101. Lessons from the Sidelines: A Night at the Kingston Stockade Game
Last night, I took my youth boys soccer team to a semi-pro match not far from home. It was one of those clear, golden summer evenings where the setting sun makes everything feel just a little more magical. The kids were excited—laughing, goofing off, buzzing with that boundless energy only young people seem to have. I was grateful to be with them, to be coaching again, to be trusted enough to guide these boys not only in soccer, but in life. Beneath that gratitude was a quiet storm I didn’t anticipate until we got to the stadium.
We found our seats on the fifth row behind the half-line. Perfect view of the action. The boys were pointing out players they admired and breaking down formations with impressive knowledge for their age. Their passion reminded me of myself at that age—before the chaos, before the mistakes, before addiction took center stage in my life. I smiled at them, but as I scanned the crowd, something else caught my eye: the concession stand, and the line of adults ordering beers like it was nothing.
At first, it seemed harmless. Just a few dads and fans cracking open cold ones as they settled in. The more I watched, the more I couldn’t look away. One man in front of us nursed a single beer for nearly half the match. Another came back with two cups—he gave one to his friend, and they clinked them together with a smile, then sipped slowly as they chatted and cheered. There were no slurred words, no staggering, no blackouts. Just casual, social, controlled drinking. They laughed, got loud during goals, high-fived strangers—and then, without fanfare, they stopped. One beer. Maybe two, and that was it.
And me? I sat there silently with a knot in my stomach, a water in my hand, and a truth I’ve come to know all too well pressing hard against my chest: I can’t do that. I will NEVER be able to do that.
There is no “just one” for me. There never was. Watching those men last night—watching how easily they were able to stop—was like standing outside in the cold, looking through the glass at a warm home I’ll never be invited into. It’s not envy, not exactly. It’s grief. It's the mourning of a life I’ll never live, of a version of me that doesn’t exist and never will.
I have to accept that if I want to succeed.
You see, if I had that first beer, it wouldn't end with a quiet sip and a shared laugh. It wouldn’t end until I had ruined everything all over again. My boys—these young athletes who look up to me, who trust me, who are learning about discipline and teamwork and character from me—they wouldn’t have their coach anymore. My job would disappear. My second chance at life, the one I clawed my way back to would vanish in a matter of weeks, maybe even days. That’s not dramatic—it’s just the truth of my disease. One drink is all it takes. And last night, as I watched others consume with ease, I saw again how utterly incapable I am of moderation.
There was a time I thought I could drink like that. Early on, before everything fell apart, I’d tell myself, “I’ll just have one.” But I never did. “Just one” turned into “just one more,” then “just a few,” then “might as well finish the bottle,” then waking up somewhere I didn’t recognize, ashamed and empty. It was never about enjoyment—it was about escape. It was about numbing the shame, the anxiety, and the loneliness. I used to think people like the ones I saw last night didn’t exist, or at least that they were faking it, but they’re real… I’m not one of them.
As I sat there, I thought of the people I’ve hurt. I thought of the times I broke promises, the moments I chose a drink over someone I loved, and the trust I’ve shattered. I’ve spent years trying to rebuild the parts of myself I destroyed, and while I’m proud of the progress, proud of the man I’m becoming, I’d be lying if I said nights like last night don’t make me ache inside. The longing to be “normal,” to be able to just blend in, it hits hard in those moments. I also know this: I’m not meant to blend in. I’m not meant to sip beer in the stands and call it a night. My journey, painful and raw as it is, gives me something they don’t have—perspective, depth, and the ability to guide others away from the edge I nearly fell over too many times.
One of my boys leaned over during halftime and asked if I’d ever played semi-pro. I told him I hadn’t. He nodded, said “Cool,” then went back to analyzing corner kick tactics. He doesn’t need to know all the details of my story yet, but one day, maybe he will. And maybe when he’s faced with his own temptations, he’ll remember that his coach sat at a game once, surrounded by people drinking, and chose not to. Not because it was easy, but because it was necessary.
On the way home, I felt peace, real peace, even as that ache lingered. I didn’t drink. I didn’t run. I sat with the discomfort and made it through. That may not sound like much to some people, but to me, it’s everything.
Because every day I stay sober is a day I win. Every day I choose life over oblivion, I become more whole, and last night, amid the cheering and the beer cups and the under-the-lights glory of the game, I was reminded that I am still here. Still fighting. Still choosing to be present—even when it hurts.
And that’s a victory far greater than any final score could ever produce.
And remember, if you’re struggling or know someone who is struggling, please don’t lose hope. If that had happened to me, I wouldn’t be able to help spread awareness today.
