Chapter 5
I was drafted right out of college to the Kansas City Pioneers.
During my four years in Missouri, I was able to establish roots.
Make friends and become a local at some of my favorite restaurants.
Missouri wasn’t my first pick. I’d hoped to get drafted to a city like New York, Los Angeles, or Chicago.
Looking back now, Kansas City probably saved me.
I was twenty-one coming off a breakup and I was ready to be on demon time.
There is trouble to be had in Missouri if you go looking for it and I did a deep dive into the seeder aspects of the city.
The first two years I was a reckless asshole looking to fill a void.
If there was a party, I was usually in the thick of it surrounded by beautiful women.
I was getting more pussy than I could manage and experimenting with drugs I had no business trying.
Looking back on it now, I don’t know how I was able to maintain the late nights and early practice times.
I was moving at a breakneck speed, but I always knew I couldn’t fuck up my golden ticket.
So I showed up to every practice on time, sometimes with sunglasses and a raging hangover, but I was there, and I ran those drills until I was ready to puke.
There’s a reason we are warned that everything should be tried in moderation because overconsumption gets old and eventually you have to fuck weirder, indulge harder, and ignore your morals.
When I ended up at a party snorting coke, I knew I’d lost the plot.
Eventually, I fell all the way back from the party scene and worked on me.
I was straight as an arrow, I cut out sex, started saying no to drugs, and learned to enjoy the company of an intimate circle of friends.
I’m not saying I’m a choir boy now, but I’m choosy when it comes to who I give my energy to.
I’d been in Vegas for barely two weeks, but I knew I needed to go to an NA meeting.
Shit was coming at me fast and I couldn’t do this sobriety thing alone.
It was seven in the morning, and I was at Clean Slate Collective, a narcotics anonymous group held inside of a storefront church.
This was the part I hated the most because the anonymous never really benefited me.
People knew who I was. And if they didn’t, they could guess from my six-foot-five frame I was a ballplayer.
In Missouri everything seemed removed, no paparazzi or celebrity vloggers looking to break the next big story.
“Welcome in,” a man in a tan short-sleeved plaid shirt called out. “Find a seat anywhere. There are plenty open.” He wasn’t kidding, it was just me and him.
“Am I early?”
“No, I’d say you’re right on time.” His voice was rough, and his face lined. He was probably in his fifties but if he told me he was older, I wouldn’t bat an eye.
“Is it usually this well attended?” I joked, taking a seat across from him.
“On Monday people have to work.”
“Do you want me to come back?”
“That’s up to you. But if you prefer, we could just talk. I could use the company. Name’s Pete by the way.”
I scanned the empty room with its wood paneling and folding chairs. “I’m Aldrid … Al. People call me Al.” No one called me that, except my dad. I hated that name.
“Nice to meet you. What brings you here?”
“I’m new to town. Just moved here for work. I thought it would be good to establish a routine. In Missouri, that’s where I came from, they told me finding a group and attending a meeting was critical to my sobriety.”
“So, you’ve attended meetings in the past?”
“Yeah, once a week, sometimes more when needed.”
“You know there are other meetings in nicer neighborhoods.”
“I’m aware and I’ve been to some of them in the past.”
“And?”
“And I hated them. The people didn’t seem real. I couldn’t relate to their problems. And I found myself judging them, which is crazy because I’m in no position to think I’m better than the next addict.”
“When’s the last time you used?
“A year and a half ago.”
“When’s the last time you wanted to use?”
“What time is it?” I joked. “Are you a pastor or something?”
“No, me I’m a meth addict. Recovering, but if my mother heard you confusing me for a man of God she would be tickled pink.”
“I’m sure she’ll get a big laugh when you tell her.”
“She’s dead.”
“Oh God, I’m sorry.” My face flushed with embarrassment.
“It’s been years now. She passed long before I got clean. I was so fucking high I didn’t make it to her funeral.”
“Again, I’m very sorry.”
“It’s hard choosing to be clean every day.”
“The alternative is worse. I didn’t like who I was when I was high.”
“Shit, I did. I was funny mostly because I didn’t take shit seriously.” Pete took a sip from a paper cup.
“How long have you been clean?”
“Nine years. I’ve been choosing myself for nine years.”
“Congratulations, that’s great.”
“I tried and failed so many times I stopped counting. But my mom’s death was a wake-up call. Don’t get me wrong, I didn’t immediately check myself into rehab. That took months but the seed was planted.”
“I went to rehab after an overdose.” Leaning forward in my chair I asked, “Is the group good about discretion?”
“I can’t speak for everyone who walks through that door. But the groups I host take that shit seriously. We’re all just addicts in here.”
“Do you think I could get a list of the groups you host?”
“Sure.” Pete rose with a groan, his knees popping. After rummaging through a backpack in the corner, he returned arm outstretched with a flyer. “Everything you need to know is on there. Do you have a sponsor?”
“Not in Vegas no.”
“I’ll pitch in until we can find you a more permanent solution.
” With that we exchanged phone numbers. I liked my sponsor in Missouri; in truth I was kind of attached to him.
The people that hold you up and support you when you’re at your lowest leave an impression.
Jimmy didn’t have to go so hard for me. But he never missed a call.
Listened when I wanted to use. And provided a safe space when everything around me felt hostile and unfamiliar.
“Thanks.” I didn’t budge from my chair.
“Do you need something else?”
“Uhm.” I looked to the front of the room with the picture of Jesus staring back at me with a benevolent smile. “Is it okay if I just sit here for a little bit longer?”
“No problem at all.” Pete sat back down taking a sip of coffee.
I didn’t really have anything I wanted to say.
I just wanted to be in this space for as long as possible.
And Pete had gained my trust. Being from Philly, I was a good judge of character.
I could point out the users, the bullies, and the people it was best to avoid if you want to continue breathing.
Pete appeared to be a straight shooter, and he would never piss on my head and tell me it was raining.
And if I rang him in the middle of the night telling him I was thinking of calling a dealer he would listen, allowing me to vent before offering alternatives.
For his part, Pete just sat in the chair across from me. He could have left or scrolled his phone, but he just sat staring out the window humming. And that small gesture meant the world to me.
Moving to Vegas and joining the Ramblers felt like the first day at a new school.
All of my safeguards were gone as I tried to navigate this new city.
You had people who were trying to test me, people who wanted something from me, and people who seemed cool but one could never tell if there were ulterior motives.
When my teammate, Dante Caldwell, suggested we hangout I reluctantly accepted his offer.
I had zero friends in this town and Nori insisted I couldn’t sit up in my hotel room like Brandy forever.
Dante was twenty-eight and we had similar interests.
That was a lie, all I knew about this man was he was the loudest one in practice, and that was saying a lot with the cast of characters on this team.
When he approached me on the second day of training, he seemed cool enough.
Dante was always on ten which could be a little annoying, but I considered that a plus.
He’d always advance the conversation even if my responses were “uh-huh” or “Wow, that’s crazy.
” It took the pressure off me. I was in Vegas with no home and zero friends.
It was time to test the waters in my new city and see what it was hitting for.
And if I had to stare at the creepy Victorian woman on my hotel wall for one more night, I might start to crack.
Dante planned our whole evening. First, we hit up a lounge for pregame drinks, I had seltzer water with a wedge of lime.
Afterwards, we made it to Enclave, which Dante claimed was the place to be on a Saturday night in Vegas.
And from the looks of it he wasn’t lying.
Enclave was packed with scantily clad women and men in wife beaters.
The music was my speed, some Hip-Hop like XYZ Baby and Future, fused with Dru Hill, Aaliyah, and Jodeci.
Everyone was in a good mood, which boosted mine.
Dante secured a VIP booth, so the bottle girls were making the rounds.
When I told our waitress I wanted a Shirley Temple she looked at me like I was lame.
Alcohol was never my drug of choice, always opting for stronger substances.
Pete would probably be disappointed if he saw my current situation.
Surrounded by people who were all intoxicated in some form or fashion.