You never know when you'll be at happy hour chatting with friends and watching the Huskies pummel the Syracuse Orange (not the Orangemen, as Steve pointed out, they are now the Mighty Orange) and the next thing you know you'll be flat on your back getting CPR in front of God and everybody. You're beer belly and hairy chest out there for everyone to see. People cheering on some kid named Rankin and taking shots of Patron and guzzling IPA's while SFD Medics try to keep you from "crossing the bar."
This guy was two tables away (less than 6 feet) and we were so engrossed by our detailed discussion over who we would start and why in our FF league next week that we didn't notice he was in distress until a bunch of EMT's came in and laid him out. Befuddled as to what to do at first, Steve, Bruce, and I finally decided to change locations when they broke out the paddles. We wanted to just leave Eastlake Grill but they had already poured our next round and we didn't want to be difficult.
"You had to order a beer!" This from the Commish to Steve (PUSS!) after Bruce and I had swiftly finished our shots. Bruce felt this comment certainly cemented his special place in hell and I tend to agree. Steve did a good chug job and we peeled out of there and sought refuge at Vivace, each of us vowing to recommit ourselves to lifelong fitness. Seize the day!
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