When I first met Leo E., I saw an older gentleman recovering from knee surgery. I had recently become the General Manager of the Chevy Chase Athletic Club, located on the penthouse level of a prestigious office building in Chevy Chase, Maryland. At that point in my career, I was beginning to spend less time doing personal training and exercise physiology work directly with members. Like many first-time managers, I thought moving up meant moving away from the fitness floor.
Leo changed that.
Because of my own history with knee surgeries, we immediately had something in common. Something told me I should personally work with him during his rehabilitation. At first, it was simply about exercise. Then it became friendship. Somewhere along the way, I learned that Leo's wife was living in Florida because she suffered from emphysema. Leo was living alone. And I sensed something beyond the physical rehabilitation.
He was lonely.
So every once in a while, we'd have lunch together. Sometimes at his apartment behind the club. Other times at a nearby restaurant. We talked about sports. Family. Life. And Navy football. Eventually, Leo invited me to a few Navy football games. I met some of his Navy buddies and listened as they reveled in story after story.
During those years, I slowly began discovering who my friend really was. Leo was an accomplished engineer. A successful attorney. A Harvard Business School graduate. A Georgetown Law graduate. A retired Navy Captain who had served a total of 40 years in the regular Navy and Naval Reserve. During World War II, he was involved in the extraordinary deception efforts surrounding the Normandy invasion.
Yet if you spent an afternoon with Leo, you'd never know any of that. There wasn't an ounce of arrogance. He was far more interested in the person sitting across from him than telling you about himself.
Years ago, when I wrote about Leo in the club's Views from the Top publication, I didn't write about his résumé or military accomplishments. I wrote about an 80-year-old former Navy football player who was still exercising regularly, jogging four miles every other day and coming to the club on the alternate days. Fitness mattered to Leo. But so did people.
As my career progressed, life became busier. I moved up the corporate ladder, moved to other clubs, and, as sometimes happens with people who once played important roles in our lives, Leo and I gradually lost touch.
Then, several years later, I received a phone call from another longtime member and friend, Becky.
"Frank... Leo passed away."
I had never been to Arlington National Cemetery. But there was no question. I was going.
The service was unlike anything I had ever experienced. A horse-drawn caisson carried Leo through Arlington. The military honors were magnificent. The 21 gun rifle salute echoed across the cemetery. And then came Taps. There wasn't a dry eye anywhere.
As the service ended, out of the corner of my eye I noticed a woman walking quickly toward me. Before I knew what was happening, she wrapped me in a huge hug. Then she said something I have never forgotten.
"So you're the one. You're the one who kept our father alive."
I didn't know what to say. It was Leo's daughter, Karen.
A short time later, I received a handwritten letter from her. I still have it today. Karen thanked me for being at Arlington and for being part of her father's life. Then she wrote something that still makes it difficult for me to read the letter aloud:
"You spoke with him as a peer, which flattered him greatly."
And then:
"You were a special companion to him, much like another son, when we were not able to be near."
Even after all these years, that one gets me. But there was one more sentence:
"Thank you so much for the little part of life which you gave to him."
The little part of life which you gave to him.
I have thought about those words for more than 30 years. Because at the time, I didn't think I was giving Leo anything extraordinary. I trained with him. We ate lunch. We went to football games. We talked. I listened. I was his friend.
What seemed like relatively small moments in my life apparently weren't small moments in his. And that may be one of the most important lessons Leo ever taught me.
Along with Karen's letter, Leo's family gave me one of his Navy medals. It was for:
Faithful Service.
I've received promotions during my career. I've received awards. I've received titles. But none have ever meant more to me than that medal. Not because I earned it. I didn't. It belonged to a remarkable man who had spent a lifetime serving his country, his profession, his family and the people around him. His family simply entrusted it to me.
And in doing so, they gave me something much greater than a medal. They gave me a lifelong reminder of what leadership can look like.
The greatest recognition in leadership rarely comes from an organization. Sometimes it comes from a family.
Sometimes leadership isn't solving someone's problems. Sometimes it's sharing a meal. Listening without looking at your watch. Treating someone with dignity. Noticing the person who may be surrounded by people but still feels alone. And giving another human being what Karen described so beautifully as...
"a little part of life."
I entered the health and fitness profession because I believed we could make a difference in people's lives. More than four decades later, I still believe that. But Leo helped me understand that the difference we make isn't always physical. It isn't always measurable. And it certainly doesn't always appear on a KPI report.
Sometimes the most important thing we do happens organically, when nobody is keeping score. We simply notice another person. And we care.
That is compassion. And I have come to believe that compassion isn't something leaders practice after the important work is finished. Compassion is part of the important work.
I still have Leo's medal. And whenever I think about it, I don't think first about the remarkable accomplishments of the man who earned it. I think about lunch. Football games. Conversations. Friendship. And a handwritten letter from a daughter who taught me that something I considered small had meant something very different to her father.
The Club Coach Challenge
Who in your life needs a little part of yours this week?
Not your expertise. Not your advice. Not another email or text.
Just your presence.
You may never know the difference it makes.
But someday... someone else might.
Originally published on Frank's Substack.