It was a Monday night. Just before 7pm. Cold. I was outside, doing the sweeper role at Andy’s Man Club.
The sweeper role is exactly what it sounds like. You’re out front. You’re the first face someone sees. And more often than not, you’re the reason a new man doesn’t just drive straight past and go home.
I’d had a message earlier the previous week from a woman on Facebook. She frequents the local community group I manage, 12,000 members or so, and she’d spotted I was a facilitator at AMC. She asked the usual questions.
- When is it on?
- Where is it?
- Can her partner go along?
I said yes, of course. And I said I’d make a point of being in the car park that night. I could almost promise her that, because I’m nearly always sweeper. It just tends to happen that way.
So there I am. Just before 7. And a bloke turns up.
I just knew it was him.
You can tell. There’s a particular way someone carries themselves when they really don’t want to be where they are, but they’ve come anyway. That tension between needing something and not quite trusting it yet. He stood outside. Didn’t come in. We talked for a bit. Then a bit more.
He couldn’t do it. Not that night.
That’s not a failure. That’s not him letting anyone down. That’s a man who got in his car, drove to a place he’d never been, stood outside in the February cold, and had a conversation with a stranger about something that clearly isn’t easy for him.
That’s enormous.
Most blokes don’t get that far.
I know because I’ve been that bloke. Not at AMC specifically, but I know what it’s like to get halfway somewhere and turn around and go home. The battle isn’t always inside the building.
Sometimes it’s in the car park.
Sometimes it’s just getting yourself out of the house.
Some lads drive past on a Monday night. They don’t stop, they just drive past. Slowly, maybe. A couple of times. Some walk past. Some get to the door and can’t go through it. And some, like him, make it to the car park and have a conversation, which honestly, is further than a lot of people get.
I didn’t try to push him in. I didn’t try to talk him round or sell him on the idea. I just listened. That’s all I did.
I was just another bloke standing outside, having a chat.
That’s the whole point of the sweeper role. You’re not a salesperson, you’re not a counsellor. You’re just a presence. Someone who’s not going to judge you for standing in a car park instead of going inside.
He said he’d come back.
I hope he does. But even if it takes him a few more Mondays, even if he drives past a couple of times first, that’s fine.
There’s no pressure.
There’s no clock.
I was just glad I was there that night.
Still here
This isn’t a post about a dramatic turning point. No one was fixed in that car park. Nothing was resolved. But something shifted, I think. For him, maybe. And definitely for me.
There’s something that sticks with you when you’re on the outside of those doors, knowing what’s on the inside of them. Knowing what it took you to get there yourself, the first time. And knowing that some of the most important things that happen at Andy’s Man Club don’t happen in a circle of chairs on a Monday night.
They happen in car parks. Just before 7.
I’m still here. And if you’re reading this, so are you. Whatever it took to get this far, that counts for something.
This post is part of an occasional series where I write about real moments, fragments of conversation, things that stuck. Not polished. Not lessons. Just things that happened.