In 2004, Marc Cappelletti took a job as a Philadelphia Eagles Beer Man. Photo courtesy Marc Cappelletti.

By Marc Cappelletti

Growing up in a family with three Heisman Trophy winners and NFL running backs (John Cappelletti and, through marriage, Alan Ameche and Glenn Davis), I never had to go far for my football fix. Games, memorabilia, awards banquets—I was blessed to have intimate access to a sport I loved. But it wasn’t until I left those privileges at the front gate and strapped two cases of beer around my neck that I learned what it really means to be a part of the football experience.

It was late summer 2004. I was a year out of college and, after a short stint in the travel industry, had moved home to Philadelphia with a blank calendar and some souvenirs. At the same time, my favorite team, the Eagles, were poised to win the NFC East and, some were saying, the Super Bowl. I wanted in on the action. My first instinct was to apply for a marketing job and hope for game-time perks, but the team wasn’t hiring. I considered going the George Plimpton route and asking to be the team’s last-string quarterback, but an acute fear of having my legs broken by 300-pound linemen prevented me from even making the call. Then a friend told me about another way in. It involved barley, water, hops and lots of sweat.

This was the era before craft brews hit the stadiums, so the only choices were Budweiser, Bud Light, Coors Light and Miller Lite, the canned kings of sports arenas nationwide. Because Philadelphia fans have shown a tendency to throw things in the stands (batteries, snowballs, bottles, tantrums), every beer had to be poured into a plastic cup—a seemingly simple task. But while trudging up and down the aisles, stopping only to kneel amongst puddles of dip spit and the remains of peanut shells as 65,000 beer-thirsty fans scream in unison, “Hey! Beer Man! Gimme two!” pouring those 16-ounce tallboys is not so simple.

During the first game, perched high atop the upper deck (or the Nest of Death, as diehard fans call it), I fell victim to the wrath of carbonation three times. The frothy head spilled over the rim of the cup and onto the concrete steps below.

“Hey! Beer Man!” a nearby fan yelled.

I expected to hear how many beers he wanted.

“You suck!” he said.

I most definitely did suck. But over the course of the game and throughout the season I learned from my mistakes. I learned to respect the beer, to slow down, making sure that each pour was perfect. Tips increased. I learned that real Beer Men don’t just offer beer; they also sell it with phrases like, “The more you drink the better they play!” peppered in with the traditional, “Beer here! Ice cold!” When temperatures dropped, avoiding the term “ice cold” altogether is sometimes best.

The Beer Men set the tone in the stands and, if done with the right amount of panache, the fans respond in kind. They want to buy from a guy who is quick, competent, but who adds a little something to their experience—someone they’d want sitting next to them. Even in the Nest of Death a good smile goes a long way.

For once, beer got me off the couch. I showed up early for games to hang out with the other vendors: from the 18-year-olds out for some spending money to the pros who sold for all sporting events and concerts, or the guys for which selling beer was their second or third job. I gained a tremendous amount of respect for all of them and their backbreaking work.

By the end of the season, when the fireworks went off and Eagles won their first NFC Championship in 24 years, I had sold more beer, had more fun and connected with more fans than I had ever imagined. A few times I was even the focus of a full section “Beer Man!” chant. I was filled with pride, barely able to control my emotions, running around, high fiving strangers and jumping up and down as if I’d scored the winning touchdown myself. I even hugged a security guard.

As I have moved on to other jobs, the résumé bullet point about being a Philadelphia Eagles Beer Man has been the most commented on. I always smile when it is mentioned and embrace the irony that even when the discussion should be about my “actual” employment history, people really just want to talk about selling beer. Then I’m back in 2004, a humble servant of the fans shouting throughout the stands and into the heavens, “Let there be beer. And let it be ice cold.” Tips are appreciated.

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Julia Herz is the publisher of CraftBeer.com and the craft beer program director for the Brewers Association.

By Julia Herz

All beer lovers have their story. Mine began in an unlikely way, but looking back now it all makes sense. When I was young, my brother, Billy, had a beer can collection. I remember following him on my banana-seat bike (sans tassels ’cause that’s how I rolled) as he’d score collectibles in shopping mall parking lots, diving into dumpsters, trading with his friends and having a blast every minute and in every dumpster. This all to me was fascinating.

I also remember going to a place when I was young and not even double digits in age. We had to walk downstairs into what seemed like the cave of a brick castle. There was usually a line to get in, and it was always darker than other restaurants, yet the place was warm, inviting and full of cheer. It was the Brickskeller in Washington, D.C., and my parents would take me and Billy there every few months with the goal of a family outing over food (and beer for the adults), and to help stock his growing can collection. Mom and Dad would order all the beers my brother wanted just for the package it was in. Amazing. They’d drink some, too, but mostly ended up giving the extra liquid to the tables nearby so he could still have the can with the bottom punched out (breweriana style) and top still intact. It all amazed me, without even tasting a brew. I liked the packaging, its variety, the people I connected with and what a good mood my parents would be in on these outings. The beer seed was planted in my mind.

In college I drank my share of mass-produced adjunct lager but was always turned off by the advertising for beer. Much of it seemed demeaning toward women and geared toward males in their 20s, which did not include me. I looked for something more. I spent the first few years after college in the television news business, but soon became disheartened by the corporate world and decided to take a risk and travel the good ol’ U.S. of A. By now, beer had become part of my DNA. Along with my friend, Christie, I hit the road for nine months in my Volkswagen, affectionately dubbed the Gypsy Jetta, in search of what we called the “great three”: great outdoors, great music and great beer.

After long stretches camping in the backwoods, we would head to the nearest town and seek out people we most saw eye to eye with. The brewpubs were the places we always felt most welcome. Here is where I found I liked the way the beer tasted and how it was marketed. I loved the variety and how beer paired with food, and I loved the people.

That trip changed my life, renewed my hope in a very organic and evolving definition of the word “community” and opened my eyes to craft-brewed beer from small and independent producers, and all that surrounds the pursuit of it. From this trip I remember visiting Anchor Steam Brewery—my first brewery tour—and thinking that I could have a life in beer. Soon after, I decided to homebrew, and at a beer festival a short time later, I entered a contest for an American Homebrewers Association membership. I won after a man named Charlie Papazian picked my name out of a hat. It was fate. The beer life was literally calling my name.

Often I think of what Ken Wells, author of Travels With Barley: a Journey through Beer Culture in America, wrote in this very column some years ago. “It was our first, tiny taste of optimism.” To me that fine statement sums up beer. Any day I am enjoying a beer is a better day than when I’m not. Frankly speaking, I’m inspired by the beverage and especially by what’s going on with craft beer in the United States. Its taste, its packaging, its producers, its variety, how it pairs with food, the people I connect with every time I enjoy one, and yes, the way it makes me feel. I say I’m maybe 100 pounds in a wet towel, so every sip counts. Thus I’ve learned to savor the flavor in low quantities, but with pride, not shame. I savor frequently, daily. Now, with each sip, my tiny taste of optimism expands even more, each and every day.

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I grew up in Ohio on Stroh’s. I went to Penn State (IC Light pumpers!), so probably the first good beer I had was Leinenkugel’s, courtesy of my brother-in-law from Wisconsin. My dad grew up on a farm drinking dandelion wine, so I didn’t get it from him. He did drink scotch, though. In his later years, I tried to interest him in dark craft beers, but he never caught the bug.

My maternal grandmother emigrated from Bohemia, an orphan at 15. Even after 70 years in the United States, everything was “too cold,” “too sweet” and “the beer too thin.” I now know what she meant, though I didn’t like my first oatmeal stout, bowling at the student union in Madison. I eventually developed a taste for the heartier beers, and my wife, from Pittsburgh, now drinks stouts and porters exclusively.

I may have simply stumbled upon my initial brewpub experience, a place in Grayling, MI, one night driving north on I-75. Or did I stop along U.S. 2, traveling to a Duluth Dukes baseball game? The history is muddled, but all memoir is fiction. I started collecting brewpubs.

My first bout of collecting began with espresso bars in the mid-90s. I was traveling throughout Minnesota for work, and always looking for (and rarely finding) good espresso. I had a precocious, then-10-year-old, programmer son. We purchased the domain name espressobars.net, and he set up a database of places in Minnesota claiming to brew espresso. My goal became to test espresso and write reviews for the site. Sometimes I received free shots as the site gained traction.

My other current collection is baseball stadiums: I have, thus far, been to 19 major league stadiums (some now retired) and seven minor league parks.

So, was my first brewpub in Grayling, or Twin Ports Brewing in Allouez (Superior) Wisconsin, back when it was in the Choo Choo bar? Or was it South Shore in Ashland, before The Depot burned down and they moved? Whichever the christening, soon following came Town Hall, Rock Bottom and Great Waters in the Twin Cities. I still visit Great Waters—the chains, not so much, although the Rock Bottom on Grand, in Chicago, is a wonderful exception.

In 2004, my travel increased dramatically and I found myself with enough airline miles to sit up front, and in enough cities to start truly evaluating the various craft beer cultures. In 2006, I purchased the business I worked for, in part to fine-tune my travel to hit more brewpubs. Before every trip, I search for at least one new outlet to explore for porters and good food. And find them I have: in 27 states and 80 cities, in towns with fewer than 2,000 people, and in places like Chicago, St. Louis, Houston and Seattle.

I find them in old hotels and rail stations, in strip malls and gas stations, even a former church. Steel sheds, movie theaters and old department stores, too. On three coasts and in the desert, in suburbs and on Liberty Avenue. I find them on ratebeer.com and beer100.com, and in The Brewing News and All About Beer, or through Google and by word of mouth. I have been back to more than 40 and only walked out of one. I even drove 900 miles in one day to get back to one of the best (Beaver Street Brewing in Flagstaff, AZ).

Brewpubs are the complete package: beer, food, people who like beer and people who talk about beer! Traveling is not fun, but I have spent a couple of afternoons in Missoula that more than make up for canceled flights and airline food.

Twin Ports is now Thirsty Pagan. Allendale’s is on its third or fourth name, and several places have closed for good. Some are now just restaurants. Brewpubs seem to fare worse in college towns; most kids won’t pay $4 for a beer, but KBC, West Virginia Brewing (now Morgantown) and Gentle Ben’s are happy exceptions.

I favor porters, but also enjoy the occasional wheat or rye and a range of IPAs, and I almost always have dinner (OK, sometimes lunch) with my beer. I have padded the list with a few tasting rooms—I couldn’t leave off Big Sky on a technicality!

I have had great beer and bad beer and sour beer, and, at a waitress’s suggestion in Minneapolis, tasteless beer (as in, “you have to try the porter; it is utterly tasteless”). The food is often good, the chains consistent, and the best places independent and in surprising locales such as Winston-Salem, Rapid City and Louisville, or the old Falstaff plant in St. Louis.

Back home in Duluth, MN, looking out at Lake Superior and sipping a Big Boat Stout, or a Scanlon IPA or a Coal Car (uh, sorry, “Burntwood Black” these days) Ale, I get a hankering for a wheat or a blonde IPA. I go to Delta.com and think, “I am sure I need to go to Kansas City.” Sounds like the start of a great trip.

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Along with my trusty mutt, Pepper, I meander the streets of Jersey City, NJ, on the final walk of the day, taking my time to unwind and let the dog do her sniffy thing. I don’t go digging through barrels; I just observe whatever is on top of the pile. There, among the crumpled bottles of Poland Spring and familiar cans of brewers with generations of history, are bottles from the likes of Maine Beer Co., Lagunitas, Southern Tier, 21^st Amendment, Full Sail and more. As the seasons change, so do the beers. Summer brews turn into pumpkin bottles, followed by winter ale empties.

The first article I wrote on beer appeared in print in 2002. It was a relatively short piece on how the brewing scene in my home state had grown over the previous five years and was poised to grow even more. I had discovered beer through my job as a newspaper journalist. Traveling the country chronicling stories of mayhem and everyday life, I would seek out brewpubs in the evening. There, I could find friendly people, knowledgeable staff and a community spirit that made life on the road a little easier. Through those interactions, I became well-versed in beer and soon racked up quite a list of breweries visited.

At the time I had no idea that beer writing would become my full-time career. I’ve been extraordinarily lucky to chronicle the story of American beer for the last decade. I have enjoyed the efforts of skilled brewers, met kindred drinking souls and been able to travel the country to see the business firsthand. It’s an extraordinary privilege.

There are downsides, however. Covering the beer industry means living in a bubble. It’s a realm in which nearly everyone knows about hop varietals or geeks out over barrel aging. Where names of celebrity brewers are batted around casually, and plans for a drink are made not at the local bar, but at large events like SAVOR or the Craft Brewers Conference. It’s a world unto its own, and, often, I feel like it leaves the customers or casual drinkers out of the equation. It’s particularly troubling because as a journalist it’s my job to educate, inform and entertain.

That’s the reason I like recycling night. I’m able to see firsthand what’s popular in my neighborhood, what people stock up on for parties, and occasionally see a bottle that is unfamiliar or is of a vintage that makes me think someone just celebrated a special occasion. These observations take me out of the bubble.

The beer industry has changed significantly in the last five years. The community of craft beer lovers has grown by leaps and bounds. Some high-end restaurants now carry impressive beer lists, better brews are served at ballparks, and even the president is getting in on the action.

Yet, for all that good there is still work to be done. If more newcomers to better beer are going to join the fold, we—the ones who have already seen the light—must be patient yet helpful. Offering light-beer drinkers the latest Brettanomyces-infused stout and acting disappointed when they don’t share our enthusiasm is not useful. Nor is it constructive to scoff at someone who drinks a ubiquitous “Belgian” white, rather than the bottle of Cantillon lambic. Helpful suggestions in an approachable way can do more good in the long run, rather than shaming people or displaying clear frustration.

To take that tack puts us in the dangerous realm of wine snobs. That must be avoided. This is beer. It’s fun. All-inclusive. A good-time social beverage.

All of us who care about this industry or earn a living in one of its branches must foster the new drinkers to get them into the fold. This will take time, and I’ll be interested to see where things are five years from now.

In the meantime, I’m doing my part through articles and patient conversation—and also, a little subliminally, by making sure I put the interesting empties on top of my own recycling pile each week.

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My red-letter day for beer was in 1986. While browsing through a shop in Myrtle Beach, SC, I found a beer with an interesting red, white and blue label with a tag that modestly proclaimed that it was “Voted best beer in America.”  The beer was, of course, Samuel Adams lager. I bought a six-pack and I was astonished at this beer. The beer had flavor—much more than any than any I had tasted before. I did not understand the how or why but I knew I liked it. Sam Adams showed me what was possible with beer yet it perplexed and troubled me because the source of these flavors was a mystery.

I did not fully realize at the time but the craft beer renaissance in North America was underway and the appearance of Sam Adams signaled that the fruits of this renaissance were finally trickling down to the South.  I eventually found All About Beer Magazine at a newsstand in the mid 1990s and that was my second beer revelation. The magazine opened the door to beer knowledge and the culture of beer. AAB led me to Michael Jackson and other luminaries of the beer world—I became a serious student of beer.  I soon realized that as I learned the intricacies of beer and brewing I came to appreciate and respect this fascinating and complex beverage on a completely new level.  I was hooked—beer and its culture became my passion.

I became a Beer Judge Certification Program judge and then an all-grain homebrewer, which gave me a totally new perspective on the creative process of brewing and an appreciation for the work of professional brewers. As a beer judge, I travelled to competitions in various parts of the Southeast and interacted with interesting people (and some genuine characters) who shared my enthusiasm for beer. This interaction intensified my passion for all things beer as I immersed myself in beer culture.

Garrett Oliver’s 2003 book The Brewmaster’s Table was my third beer revelation. In this masterwork, Oliver effectively demonstrated the possibilities of pairing food and beer in a way that had never been done before. The book raised the level of American beer culture several notches by bringing fine beer to the dining table. The positive effects of this book are still being felt today as more and more restaurants expand their craft beer selections and actually have printed beer lists.

From my study of the history of beer, I am convinced that we are living in the greatest age for beer in history—without a doubt, the finest beer ever brewed is made in North America and quite possibly just down the street.

I do believe seasoned enthusiasts like me have a greater appreciation for the exceptional beer now available than our younger brothers and sisters: We know where the beer world was and how far it has come in a very short time and that leads to my concern for the future. As craft beer matures, the special relationship between brewers and customers may be lost. Craft beer started as grass roots, anti-establishment movement that enthusiasts felt a part of. As the industry grows, it may loose that aspect and simply become a business. If that happens, it will be a terrible loss for all of us who have a passion for fine beer.

It’s OK to drink beer in the morning. Yes, you read me correctly: It’s OK to drink beer in the morning. I’m not saying you should replace milk in your cereal with beer anytime soon (though the name Beereal is very fun to say), but I’m letting you know that it’s OK to grab a beer before noon. I promise no one will judge you, as long as you find the right forum to do it in.

It’s well-documented that beer and sports complement each other nicely. In fact, since turning the legal drinking age, I cannot think of a sporting event that I have witnessed where I didn’t have a beer in my hand. Beer helps me cheer louder and with more passion. Whether it’s a football Sunday or a weeknight hockey game, I think beer is a necessity with sports. Now the paradox, what if the sport is played in the morning?

The first time I had an early morning beer, I was invited to a little pub in the city that was going to be screening a Premier League soccer game at 8 a.m. Naively, I assumed everyone would be grabbing a juice from a nearby convenience store, or maybe sipping coffee. I mean, after all, are people even allowed to serve beer in the morning? Surely taps don’t even work when the sun is barely over the horizon. I imagined the pub was just a forum where televisions were provided for watching a live soccer game that was taking place across the ocean. Back in those days my beer knowledge was limited to any saying that rhymed, and of course to drinking before noon looked bad.

What I walked into, however, could have been taking place at midnight in any other bar I had ever been to. There were soccer fans clinking beer glasses, guzzling drinks and singing merrily. I was stunned to still have sleep crust in my eyes yet still see beer consumed so happily and without judgment while the sun had just kissed the sky. Could I have been so wrong about the consumption of beer in the early morning hours? Was it possible that people rose early on Sunday mornings for a glass instead of mass?

There was only one scientific way to find out.

My friends and I ordered a round and joined in the excitement. I don’t know if that first sip tasted as good as my first beer tasted, but I know that it felt special. It felt special to be there in that moment. It felt like I was doing something I shouldn’t, and I loved it. The beer was accompanied by raucous cheering and clumsy sing-alongs of time-honored songs. In a way, this Sunday morning gathering had its own tradition infused in it, and it welcomed visitors with open arms and foamy pints.

Of course, this generosity only abides as long as you wear the right colors.

Since then, I have followed a team that regularly plays in the wee hours, and when I am lucky enough to find an accommodating bar, I love to imbibe in the morning. It’s a special treat. I like to share this experience with anyone I can. It’s not for the faint of heart, or for those who like to sleep in, but it is an experience that I highly recommend. So the next time you wake up with a thirsty mouth, make sure to get yourself to a nearby pub. You will find a camaraderie at the bar that you won’t find at night, and you will find that it’s OK to drink beer in the morning.

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I grew up during prohibition—No, I’m not an especially young-looking 98 years old! In Oklahoma, my home state, the noble experiment was repealed in 1959, 26 years after federal repeal. Spirits, wine and beers over 3.2 percent alcohol were forbidden. Such a system didn’t exactly encourage scholarship, but I did develop an early interest in beer: its taste, history, and especially advertising and particularly packaging. I discovered them in the pool hall next door to the cotton gin. Gus, the owner, wasn’t big on checking IDs, so beer became my tipple at an early age. Even then, I chose the local beer: Progress, Goetz and my favorite, if only for the name, Griesedieck. They each cost a nickel compared to national brands that tasted the same but sold for a dime! I researched beer and did what I could to study the labels and consider the tastes, which were all very similar. As I grew older and local beers became history, I drank “the coldest brew” and often mixed it with tomato juice.

My first intellectual discussion about wine was at a friend’s home to answer the question: “Did Jesus drink wine?” His parents insisted that his tipple was grape juice. Turning water into grape juice didn’t sound like much of a miracle to this non-believer, plus I knew that sugar in grapes naturally ferments into alcohol. I was more interested in my girlfriend’s wine-drinking habits than Jesus’. She did, and so did her bon vivant uncle who gave me an assorted case of wine when I started college. I was taken, not only by the variety of different tastes, but also by the packages, history and tradition. It led me to a job managing a liquor store my senior year. I devoured more wine books than wine and developed a good enough understanding of the subject to receive a job offer from a wine importer. My fascination with beer was hamstrung only by the dearth of information on the subject at the time, plus I had wine to sell.

I became encased in the wine trade, and ultimately started my own wine company, which I sold and moved to Washington to build a winery. When I traveled in the U.S., I sought out local beer, though most of what I tasted was light, tasteless lager. I also “experienced” every imported beer I could get my hands on, hoping because they were imported, and more expensive, they would be better. They were not! Almost all fell short of what I knew malt and hops were capable of, based on beers I had tasted on trips to Europe. As an artist, I also felt that they came up short on packaging in comparison to wines. My timing was grand cru classé. The 1970s started what became known as “the wine boom.” There were many marketing successes. My company originally acted as the exclusive U.S. agent for one of two extant Washington wineries. Though we started with only a few thousand cases, today they produce more Riesling than any other winery in the world, and there are now more than 800 Washington wineries. Knowledge and availability increased exponentially, but so did competition.

I felt that the beer lover, like me, was not being as well served and decided to do something about it. In 1978, I quit my job working for the winery and got into beer. Having built my previous business marketing wines that tasted different from one another, I sought out American beers of different styles. I toured the country visiting breweries and worked with one to produce what would become America’s first contract beer, an all-malt lager of the Export style. Other than pilsner, there weren’t many styles available. My only other option was to secure the exclusive agencies for traditional family-owned breweries in England, Germany, Belgium and France, something no one else had ever done, and I became the first person in history to market a variety of craft beers of different brewing styles: different tastes, just like wine!

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Tuesday night darts has more to do with my life in beer than anything else. As an avid homebrewer, I always took a keg of my latest wares for all to sample. As a beer writer, the darts gang are not only a good sounding board but also some of the inspiration for articles. As a beer importer, they are my guinea pigs when I bring samples. Peter’s Garage, to quote the British, “is my local.”

The Czechs have the most beautiful statement when it comes to beer that I have read: “Pivo si tě najde všude.” In English this means, “Beer will find you everywhere,” but this statement is really just the beginning. Whether it is a Tuesday night at my neighbor’s garage, a brewpub patio among the vineyards and avocado trees in California or an oasis of Belgian beer in the middle of the desert of Chianti in Tuscany, beer has made me friends and changed my life.

Most of my writing has been for a left-wing/tree hugging/entertainment weekly magazine in Calgary, FFWD. Seeing as it is mostly a music magazine, I always found it a bit annoying that people think of music and moods but don’t think of beer in the same light. Beer has the same power to affect people as music. A sweet stout has the same sexy tones as Bryan Ferry of Roxy Music crooning, just as a brash in-your-face Double India Pale Ale drives on senses like an early Black Flag song. There’s also a fantastic symmetry in the way the craft-beer revolution embraces the same do-it-yourself attitude and values as the punk rock movement did.

Another aspect of the beer world that has always amazed me, both as a writer and as an importer, is the six degrees of separation from a perfect stranger. When visiting the Taproom at Firestone Walker Brewery in California, we wound up sitting at the bar beside two men. It turned out that one of them, Tom, supplied the used bourbon barrels for the brewery’s barrel-aged beers. It also turned out that he had just been in Montreal for Mondial de la Bière and proceeded to show us pictures of our friends and business associates whom he had just met in Quebec. This chance meeting led to an impromptu dinner invite at his friend’s ranch a few miles down the road from the brewery.

Through a love of beer, similar stories have happened to us in all our travels. Even if we don’t know any of the same people, the essence of art in the glass is the first runnings of what is sure to be like-minded conversation.

Early in my journey into beer, the local Samuel Smith’s rep was giving the education portion one evening at our beer club. He told the audience that salespeople don’t sell beer—it is you sharing it with your friends and those you are about to be friends with — that sells beer. This has become my 11th Commandment ever since. I have stood on soapboxes, taught classes and written articles spreading the gospel of beer but stop short of knocking on doors to gain converts, although the boys at darts may disagree.

Beer will find you everywhere, though sometimes you’ll find the beer first. In the karmic world of beer, trust me, the returns are tenfold. Love beer and the beer world will love you back.

In 1989, a former Seagram’s colleague asked me to join Pete’s Brewing Co. as its first sales manager. We were a small group, as these were still the early days of craft beer. Two of the handful of people at the company—Pete Slosberg himself along with our marketing director, Virginia MacLean—would become lifelong friends.

In 1995, my beer career took an exciting turn when I joined Merchant du Vin in Seattle. My work at MdV took me to England, Belgium, Scotland and Germany. I was captivated on my first visits to our multi-generation family brewers in 1997. I realized that I wasn’t simply selling and representing great beer—I was in fact representing families, history and, quite often it seemed, the very core of their local community. It had never occurred to me that beer has a soul. It was an unexpected emotional connection. I wondered if the day might come when I could make a similar connection with my own work.

That day arrived far too soon.

In April of 2003, I was in my ninth month of running my new beer and cider importing company, SBS Imports. One Saturday afternoon my phone rang, and it was my friend Virginia MacLean, whom I first met at Pete’s Brewing. It was hardly unusual to receive a call from Virginia— we spoke often.

But that day’s call was shockingly different. She phoned to tell me she had been diagnosed with something called multiple myeloma, a form of bone cancer that attacks the plasma. There was no cure, just a life expectancy of three to five years. Nine years later, the mere thought of that call still brings a tear to my eye.

I vaguely remember asking my dad that very question. If I had to guess, I was in the third grade. My dad wasn’t a regular beer drinker, but he certainly enjoyed a cold Bud after a few hours of mowing the lawn under the blazing Nebraska summer sun. One day I mustered up the courage to ask him. He looked at me, considered the possible outcomes (not the least of which: my mom yelling, “What the hell are you doing, giving him a beer?”) and passed the can. I took a sniff, then a sip and promptly decided that beer was gross, and that I’d never drink the stuff again.

Ah, the oaths we take in our youth. That particular one fell by the wayside during my senior year of high school. As I grew up, so did my palette, and like so many of us I reached the point where I appreciated good beer. Mouthfeel, aroma, alcohol content, and, of course, the amazing flavors and complexity that so many of today’s brews offer–these were certainly not considerations in college. (Not only was my dad not a regular beer drinker, he was a Bud man through and through.; If anything his beer of choice was a step up from the swill I drank in my early 20s. Ice-cold Burgie, anyone?)

So I shouldn’t have been taken aback when my son at age 7 asked me the same question.

But I was.

I drink in front of my kids. I enjoy a good beer with dinner; more often then not, I’m the one cooking dinner, so I enjoy a good beer while preparing it as well. When I was a kid, my dad was an infrequent beer drinker. Those Budweisers were reserved for the hottest of days. I grew up with parents who weren’t social drinkers. There was never wine with dinner or beer during a football game. They weren’t teetotalers, yet at the same time  my folks were a bit uncomfortable with drinking while kids were present.  As a parent, I’m convinced that our kids are more likely to abuse alcohol if we teach them that drinking is “bad” or “wrong” or “something that people shouldn’t do.”

And as odd as it may sound, I’ve actually bonded with my kid over beer. No, not in the classical sense, but like most 7-year-old boys, he’s insatiably curious, and more often than not, when he sees me enjoying a pint, the questions come at a rapid clip: “What’s that beer taste like? Who made it? What’s in it?” Basic questions, to be sure, but they’ve served as a springboard to conversations about science, geography, even history. Thanks to beer, he now knows about the ancient Egyptians, Trappist monks, the East India Trading Co. and the real Samuel Adams.

His question came, then, on the heels of yet another “What’s that beer taste like?” To that, he received the standard response–“Like beer.” He furrowed his brow, screwing up his courage, and then: “Can I try it?”

I thought about it for a second. What harm could it do? Just a sip, right? Maybe that’ll be that and he’ll stop asking. I was pretty sure he wouldn’t like it–then again, the kid loves sushi and devours cold octopus tentacles with the same gusto as he does French fries.

My mind briefly flashed to the scene in National Lampoon’s Vacation–Chevy Chase’s Clark Griswold gives his son Rusty what he thinks is the kid’s first beer, and Rusty promptly downs it in a few experienced gulps. I decided a couple of things about my son–that he was too young, and that I’d like his first beer with his old man to be one that he remembered. “Not now,” I replied. “When you’re older.”  I look forward to that day.

And–apologies to my dad–that beer won’t be a Budweiser.