1950, Yale. Sandy B. is in tails, clutching a coffee cup that spins on his finger before he falls off his chair and wets his pants. While the old-timers were in Cleveland drafting the Traditions, Sandy was mastering the art of the blackout. He describes a life fueled by "gin and guilt," a Connecticut Yankee raised in a stoic home who felt fundamentally inadequate, imagining a scorecard in purgatory for thoughts he hadn't even acted on yet.
A Marine jet pilot who flew for twelve years, Sandy eventually became a shell of a man, wearing sunglasses to hide the fact that "there's no one in that man." The wreckage peaked in a hangar during the Kennedy assassination ceremony, where he stood shaking and soaking wet with perspiration, terrified to salute the flag. After a ground-mouse seizure in a classroom and a stint in a "nut ward" crib, he found a Higher Power. He credits his sobriety to the simple act of not drinking, noting that it's hard to have a spiritual awakening while throwing up.
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