The Difference between Playmates and Friends

I am reading a sweet little book right now—Have a  Little Faith. The author—Mitch Albom is asked by his rabbi to write the rabbi’s eulogy upon his death. The rabbi makes the point that most people are not afraid of death as much as they are afraid of being forgotten. No one wants to think that their life was so valueless that it becomes unmemorable. Everyone wants to be missed when they are gone.

My first debilitating bout of back injury came in the spring prior to my fortieth birthday. It also coincided with my peak tennis playing and the beginnings of real golf play. But more difficult than the physical pain or my impending big birthday, was the realization that without me, tennis matches were still being won and friends’ handicaps were still dropping. Trophies were awarded and lunches were eaten. It was devastating to think I was so invisible, inconsequential. People inquired about how I was feeling and then simply and easily replaced me on the court or in their foursome.

Towards the end of the summer, when I had resumed playing golf, I found myself paired up with a much older woman who I did not know. She had been an A-level tennis player. And her golf game, as well as her cronies', had improved to the point of becoming an 18-holer. And then she suffered a rotator cup injury. She needed surgery. The subsequent recovery and rehabilitation was difficult and lengthy--two years in total.

Yet the thing that was the most painful for her was that her phone had stopped ringing. Invitations ceased. The halt in her playing was a halt in her socializing—out of sight, out of mind. Her sage advice to me---something she had learned the hard way--was Dear--don’t ever confuse your playmates with your friends.

It stuck with me.

In this life we are given lots of playmates, schoolmates, and workmates. Very few are genuine friends. Our mates are fun to hang out with and allow for the pleasant passage of time. We may even experience joint adventures. But the relationship is built more on circumstance—convenience—proximity---and not real commitment. True friends remember you in your absence. They long for your return. They find you irreplaceable—indelible. Friends catch the shoe when it drops—and replace it with a slipper.

When my husband sold his practice a longtime client came to me with tears and said We love your husband so much. What will we do without him?

And I thought to myself You do not love my husband—you love that he works for you like your slave. If you loved him you would wish him well and not try to coerce him into still working for you. If he was sick—you would not feed him—you would merely send flowers or a gift basket. And I am certain that you will find another accountant to take his place—and you will say you love him too.

Clients are not our friends either. Neither are employers or coaches or business partners.

And the rabbi in the book had no fear of death—he had his faith and he had Mitch Albom—the author—who by writing the rabbi’s story ensured that would never be forgotten—even by people who never knew him at all. And I will not forget Molly—the sage golfer—who was merely a one-time playmate but spoke to me like a true friend.