A Bench Between Two Men

Bench Talk is a weekly series about the conversations men rarely have — but deeply need.
Each episode begins on the same bench, with different men, different battles, and the same quiet question:
Will you sit down… or will you walk past carrying it alone?

Episode 1

I was already sitting on the bench, right there in his path, when he came walking through.

I hadn’t chosen that spot by accident.

I was watching — not faces, but posture. Energy. Presence. Waiting for a certain kind of man. Someone I could speak to as an equal. Strong. Grounded. No noise. No nonsense. A man who looked like he carried weight and didn’t complain about it.

Then he came into view.

I’d seen him before. A few times at the gym. Shared nods. Mutual awareness. That quiet respect between men who show up consistently and do the work. I didn’t know his name. Never spoken to him. But I knew enough.

He didn’t notice me at first. Eyes forward. Focused. Decent-looking guy. Strong build. Broad shoulders filling out a plain shirt that’s seen effort, not mirrors. The kind of confidence that doesn’t announce itself. Not rushed. Not loud. Just steady.

As he passed, he caught movement at the edge of his vision.

He glanced over.
Half a second.
Enough.

Our eyes met.

That look.
Men know it.
Recognition without words.

This oke fits the brief, I thought.

I shifted slightly, the wood creaking beneath me, and tapped the space next to me. The sun sat low, warm on my face. A breeze moved in from the ocean behind us.

“Hey, brother. Come sit for a minute.”

He slowed. Hesitated. I could almost see the thoughts lining up — I’ve seen this guy before… why is he calling me over? What does he want? A faint, guarded smile crossed his face. Then he turned back and sat down. We exchanged a firm fist bump. Simple. Respectful.

“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Eric,” he said.
I nodded. “Good to finally put a name to the face.”

Up close, his presence was even clearer. Not aggressive. Grounded. Hands that looked used to work. Posture upright even while seated — like a man who carries responsibility without asking for credit.

And then I noticed it.

The simple silver cross he always wore. Unflashy. Worn smooth. The kind you don’t wear unless it means something. I’d seen it before at the gym. Always there. Quiet. Consistent.

That mattered.

We settled back onto the bench. The wood creaked under our combined weight.

And then… silence.

I let it stretch. Longer than comfortable. Long enough for the surface thoughts to burn off. Long enough for a man to start hearing himself.

I could feel Eric becoming aware of it — the stillness, the fact that I wasn’t rushing to fill the space. His breathing was controlled at first. Measured. Then it changed. A deeper inhale. A slower exhale. His foot shifted slightly, heel pressing into the ground — not standing yet, but preparing. His jaw tightened, then loosened.

I could tell he was close to getting up.

Right before that moment tipped, I stepped in.

“Tell me, brother,” I said quietly, “what battle are you fighting right now?”

The words landed hard.

Eric froze for a split second. His heel stayed planted. His shoulders rose with a breath he hadn’t planned on taking. He stared straight ahead, then down at his hands, like he’d been asked to pick something up he’d been avoiding for a long time.

Stay.
Or leave.

He drew in a breath through his nose. Held it too long.
Then let it out slowly.

The ocean moved steadily in front of us. Waves rolling in, indifferent. Somewhere far off, a car passed. Life kept going — but right here, everything narrowed.

“I know that moment,” I said quietly. “The one where you’re deciding whether this is real. Whether I’m sincere… or whether there’s an angle.”

Eric lifted his eyes to mine. Focused. Measuring.

“I didn’t call you over because I needed just anyone,” I continued. “I wanted to talk to a man I see as my equal. Someone strong. Grounded. No BS. A man who looks like he’s fighting his own battles and still standing.”

That landed.

“I’m not sitting here because I’ve figured life out,” I said. “Far from it. I’m here because I need another man, someone who understands pressure. Someone willing to sharpen each other. Because I want more from myself — and I can’t do that alone.”

I paused. Let the weight of it sit.

Then, quietly, I added, “Jesus Christ is my mentor. That’s my anchor. That’s where I go when things get heavy. But even with faith… men weren’t built to walk alone. Brotherhood is how we stay sharp.”

And then I stopped talking.

A full minute passed.

I turned my head toward the ocean and let my eyes rest there. The horizon steady. The rhythm of the waves constant. I didn’t look at him. Didn’t pressure him. This wasn’t my moment anymore.

Beside me, Eric stayed still.

I could sense the work happening inside him. The words replaying. Testing them. Arguing with them. His breathing slowed. One hand rubbed slowly across his thigh — not nervous, thoughtful. His jaw set, then softened. A man weighing whether to let something real in.

That minute felt heavy. Sacred, almost.

When he finally moved, it wasn’t sudden.

He leaned forward deliberately, elbows resting on his knees. His shoulders dropped — not weakness, but relief. Like a man finally allowing the weight to touch the ground instead of locking it inside his chest.

He stared out ahead for a moment longer… then turned toward me and extended his hand.

Slow.
Intentional.

When our hands met, the grip was firm — and it stayed that way. Longer than any normal handshake. Right on the edge of uncomfortable. Not awkward. Deliberate. A silent message: This mattered. Like a door he’d been quietly praying would open had finally done so.

“Gert,” Eric said softly, voice steady but low, “you have no idea how much I needed this.”

He held the grip a second longer, then released it. A breath followed. A small nod. Decision made.

The moment eased after that. We spoke about training. What he was working on. What I was focusing on. A few exercises. A laugh about stubborn weak points and sore legs and a quick conversation about how we both struggle with our wives and the female species in general. Light bro talk. Normal. Human.

As we stood to leave, I said, “Same bench. Seven days from now. Proper talk.”

Eric smiled — properly this time.

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m in.”

And just like that, this bench stopped being just a bench.

It became a place where men choose to stay.
A place where weight is shared.
A place where men grow.

Next week episode 2 of the “Bench Talk” series.

Wish you a super week. Train hard!

Gert