When out of the blue I get a message from a high-school classmate I haven't seen or heard from in 35 years, I always know the impetus for the reconnection.

It happens a lot because I am upfront and public about my own struggle to overcome addiction. However, rarely does the storyline unfold almost to perfection, with a punch line to match.

In February, my interview with Leonard Lopate on New York public radio caught the ear of a classmate who did not know how to help another man from our class of 1977 at Garden City High School. Over the years, the man with the "problem" had slowly sunk lower, no matter his consequences or the concerns of his friends.

"I heard you on the radio. I knew something of your own troubles over the decades, but until that moment, it didn't hit me that you could help us," the classmate told me when we connected. "In high school, I'd never known you in that context — I mean as an alcoholic, somebody who works in rehab."

One conversation led to another, and within a few weeks, I found myself on a conference call with five people — class brethren now sprinkled across the country, from Seattle to the suburbs of Connecticut. Their agenda: What should we do about the one who drinks too much? They wanted to help him and even pay for what he needed.

"First you've got to rally around him, share your concerns, encourage him to call me." And they did. And not long after, he did, too, his trepidation trumped by a genuine desire to change, though at the start he struggled to see his similarities in my story. A lot of alcoholics view drug addicts as worse off or just worse. But as I reminded him, our results are always the same. He did not disagree. Outpatient treatment in Manhattan began. The phone calls with our classmates continued, with slightly more complicated agendas.

"How do we support him without enabling him? Can we still take him to dinner? Is it OK to meet with his counselor; do we need his permission?" they queried. My answers helped. But soon, it seemed they were figuring it out on their own. Such is the power of group conscience, when everyone pulls in the same direction to help.

It's been a few months now. Our classmate completed his treatment. It is still early, but benchmarked against the past, he's doing much better. He keeps me updated. Last night, I got this email from one of his supporters, my classmate and his. The rest of the group was copied on it, too:

"I will be attending the baseball game with (him) tomorrow night. My normal routine would be two or three beers during the course of the game. Obviously, it is not essential for me to have any beers. My question for you is this: What is your advice? Should I follow my own routine so as to be perfectly normal? Or would it be better to refrain so as not to be a bad influence or provide undue temptation? Or should I go nuts and have about 12 so as to have him feel sorry for me and ever more assured in his sobriety?"

The email ended with an acknowledgment that his "go nuts" alternative was his "weak attempt at humor."

And I smiled, but not just because it is a funny line. It isn't often that friends care enough about another's newly minted recovery to plot a plan for how to incorporate it into the dynamics, much less come up with the sound solution that one of them offered in a subsequent email.

I'll share it right here next week, after the game.

William Moyers is the vice president of public affairs and community relations for the Hazelden Foundation and the author of "Broken," his best-selling memoirs. His new book, "Now What? An Insider's Guide to Addiction and Recovery," was published last October. Please send your questions to William Moyers at [email protected]. To find out more about William Moyers and read his past columns, visit the Creators Syndicate Web page at www.creators.com.