A long time ago, I found myself randomly sitting next to Phil Baroni at a bar in New York City. We spent several hours reminiscing about Pride and downing more Jameson shot than any fraternity consumes in a calendar year; then I attempted to ride my bicycle home. I woke up passed out on my doorstep covered in bruises with a bent set of bicycle handlebars. Turns out I was hit by a car and I didn't even know it until the following morning. Every part of that story is true, but the details were