In 2023, like many men in their 30s, I was lonely and depressed.
Objectively, I knew that I had a lot to be thankful for. I was healthy, had a beautiful wife, a wonderful family, close friends, and up until this point had enjoyed work as a teacher that imbued my life with meaning, purpose, and paid the bills.
But in 2023 I faced headwinds, largely of my own creation. After a lengthy and frustrating visa process, I had followed my wife from Australia to her dream job in Atlanta, a 22-hour flight away from family, friends and professional networks.
At the same time, I decided to take a break from teaching to work for myself writing middle school curriculum, trading the classroom for long, quiet hours on the laptop.
Six months into this move, the professional opportunities I’d hoped would materialize in the US remained elusive. My wife was often traveling for work and I worked remotely, earning undervalued Australian dollars and taking meetings on Australian hours.
I had also made no local friends. I’d never had trouble making friends before. My wife urged me to be proactive, “just put yourself out there,” she implored. So I signed up and never attended Meetups, joined a co-working space, and started working out at the local LA Fitness.
At the gym and co-working space, I’ve never received so many compliments about my Aussie accent, or earnest inquiries as to whether I had a close relationship with Steve Irwin. But nothing escalated towards friendship.
The little socializing I did was with my wife’s colleagues. As strong as our partnership was and is, this social dependence felt needy, unhealthy and even embarrassing.
Being reduced to being a supporting character in my wife’s friendships made me think of my dad. Growing up, I never remember my dad having friends of his own. That was something mum had. Dad had work mates, but they never called the house or dropped in.
But dad didn’t seem to mind. When we had BBQs with other families, he would crack a beer and tend to the grill with the other fathers – usually talking about football or cricket. The idea that he, or any of the other men, would exchange numbers, call each other and catch up was insane. I can imagine my dad laughing, “I’m not gay.”
Until this point, even the idea that this was some kind of absence in my dad’s life never occurred to me. Perhaps it should have. Research indicates that more than half of American men feel unsatisfied with the size of their friend groups. Even more concerningly, twenty percent of single men report having no close friends.
Women’s social connections are typically more resilient. No doubt the lack of social stigma around women explicitly seeking and pursuing same-sex friends helps. It also doesn’t seem like a coincidence that the male suicide rate is four times higher than for women.
During my lonely first year in Atlanta, I had plenty of time to research social isolation. I read an essay about ‘third spaces’ – a term coined in the 1980s by sociologist Ray Oldenburg to describe places outside of home or work where people connect.
The idea made sense, but I didn’t know what my third space might be. I read source material from Oldenburg, but his historical ‘third space’ examples of German beer gardens and English pubs seemed a route to alcoholism rather than community.
I was also moved by an essay by US Surgeon General Vivek Murthy about his loneliness after leaving the job that defined so much of his daily life. It hit home, but I was left feeling like Dr. Murthy was having as much trouble finding a viable third space as I was.
Ultimately, I didn’t really find my third space. It found me. One humid July morning, while cycling on the Atlanta Beltline to my coworking space, I passed a poster for the ‘Sons of Pitches Adult Pickup Soccer League’.
I’d dabbled in the world game back in Australia and was looking for a physical outlet. I pulled over, scanned the QR code and downloaded the ‘Outside Sports’ app. On the app, I saw pickup games open every night of the week across the city for $7 to $12.
I didn’t sign up looking for connection. I was there to play.
And play I did. First on Wednesday nights, then on Wednesdays, Fridays, and Sundays, I signed up on the app, packed my water bottle and an increasingly battered pair of cleats, and drove to high school fields around the city.
On the pitch, I started off tentative, conscious not to make a fool of myself. I hadn’t grown up immersed in the round ball game like some of the regular players. But as time went on my confidence grew.
Playing a few times a week, I improved quickly. I was reminded that to be an elite player may require exposure, natural ability and unwavering focus from a young age, but to be ‘pretty decent’ just took turning up and putting in work for a few months.
In the early games, I joined any open pickup team and sat by myself in the bleachers between games. As time went on, I realized many guys – the players were mostly but not exclusively male – did the same. I started to see familiar faces. I forced myself to introduce myself and shake hands with my teammates. I activated my dormant ‘teacher brain’ to recall names.
I played with guys from the Congo, Germany, Lebanon, Korea, Argentina, Mexico, Nigeria, England and Jamaica. Even a few Atlantans. I played with doctors and day laborers, with painters and precision engineers. I was the only Australian and so I had that niche all to myself.
Over the next year, I played soccer in the sweltering Georgia heat with cicadas singing, and in freezing rain with snow on the ground. I played games that felt transcendent and left me giddy with joy and camaraderie. I also had games where I fumed on the drive home at missed opportunities, or being nutmegged, rainbowed, or otherwise athletically humbled.
But no matter what happened on the pitch, I never regretted turning up and playing. I slept better at night and felt better for days after. If I missed a game I fiended to get back out.
As the games accumulated, I formed a WhatsApp group with some regular players to coordinate games. Without really thinking about it, I started to become part of a small community united by the simple joys of chasing a ball around.
By the end of the year, some of us would watch English Premier League games together at the pub on the odd weekend. I helped one new teammate build a website and another plan a promotion. When my wife and I had twins in 2024, I sent photos and updates to these guys.
In its official definition, pickup soccer is not a ‘third space’ because ‘conversation’ is not the primary purpose. But in reality – at least for me – this is what made it perfect. The goal is to compete, to play, and the on-pitch highs, lows and occasional controversies provide the necessary foil for low-stakes conversations and friendships.
I’m convinced it’s not just me pickup or rec sport can help either. With the benefit of addressing both the loneliness and obesity crises, encouraging participation in adult pickup or rec leagues is a rare public health silver bullet. There is also plenty of room to grow. Data from 2023 reveals only around nine percent of U.S. adults are currently playing pickup or rec league sports.
While lack of time is the most common excuse, it is worth noting that the average American adult spends 143 minutes on social media each day and a further 180 minutes watching TV – sedentary and often solitary activities that feed alienation and polarization.
For me, team sport scratches an itch that solo gym sessions cannot fill. Working out alone feels like hitting KPIs at work. Team sport feels like play. And I am convinced that to get through this moment in history, adults need more spaces to be playful, healthy and connect offline.
Now settled into life in Atlanta, I was recently on a WhatsApp call with my mum back in Australia. She mentioned that my dad had hosted a dinner with four other guys.
My dad cooked and over steaks, the men chatted and exchanged joke awards. “I’ve never seen that side of your father,” my mum said, “I could hear all the guys talking and laughing like schoolboys from the other room. Your dad had such a good time.”
The genesis of the dinner? My dad had joined a local tennis team and they were celebrating an unsuccessful campaign. Like me, a world away in Atlanta, he had found his people and his ‘third place’ community through local sport.
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