I grew up in an alcoholic family with four older brothers and two younger sisters.
My four older brothers all went into the service, one at a time. But our brother Dicky died in Vietnam from so-called friendly fire. He was shot with his friend’s M-16 on his nineteenth birthday. It was called an accidental shooting, and he died two days later. He was the brother closest to me in age.
As my older brothers went on with their lives, my sisters and I formed our own little family. I am so grateful we grew up together because I always felt less than, with no self-esteem at all. They gave me purpose as an older brother—to watch over them.
One reason I felt this way was because we grew up in a junkyard with little money, living day to day. Our parents struggled financially, though they worked hard their entire lives.
There were many family gatherings with drinking and card playing. Watching this, I decided I wanted to be just like that. By age fourteen, I joined in those card parties with family and older friends.
Kenny, my next older brother—ten years older than me—had lost his drinking buddy Dicky. One day he said, “Danny, come with me, we’re going to take a ride.” That’s when he introduced me to the bar scene.
Even at fourteen, I was an experienced pool player because I had grown up around pool tables. While playing, Kenny handed me two quarters and said, “Danny, go get us a beer.”
I was afraid they wouldn’t serve me because the drinking age in New York was eighteen. But they did. Holding those beers in my hands felt life-changing. I felt like I had overcome something. Alcohol seemed to solve everything, and I felt like I had entered the big leagues.
Kenny was a severe alcoholic. Many times, he would pass out while we were out drinking, and I had to drive us home at a very young age.
One night, he insisted on driving. He crashed head-on into a tree, completely destroying the convertible. The engine and transmission were ejected from the car. Kenny and a female passenger were seriously injured. I escaped with a bruised arm.
When I came out of a blackout, I found myself chasing the girl who had been thrown from the car. When I caught her, I saw how badly she was hurt—her arm dangling and her jaw severely broken.
We were taken to the hospital in separate ambulances. That’s when I realized how badly Kenny was injured—his arm broken in six places.
I was too young to understand the path I was on.
I continued drinking with Kenny until I got my license. Then I became “the driver,” because driving was my favorite thing to do.
Eventually, Kenny’s alcoholism worsened, even leading to court-ordered Alcoholics Anonymous. That terrified me—not because of him, but because I didn’t want that label. I enjoyed drinking too much.
So I distanced myself from him.
Kenny later died from alcoholism at age fifty-eight. His story remains one of the most tragic I’ve known.
I graduated early, got a job at seventeen, and quickly had to grow up when my girlfriend became pregnant at eighteen. We eloped in Maryland and started a life together.
But there was another place calling me—the bar known as “The Classroom.”
It became my escape, my obsession, and what I believed was my “home.” But it slowly pulled me away from my responsibilities, my family, and myself.
Even when surrounded by people, I felt empty. I would sit at the bar, alone inside, and order another drink.
This lifestyle led to the breakdown of my marriage. Eventually, I took custody of my son, Cory, and tried to build a home. But my drinking continued.
Then came a turning point—my motorcycle accident in 1977.
Looking back, I believe it may have been divine intervention. Something that stopped me before I completely destroyed myself.