Shortly after Brock Purdy’s pass deflected off a defender and miraculously landed in Brandon Aiyuk’s hands, I poured myself a drink. The Lions were up big, but the tide had turned.

I’d seen this story before. I watched the 2013 Tigers implode despite their massive talent when, like Purdy’s 49ers, the Boston Red Sox dashed the hopes of Detroit fans everywhere. After Aiyuk’s catch, the Niners went on a run, and the inevitable happened. After the first playoff wins in decades, Detroit still came up short.

Once again, I was faced with the sinking feeling that my team may never win it all. What’s a guy to do? Despite having spent a few weeks trying to keep liquor out of the house, I found a half-full bottle of bottom-shelf Montezuma tequila ($14 for a fifth), basically water mixed with rubbing alcohol.

By the end of the game, it was almost gone. After I woke up the next morning, I sat on the end of the bed and felt a sense of peace. I knew it was time to leave drinking behind. I didn’t have some terrible hangover, I just felt released. I told my wife I was done with it and called it a decade. By the grace of God, I’ve been a cold-turkey quitter, like a 60-year-old hard-ass who stops smoking after one bad checkup.

My first beer was an Oberon at sunset on the Traverse City beach. My cousin handed one to 18-year-old me, and I figured it was a fine time to begin. My college years were nearing, after all, and I didn’t want to show up and make a fool of myself.

I loved it from the first sip. The faint note of orange peel, the full body—it’s the perfect summer beer.

Beers marked the seasons through college: fall nights sitting on the roof of my ramshackle house drinking Best Brown with friends, the whiplash of a Hopslam on a rainy spring afternoon. And Coors Banquet stubby bottles for the aesthetic.

The beer years were innocent. But for me, drinking only went one way. After graduation and marriage, I became a Trader Joe’s wine guy. Three bottles a week, maybe more. It felt classy. We had nice glassware. The buzz was better.

After a few years came the martini age. I was blessedly too young and liked running enough not to get gout, but were I older, I would certainly have been at risk. The three-martini evening is so easy to do. The first before dinner, the second with the meal, and the third or fourth or fifth while reading or watching TV. I kept the gin in the freezer, the vermouth in the fridge, and olives always in stock. I could whip one up in 30 seconds. There never seemed to be enough time for a shaker.

As time wore on, I fixated on volume for the price. Could I find a better deal than Bombay? Was there a bottom-shelf handle of gin that could work if it was cold enough? Turns out there always was, especially given how liquor had eroded my palate. 

These are not the thoughts of a lover of fine things; these are the thoughts of someone with a burgeoning problem. Martinis turned to whisky, without even a couple of olives to ballast me. To keep my habit from sounding too much like a country song, I tried to make it nice. I bought the fancy ice cube molds, the bitters. But the truth of it is that drinking hard liquor in the evenings had become a pastime.

I should say that I never really embarrassed myself drinking, save maybe once. I knew when to slow down, when to stop, and almost never drank too much around others. But the habit took its toll. My body didn’t feel good in my mid-20s. I was 20 pounds heavier than I should have been. The 3 a.m. water-craving wakeup wrecked my sleep and made me irritable.

Rock bottom was Montezuma, and the Lions. I didn’t need rehab or anything. It was just time.

Your past doesn’t determine your future. The minute I told my wife I was done, the spell was broken, and by the grace of God, it’s stayed that way. An ancestral line of hard drinkers severed, and for the best.

But I do miss it. I wish I could be the kind of guy who can be satisfied with just one beer, but I can’t. If one drink was good, five would be great. My drive to empty the bottle was just too strong.

I’ve switched to non-alcoholic beer, which sucks, no matter what they tell you. It’s less than half as satisfying as drinking a real one after mowing the lawn. It’s so bad that I’m not fastidious about keeping it in the fridge. The fact is that my life feels a little thinner without booze. There’s no easy way to celebrate, no get-out-of-jail-free card to help me relax.

But whatever woe I feel from having left drinking behind, I knew my life was only going one way, and I didn’t like the direction. In those moments, you’ve got to head back.

Mark Naida is managing editor of Michigan Enjoyer.