By New Year's 2038. Twenty-one years sober. The last New Year's Eve before I stop being a head coach. Fifty-seven years old, turning fifty-eight in February. The announcement is out now — Berardi made it official at the school the first week of December, right after I told the team. There have been articles in the Denver Post and the athletics newsletter and a piece in the Albuquerque Journal that Mamá found and that she called me about in a tone suggesting she was more emotional about it than she wanted to admit.
The volume of messages has been something. Former players. Parents from years ago. Coaches I've collaborated with and competed against. Men who were fifteen-year-old boys at my first camp and are now thirty-eight-year-old men with children of their own. I've been trying to respond to each one. It takes time. I don't begrudge it — these people gave me something over the years and this is a moment to acknowledge that.
What I'm feeling, honestly, is a quiet that I don't fully trust yet. When you've been oriented around one thing for twenty-one years, the removal of that orientation doesn't immediately produce peace — it produces a kind of disorientation that can look like peace from the outside and from the inside both, until you notice that you're listening for things that aren't there. I've been waking up before five every morning out of habit, sitting in the dark, waiting for something to start that isn't starting anymore.
Papá called at midnight. He said: veintiún años. I said: veintiún. He said: m'ijo, in January when you were born there was a snowstorm in Las Cruces. It never snows in Las Cruces. He said your grandfather drove through it to get to the hospital. He said I don't know why I'm telling you that tonight. I said: I know why. Because it's all connected. Because I started with a snowstorm and I've been going ever since. He said: exactly.
When Papá hung up at midnight and I was sitting there in the dark, I didn’t want anything elaborate — I wanted something that required just enough attention to keep my hands honest. I’ve been making stuffed mini peppers for years at team gatherings, back when the noise of a full room felt like the right backdrop, but this time I made a small batch alone, and they suited the quiet better than I expected. There’s something about the work of filling each one — the repetition, the care — that felt right for a night about what’s ending and what hasn’t started yet.
Stuffed Mini Peppers
Prep Time: 15 minutes | Cook Time: 20 minutes | Total Time: 35 minutes | Servings: 8 (about 24 pieces)
Ingredients
- 12 mini sweet peppers, halved lengthwise and seeded
- 8 oz cream cheese, softened
- 1/2 cup shredded sharp cheddar cheese
- 1/4 cup sour cream
- 2 green onions, thinly sliced
- 1 clove garlic, minced
- 1/2 teaspoon smoked paprika
- 1/4 teaspoon cumin
- 1/4 teaspoon salt
- 1/4 teaspoon black pepper
- 2 tablespoons fresh cilantro, chopped (optional, for garnish)
- Hot sauce, for serving (optional)
Instructions
- Preheat oven. Heat your oven to 375°F. Line a baking sheet with parchment paper and arrange the halved mini peppers cut-side up in a single layer.
- Make the filling. In a medium bowl, combine the softened cream cheese, shredded cheddar, sour cream, green onions, garlic, smoked paprika, cumin, salt, and pepper. Stir until smooth and well combined.
- Fill the peppers. Spoon or pipe the cream cheese mixture into each pepper half, filling them generously but not so they overflow.
- Bake. Place the baking sheet in the oven and bake for 18–20 minutes, until the peppers are tender and the filling is lightly golden at the edges.
- Finish and serve. Remove from the oven and let rest for 5 minutes. Scatter fresh cilantro over the top if using. Serve warm, with hot sauce on the side.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 145 | Protein: 4g | Fat: 12g | Carbs: 6g | Fiber: 1g | Sodium: 210mg