One of the defining lessons about beer that I ever had the pleasure of learning came to me by way of a strange and generally unflattering set of circumstances.

Four years on the other side of the millennium, I found myself in Atlanta, Georgia, quite destitute of cash. I could not even boast of adequate gas money to drive back to Texas, where I was then living.

But I was given a shot at getting back on my feet. Relief came from what was, for a fairly privileged twentysomething Yankee white guy like me, an unexpected quarter: an inner-city African-American church.

No doubt every sweltering summer, throughout Atlanta, enterprising pastors face the challenge of cooking up a summer jobs program for the youth of their congregation. But if you do the math on the year this anecdote takes place, you might deduce something. At that time, and in this part of Georgia, there was one tremendous “get” out there just waiting to be reeled in by anyone in search of paid, short-lived gigs.

Temporary jobs at the 1996 Olympics.

Indeed, it was exactly that prospect that had lured me to Peachtree-land in the first place. But on my arrival, my employment opportunity had abruptly evaporated. Hundreds upon hundreds of Olympo-curious job-seekers like me had all in fact met the same fate. We had been promised a decent paycheck, dormitory accommodations, and a gratis ticket each to an elite, international sporting event. But this proved all to have been a scam perpetrated by a take-the-money-and-run con artist outfit called “Atlanta Recruiting.”

The scandal merited just a nickel’s worth of media attention. But the leaders of the aforementioned black church saw the TV reports. And in true, Christian mercy, they reached out.

The pastors had been tapped to fill a sizable number of “hospitality” positions at the Olympics. Snack bar cashiers, program vendors, parking lot attendants, and so forth. These jobs rightly went to members of the church community.

But the International Olympic Committee also needed local hires to sell beer.

And this posed complications.

The church youth group members were under age. Certainly there were adults within the community who were likewise short on work and could use a summer job. But alcohol and sin have been known to be a bit, let’s say, buddy-buddy. The verdict of the church officers was that it would look unseemly to have their flock push suds for cash. These positions would have to be assigned outside the fold.

And that’s how I became a hoarse-voiced hawker walking up and down the stands of the Centennial Olympic Stadium, selling beer to the thirsty of 197 nations. (This was a highly worthwhile vocation, it turned out. In the context of the living standards a recent college graduate with a liberal arts degree can reasonably expect, I was flush for months).

And I remember it just like it was yesterday. It was the night of July 31, 1996. The track and field events were at full voltage. Stadium lights shined down like the fleet of alien starships in the last reel of Close Encounters of the Third Kind.

I was traversing the coliseum steps amusing myself by belting out dimly-remembered beer hawker ululations from Fenway Park visits in my youth. (“Beer here! Get your ICE cold beer right here-uhp!”).

Then the starter pistol for the final men’s 800 meter event rang out.

One minute into the race, Johnny Gray, the U.S. contender, took the lead. He was just ahead of a brace of hard-driving Africans. The crowd got to its feet. My own vocal abilities were quite handicapped by the tumult. And since it was obvious that beer was temporarily no longer my customers’ priority, I took a much-needed break. I gazed down at the track to watch.

Twenty seconds after Johnny Gray’s breakout, the dynamics of the race shifted big time. From mid-pack, where he had been alternating between fourth and fifth place, Norway’s 23 year-old Vebjørn Rodal made a dramatic surge forward. With blond curls and a white singlet, the Norwegian smoked past the American. The bedazzled Gray faded to second-to-last.

In a blur of pumping limbs, South Africa’s Hezekiél Sepeng gained and gained and gained on the new leader. But it was to no avail. Rodal burst across the finish line a comfortable length from Sepeng. Vebjørn Rodal hadn’t only clinched gold; he had also set a new Olympic record and immortalized himself as the most distinguished Norwegian athlete in the history of the games.

The previous days of work had familiarized me with the flags (and the tipping habits) of many countries. And even before the shockwave of their cheers hit me, I was struck with the sudden significance of a wall of nylon blue-on-red Scandinavian crosses just feet in front of from me. I had lucked into the near orbit of a thick belt of Norwegian track and field devotees.

One of these Norwegian fans spun 180° in place, as if his ecstasy over Rodal’s win had made a turnstile out of him. The man’s eyes were screwed shut. He had evidently been blinded by victory. Fists clenched, he descended into a crouch and roared, “Ja….!!!”

And then, slowly, his eyes opened. The Norwegian saw me standing before him, my tray of Anheuser-Busch offerings splayed out for the taking like casino tokens dumped down from a slot machine.

“…Beer!” the man gasped, orgiastically. His tight fists relaxed and reached with shaking grasps towards the beer.

The sight of the stuff had transported him. If this worthy subject of King Harald V had already been euphoric over his country’s gold medal, the on-cue delivery of a celebratory quaff had rendered him absolutely rapt. Here was a man whose heart, mind, and soul were thronging with one of those rare sensations that all in the universe is fit and just. One victory (Rodal’s first place finish) had instantaneously begot another (presto! beer!).

I had of course seen people thrill to beer before. I had felt many shades of that thrill myself. But this was a new high water mark. To me, it demonstrated how absolutely crucial a good beer can be in our lives.

If I read his expression correctly, this gentleman of bolder and more refined European palate was slightly less jubilant about the actual brands of beer I could offer him. (This, I can report, was an issue games-wide). But he bought me out anyway. I trotted back to the refill station light of burden and light of heart. The scene’s buoyance had been contagious. Archly so.

Of course I recollected that evening more than twenty Julys later, in Plymouth, Massachusetts, when I dropped in at the recent startup Mayflower Brewery. I was there to see my longtime friend Mike Smith, the head brewer at Mayflower. Mike gamely gave me a tour of the facility, impressing me not only with his hands-on brewing chops but also regaling me with his deep vein of brewerania and beer lore.

Right then and there, another starter pistol fired. I was the only one who heard it. But at that moment I realized that The Comic Book Story of Beer had just tore out of the starting blocks.

“Mike!” I shouted. “We’d be crazy not to collaborate on a book about this!”

With two previous nonfiction graphic novels brought to bookshelves with the help of the outstanding illustrator Aaron McConnell, I knew we would also be crazy not to dragoon him on board. And so we did. It’s usually not too hard to get people excited about beer.

Like most book projects — particularly graphic novels requiring pages and pages of inspired and finely-detailed art worthy of its subject — this one wasn’t as fast across the finish line as Vebjørn Rodal. But it has gone the distance. After years of research and hard work by the creative team, the torch is ready to be passed to willing spectators. If you love beer and love comics — or at least can count yourself as down for what might be an exciting, heady tryst with the format — then you might very well like this book.

Here’s to hoping that The Comic Book Story of Beer may greet you with a fraction of the same delight and good timing as my beers did that clear summer night in 1996.