The Worth of the Glass

It was late in the evening at a conference bar in Wisconsin, and Ron Puent’s eyes lit up.

That’s the whole setup, really. We were standing there, probably past the point where the conversation gets looser and the night starts feeling like it might actually mean something, and he saw a pint glass. It had a Milwaukee Bucks emblem and net on it so that the pint glass looked like it should be hanging on a rim. It was genuinely beautiful in the way that functional objects sometimes are. The kind of thing you notice and then keep glancing back at.

Ron is not a man who lights up easily. He’s not a glad-hander. He doesn’t do the reflexive enthusiasm. When something impresses him, you know it, and you want it. There’s a version of professional respect that operates on proximity. You feel sharper when you’re near certain people, and Ron is one of those people for me. So when his eyes went to that glass, I noticed.

I’m a rugby guy. Spent more time in pubs and bars than I probably should have, which means I also picked up certain skills that don’t belong on a résumé. When something truly worth keeping was headed for the dish pit, it had a way of ending up in a pocket. I’ve always been judicious about it. I have a plastic mug from Eskimo Joe’s from the lunch we celebrated my first doctoral dissertation. And I have a wine glass from Jamie Oliver’s place in Oxford after my graduation. Objects that mark something real.

A bartender told me once — with a wink, and I chose to believe her — that as long as you weren’t greedy about it, the breakage rate covered the math. Those glasses were going to get broken. It’s better they go somewhere they’d be remembered.

I’m not entirely sure I believe the justification. But I’ve always left a tip large enough to cover it.

The Bucks pint glass disappeared into my bag that night, still dripping with beer. I handed it to Ron soon after.

A few days ago, he sent me a photo. The Bucks glass, sitting on whatever surface it’s found a home on. A short text saying that every time he uses it, ice cold and full of frosty goodness, he remembers.

For someone of Ron’s caliber to be moved by anything I did means something to me.

We spend so much energy designing the things that are supposed to bond teams — the retreats, the swag, the carefully planned shared experiences. Sometimes that works. But sometimes it’s one person who notices another person’s eyes go to a glass.

I don’t have a clean way to end this. I’m still a little surprised the glass made it home intact. I’m more surprised by what it’s held since.

If something here landed differently than you expected — I’m reachable by reply.