At 10:00 PM the underground subway platform was tightly packed with Red Sox fans.
It would take several trains arriving to clear the mass of people wanting to go home after a Sox victory. In the shadows at the far end of the platform, where the track disappears into a dark, curving void, I noticed two young men.
They were college freshmen or sophomores, at most. One of them, wearing a Northeastern sweatshirt, was so drunk that his friend was holding him up while struggling to keep him from staggering off the raised platform onto the tracks. Waiting passengers moved away from the young men, packing themselves against each other toward the opposite end of the platform.
Despite their obvious revulsion, none of the onlookers could drag their eyes away from the unfolding drama. In nonsensical fits and starts Northeastern kept struggling to break free of his friend. The sober man was losing the battle of keeping his friend safe. I looked at my spouse and said, “I’ll be right back.” She grabbed my wrist and said, “This is dangerous. You could get hurt. Just stay here.” “I can’t do that,” I replied and left my wife’s side to help keep this kid out of harm’s way. Just as I grasped Northeastern’s shoulders, he began to vomit, depositing an alcohol-and-Fenway-Frank slurry onto the cement, my shoes and pants, and his friend’s shoes and pants. Wide-eyed waiting passengers moved even further away, reacting as if a nuclear weapon had detonated instead of an inebriated college kid retching after a baseball game.
Two Massachusetts Bay Transportation Police Officers arrived on the platform as an inbound train’s headlights lit the tunnel. The burly officers flanked Northeastern, grasped his arms, and pulled him away from the edge of the platform.
When I rejoined my wife, she looked at my vomit-soaked shoes and pants, then looked into my eyes and asked why I felt I needed to get involved helping Northeastern. I reached into my pocket and pulled out my 33-year AA medallion.
I held it in my open palm. I was already sober when I met my wife; she has never seen me drunk.
“Because I am him,” I answered.
Gina McNeely writes and lives in Conway, MA.