“Hey… do you think this makes me look fat?”

Ralph’s eyes trace Lars up and down. After a moment, he purses his lips and nods.

“Yep.”

“Good…” Lars smiles, then flexes to himself in the mirror, briefly lunging forward as if to scare his own reflection.

In the distance, an older security guard shakes his head, mutters what he’d do to be young again, and returns to his solitaire.

I was at a Cavs game, and that’s how I imagined the start of my favorite moment.

It’s somewhere in the third quarter, and James Harden did what James Harden does—gets in the face of the opposing team, causing a game delay. The Raptors crowd him, then all at once, Harden feints innocence and retreats to the Cavs bench.

But the ref—the ever-watchful ref—blows his whistle.

He looks like a substitute history teacher who’s reached the point where he only shows movies, and he steps to the mic.

“We’re going to have to review the incident for foul conduct.”

The crowd, of course, boos—and is one pitchfork away from 1478.

And right when the ref turns to review the play, two security guards—dressed in suits like they’re working special detail for James Bond—lumber over and place their backs to his, effectively walling him in as they scan the crowd.

Gravely.

Professionally.

And then…

Right as their heads turn back—

they fist bump.

I was melting.

I can’t fully explain the effect it had on me.

It wasn’t a big moment. It wasn’t even necessary. But it was so deeply human, it felt like I had witnessed something private.

The innocence of a fist bump.

So silent.

Yet deafening.

Because to me, there was no question—this was their first day.

Not just their first day, but their first important day. Game 5 of the playoffs. The kind of assignment that suggests either blind trust or two call-offs.

They stand there, nodding, scanning, embodying vigilance. And then, just as suddenly as they arrived, the whistle blows again—and they disappear, absorbed back into that vague, unseen dimension where all security guards live.

I like to imagine they had a locker room.

And in that locker room, the excitement boils over.

“Man,” Ralph would say, removing an earpiece he didn’t need but deeply valued, “you were incredible out there. Just… fuckin’ unreal.”

Lars, already admiring himself in a reflective surface that may or may not be a vending machine, nods.

“Thanks. I watched a few Steven Seagal movies beforehand. Got me ready.”

Ralph considers this.

“Smart… smart.”

There’s a pause. They relive the fist bump, possibly from multiple angles, then wipe their faces.

“You want to go to the… uh…” Lars begins.

Ralph shakes his head.

“Nah.”

And that is enough.

Because some experiences cannot be improved upon.

They change out of their suits into sweatpants and undershirts—uniforms of a different kind—and leave through a door marked “Authorized Personnel Only,” which, for once, applies.

Now, I understand this is an elaborate way to process a moment that lasted maybe three seconds.

But I’ve always had a complicated relationship with security guards.

Because my father was one.

And he would often say, “A security guard is the first person in the family who learned how to stand up straight.”

Which was his way of suggesting the men in his line of work were more ape than man.

It’s not kind.

But it’s vivid.

To me, security guards were always contradictions.

People tasked with maintaining order, despite looking like anything but.

My father, for instance, couldn’t reliably secure his own belt—yet he was responsible for securing an entire building.

That struck me as optimistic.

But in that observation, he overlooked the other kind of security guard.

The younger ones.

The movie theater guards.

Sixteen years old. One hundred and thirty pounds. Acne.

Standing between you and your seat like they were the final line of defense in a war that paid eight dollars an hour.

“You think I can take him?” I’d whisper to my cousin.

The real deterrent, I eventually realized, wasn’t strength.

It was the idea of consequence.

The suggestion that somewhere, just out of sight, was a larger, more committed man…

in the back room…

with his belt unsecured.

And when he finally catches the two teenagers who slipped through—

He fist bumps.

Plese like, comment, share and tell me what you think. Am I crazy?

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