I grew up in a family that enjoyed playing cards and drinking together for fun and fellowship. I had four older brothers and two younger sisters. One by one, all of my brothers went into the service. Our brother Dicky died in Vietnam from what was called “friendly fire.”
His so-called friend shot him near the stomach with an M-16 on his 19th birthday. They called it an accidental shooting, and he died two days later. He was the brother closest to me in age.
As our older brothers went on with their lives, my sisters and I formed our own little family. I am so grateful they grew up with me, because they gave me the purpose of being an older brother—to watch over them.
Growing up, I always felt “less than,” with very little self-esteem. Part of this was because we grew up in a junkyard with little money, just getting by day to day.
Our parents worked hard all their lives and struggled financially. That did not mean we didn’t have fun, though. There were many family gatherings filled with drinking and card playing. I remember watching this and deciding that I wanted to be part of it. At age 14, I joined in these card parties with family and older friends.
When my brother Dicky died, my next older brother, Kenny—who was ten years older than me—lost his drinking buddy. He approached me and said, “Danny, come with me. We’re going to take a ride.” That’s when he introduced me to the bar scene.
Even at age 14, I was an experienced pool player because I had grown up around pool tables. One night, while we were playing with other patrons, Kenny handed me two quarters and said, “Danny, go get us a beer.”
I went to the bar, afraid they wouldn’t serve me because of my age, since the legal drinking age in New York was 18. I asked the bartender for two beers, and I was surprised when I walked away holding them.
Drinking beer at 14 was life-changing for me. I felt like I had overcome my age barrier. Alcohol seemed to solve every problem, and I felt like I had entered the big leagues.
Kenny struggled with alcoholism and would often pass out while we were out drinking, going from bar to bar. Many times—even at 14 years old—I had to drive us home with him passed out in the passenger seat.
On one all-night binge, he insisted on driving and caused a serious accident. He drove head-on into a tree, demolishing our convertible so badly that the engine and transmission were thrown from the car.
Kenny and a female passenger were badly injured. I escaped with a badly bruised arm. When I came to from a blackout, I found myself chasing the girl who had stumbled away from the crash.
When I caught up with her, I saw how badly she was hurt. Her arm was dangling, and her jaw was clearly broken, hanging down toward her chest.
Ambulances took us to the hospital. There, I learned how severely my brother was injured—his arm was broken in six places.
I was too young to understand the path I was on. I was only 15. I continued to be Kenny’s drinking buddy for another year until I got my driver’s license. After that, I became “the driver,” because driving was my favorite thing to do.
From that point on, if I was in the car, I was the one driving. I drove friends and family wherever they wanted to go.
Kenny’s addiction worsened to the point that he was court-ordered to attend Alcoholics Anonymous. That terrified me—not because of him, but because I didn’t want to be labeled an alcoholic. I enjoyed drinking too much to have it threatened by his behavior, so I distanced myself from him.
Kenny’s story is one of the most tragic I have known in my forty years in AA. He struggled for many years and eventually died from his addiction at just 58 years old.
Even though we went separate ways in some respects, we still treated each other with love and respect. I just no longer drank with him.
I graduated early from high school and started working at a local company the day after my last class. My coworkers were all older than me.
Two of them, Frank and Izzy, became lifelong friends. They accepted me and helped guide me at work. I was only 17 and had no idea how to live. This was my first real job, and they became my mentors.
At 18, my girlfriend told me she was pregnant. That meant I had to grow up quickly. I was determined to take full responsibility for my life—to be the best husband, the best father, and the most responsible worker possible.
We went to another state and eloped. When we returned, I rented an apartment, and we moved in. I thought we were all set.
We were supposed to be a happy family, but there was another place that drew me in—a bar where I spent most of my free time. It was only a half mile from work but about 25 miles from home.
My alcoholism caused me to neglect my responsibilities to both my family and myself. This period lasted from 1973 until my first major motorcycle accident in August 1977.
I will never forget the first time I walked into that bar. It felt like stepping out of a black-and-white world into full color—like something out of The Wizard of Oz. I felt like I had finally found where I belonged.
I quickly became a regular. Eventually, when the phone rang, the bartender would answer, “No, he’s not here,” then turn to me and say, “Dan, that was your wife.” I would smile and order another beer.
I’m not proud of that. Looking back, I see how that environment reflected how I felt inside. The excitement of that place became my higher power.
Although alcoholism affects everything, that bar held a special place in my life. My coworkers were my closest friends. Even though they were older, I fit right in because I drank just as heavily as they did.
Over time, I realized I was there far more than they were. They would go home to their families, while I stayed behind—often alone with just the bartender.
What made it worse was seeing beautiful days outside while I sat inside drinking, knowing my wife and child were home without a car and without me.
Even in that crowded place, I felt deep loneliness and emptiness. I didn’t know how to express it, so I kept drinking.
My first marriage didn’t last long because of this lifestyle. I moved in with my friend Wayne, who lived near our workplace.
After the divorce, my ex-wife asked me to take custody of our two-year-old son. I agreed immediately, even though I knew I was struggling with alcoholism. My parents and sisters helped care for him while I worked and drank.
Eventually, I realized I needed to step up as a father. My family had been incredible, but it was my responsibility. I found a small two-bedroom mobile home, and with their help, we furnished it and moved in.
Still, my lifestyle didn’t change much. I found a babysitter nearby and would drop my son off early, then pick him up late after spending hours at the bar.
One day, my coworkers and I went to lunch at my favorite bar. We ordered pitchers of beer and settled in. The waitress, Ann, immediately caught my attention.
The attraction was intense. One day, with the help of alcohol, I asked her out. She said yes, and we soon began dating.
Not long after, she showed up at my place with her son and her belongings. “We’re moving in,” she said.
Her son was only a month younger than mine, and the boys had already become friends. Now, I no longer needed a babysitter for my son.
We soon moved into a larger home across the street. But despite everything, my heart was still at the bar. I continued searching for answers there instead of at home.
My life was unhealthy for both my family and myself, and I couldn’t stop. Then, in the summer of 1977, everything changed when I had a motorcycle accident.
Looking back now, I believe it may have been divine intervention—a moment where I was mercifully saved from my own destruction.