The People Who Knew You Before

As a Pittsburgh sports fan, I’ve watched Sidney Crosby, Evgeni “Geno” Malkin, and Kris Letang for most of my adult life.

They’re entering their 21st season together. The longest any trio has been teammates in major North American professional sports.

Three Stanley Cups. Four trips to the Finals.

The obvious subject here is loyalty.

But the more I thought about these three, the more I kept coming back to something else.

They knew each other before.

Before the championships. Before the historic careers. Before they knew how any of this would turn out.

Now they can look across a locker room and see someone who remembers the beginning.

That means a lot to me.

Almost ten years ago, I walked into the rooms of recovery defeated.

And there are people in my life today who knew me when I walked through that door.

They knew me before the life I have now. Before I had almost ten years sober to point to. When I was still at the beginning, trying to figure out how to live differently.

I think about what it means to still have those people in my life.

I don’t have to give them the cleaned-up version of how I got here.

They were there.

There’s something vulnerable about being around people who remember you when you were defeated. You can’t build your whole identity around how well you’re doing today. They know there’s more to the story.

And I’m grateful for that.

Because I can get caught up in work, ambition, stress, and whatever problem I’ve decided needs to be solved immediately. I can forget how much has changed.

Those relationships remind me.

Watching Crosby, Malkin, and Letang makes me think about all the life that happens while people are building something together.

We remember the championships. The goals. The celebrations.

But twenty years also holds disappointment, injuries, grief, and ordinary days when nobody is celebrating anything.

One story says a lot.

In January 2023, Letang’s father died. At the end of a road trip, the Penguins traveled to Quebec to attend his funeral instead of flying straight home. Crosby helped get that conversation started.

They changed their plans. They showed up.

That’s the kind of thing you remember about people.

In recovery, we spend a lot of time listening to one another. Over time, you learn someone’s story. You hear what they’re struggling with. You notice when something is off.

You also give them the opportunity to know you.

That last part can be uncomfortable.

It’s easier to talk about being honest than to let someone see what’s actually going on. Especially when you think you should be further along by now.

Almost ten years sober doesn’t mean I’ve stopped needing people.

I still get stressed. Angry. Stubborn. I still get in my own way.

And I need people who know me well enough to call me on my shit. People I can tell the truth to without having to make it sound better first.

I also need to remember that those relationships require something from me.

A call. Time. Attention. Being willing to listen. Showing up when someone else is having a hard day.

Shared history gives you a foundation. You still have to take care of the relationship.

And you have to let each other grow.

I’m grateful for the people who remember how I walked into recovery. I’m grateful they’ve also had the chance to know who I’ve become.

There’s a lot of life between those two versions of me.

They’ve been there for it.

Eventually, Sid, Geno, and Letang will play their last game together. I’ll hate seeing that end. These guys have been part of my life for twenty years.

But thinking about them has made me appreciate something closer to home.

I walked into those rooms defeated almost ten years ago.

Today, I still get to pick up the phone and call people who remember.

I think I owe a few of them a call.