healthy male friendship.

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 what 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.

Kenny's five seconds of honesty.

Five seconds of their 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 only takes five seconds.