Halfway down the stairs, a young man in a security uniform—obviously working a side hustle to help pay for school—stops me and asks, “Where you headed?”

As I wave my ticket in front of him, I think about saying “the library?” but refrain and answer, “to my seat.”

“Let me see your ticket,” he says, and sticks out his hand.

I know exactly where my seat is, but that outstretched hand thing gets me every time and I hand him my ticket. He scans it and then looks me in the eye. “That’s the other end of the stadium. You need to go back up and walk around to the C-gate.”

I stifle my “no shit, Sherlock,” thought and nod, extending my hand for my ticket. “I know where my seat is. I’m cutting across this way.” I point past the security guard toward my intended path.

“No, you’re not.” He smiles. “You been drinking?”

Now, if you haven’t done the math, I’m in my 30s and am very comfortable with a little pre-game social lubrication and my legal right to enjoy it. I smile back. “Hell yes, brother,” I say, “Enjoyed a couple down at Breakfast Club. How about you?”

His smile drops. “We don’t allow drinking at our football games.” He takes my ticket and tears it in half. I’m too shocked to point out that I’m not drinking at the game and I step toward him, my arm reaching forward to retrieve my only proof that I paid for this event.

The guard’s eyes widen as he takes a step backwards, and he fumbles for a whistle. As the shrill blast causes heads to turn our way, I squint my eyes at him, and then turn to see who he’s calling. Two uniformed policemen are shuffling down the stairs toward me, the lead officer holding a mike to his mouth, lips moving.

I start to explain, but am quickly handcuffed and escorted to a patrol car. The police say they are charging me with public intoxication and I ask for a breathalyzer. They refuse, so I remain silent for my ride to the Tippecanoe County Jail.

I never get to explain myself. Turns out public intoxication is a Class B misdemeanor and the police do not require proof to charge someone. It’s just 12 hours in the slammer and then you’re free to go.

My friends got pretty worried about my absence. Not so worried that they missed any of the game (priorities are priorities) but worried enough that they called hospitals first before calling the police. They were there to pick me up around midnight and I had a few stories to share about my cellmates (I was the only guy in there for just 12 hours.)

I spent the next several months trying unsuccessfully to get the charge expunged from my records. I spent the next twenty years having to explain what happened that day every time I re-upped my security clearance.

Once, I interviewed for a job working in the White House. The day before the actual interview, two security guys were running the pre-interview checks with me. “How about we talk about the elephant in the room?” the first guy says, because he’s read my written account of my life story. I start telling the story and I’ve just gotten to the Breakfast Club when he interrupts and says, “Hey sir, we’re talking about your $40 charge past due to Sam’s Club.” (I’d been disputing said charge for three years) He continues, “If you want to interview tomorrow, you need to clear that debt.”

A phone call later, I was debt-free.

There is no moral to this story, but I’ve used it a few times to talk about judgment. Here’s the deal: On the one hand, I can whine about “I only had two drinks, he tore up my ticket, they wouldn’t give me a breathalyzer, blah, blah.”

Or I can look back and point to a single moment. When that young security guard said “You need to go back up and walk around to the C-gate,” I could have looked him in the eye and said, “Yes, Sir.”

And it all might have gone differently.

p.s. and I would’ve seen Drew Brees and those Silver Twins!