The First Trick I Didn’t Get to Keep

I was probably three or four years old when I opened the wrong Christmas gift — and it changed everything.

It was a magician’s kit. Sleek black box, mirrored sides, mysterious compartments. I didn’t know how it worked — I just knew it was magic. My heart exploded with excitement… for about three seconds. Then someone said, “Oh, wait, that’s not yours,” and swapped it for the right one: a book-on-tape about a giant named Gallagher who gets tied to the earth.

It was a good story. But it wasn’t magic.

That moment stuck.

Even now, I think of that black box more than I think of any of the toys I actually owned. It wasn’t the object, really — it was the possibility. The idea that someone, somewhere, knew how to do something that most of us didn’t. And if you were clever enough, patient enough, or curious enough, maybe you could learn.

Years later, in March of 1984, we were on a family trip to New Orleans. I would have been about ten. The city felt alive. There was a kind of magic just hanging in the air — street performers, jugglers, and music floating down from the balconies. I remember the smell of food in the air, people gathered around fountains, artists lining the sidewalks. It wasn’t like Indiana. It felt full of mystery, like anything could happen. It was the perfect place to stumble across a magic shop. My parents gave us each a chance to pick out a souvenir. I wanted a trick. A real one. One with a secret.

The magician working the shop had a ritual: you chose your trick, then stepped behind a black curtain so he could teach you how it worked. I think my brother chose the linking rings. I don’t remember what my sister picked.

But mine? I remember now.

It was a coin shell trick — a large coin that had been carefully hollowed out to hide another coin inside. If you were sitting at a table with someone, you could casually tap the coin on your knee, just hard enough to pop the two pieces apart without making a sound. Then, when you brought your hand back up, it looked like the coin had split in two. One coin became two — clean, quiet, and impossible.

It was mechanical, but magical. I was hooked.

To this day, I still keep a deck of cards in my backpack, in my truck, sometimes even in my pocket. I don’t gamble. I don’t perform. But I shuffle. I practice. Sometimes I try to remember an old trick. Sometimes I just fan the deck across a table and think.

Magic, for me, was never about impressing other people. It was about figuring something out. I’ve always liked puzzles, illusions, anything with a solution that hides in plain sight. Magic felt like the intersection between art and engineering. You weren’t just building something. You were hiding something, too. You were designing an experience. And then stepping back to see if it worked.

As I got older, I never really pursued magic as a serious craft. I didn’t go pro. I didn’t join any clubs. I wasn’t the kind of kid who could master slight of hand in front of a mirror for hours. But I kept watching. I kept learning. I kept carrying that feeling.

And when I became a father, it came full circle.

On our family vacations to Naples, Florida, we always make a stop at Tin City, usually on our way to the Everglades along Tamiami Trail. It's one of those places that's been around forever. We grab shrimp baskets and ice cream, wander through the little souvenir shops, and without fail, stop into the magic shop tucked into the mini mall. We always like to stop in, see what the latest tricks are, and chat with the magician behind the counter for a minute. He’s always real nice, and it’s fun to hear what’s new in town. I remember when the kids were small, they were drawn to the gimmicky stuff, but as they’ve gotten older, they’re more interested in the serious tricks — the ones that take real practice. It’s just one of those memories I’ll always hold onto.

My kids know it’s my thing. They know I’ll say yes to one more trick. They each pick something out. And I still do, too. And when we get home, we try them out on each other. Sometimes they work. Sometimes they flop. But we always laugh. And for a few minutes, we all get to be part of something that feels bigger than the trick itself.

That’s why I still believe in magic. Not as a performance. But as a principle.

Magic has always been a kind of distraction, too — the good kind. In a world where the news is often crummy and loud, magic is a quiet reset. It doesn’t matter what language you speak or where you’re from — magic lands. It connects. It’s a kind of shared language. I like to think if you parachuted into some remote jungle, not knowing a word of the local language, you might still be able to communicate through a trick. A disappearing coin, a floating card — that stuff doesn’t need translation. Magic speaks to the part of people that still believes in wonder. That still likes to be surprised.

Magic says: there’s always more than what you see. Magic reminds me: the world isn’t just logical — it’s layered. Magic teaches: with the right combination of attention, misdirection, and care, you can build something that creates wonder.

And maybe that’s enough.

The trick I didn’t get to keep? It never left me.

I think that’s the thing about magic. It doesn’t always stay in your hands — sometimes it just stays in your head. In your memory. In your pocket as a deck of cards. Or in your kid’s grin when they pull off a trick they didn’t think they could do. It lingers.

And maybe that’s the real trick: not the illusion itself, but the way it follows you. Quietly. For a lifetime.