Just like Christmas morning, I wake up ready to go. Have a couple drinks, march on over to the game, watch our Mounties take on the Huskies and celebrate the night away. That’s the plan.
My backyard, which is hosting a pre-game party, has been taken over far earlier than expected. This was my fault, and I take full responsibility. I should have never made the party public on Facebook, because thousands of uninvited guests flew in: thousands of hornets.
“I kill, you drink,” a drinking game, is invented at 10 a.m. Wielding a battery-operated death machine of a flyswatter, if I kill a hornet, the party erupts in cheers and takes a drink of their lukewarm Moose Light. They’re dropping like flies.
Before we know it the clock is approaching 2 p.m., and we all march toward the field. I’m so proud; I killed hundreds of these uninvited guests and never got stung once.
“I’m not scared of hornets, they don’t bother me,” I proudly boast to my friends.
I arrive at the game.
A hornet stings me on my left eye as I wait in line to get in. I instantly swell up and head to the Pond for ice. I walk to the stands with an ice pack over my eye, laughing off this unfortunate event.
Next thing I know, my neck feels like it’s on fire and I can’t stop itching. I swell up in hives, and my friends tell me, “You need to go to the hospital.”
I remember Chris Reid running an HB draw for approximately six to eight yards. With one eye, my depth perception isn’t exactly on, so let’s call it eight. Good play, Mounties.
I’m in the Pond: my fingers and toes go numb, my throat starts to close, I start throwing up. Turns out I’m severely allergic to hornets. Anaphylactic shock, at what is possibly the largest attended event of the year. I am carried out to an ambulance where fans cheer for me and pat me on the back, assuming that I was too drunk to be there. Thanks for showing your Mountie pride, everyone.
I wake up in the ambulance with a rush of excitement as the adrenaline shots from the paramedics kick in. Apparently I temporary blacked out from the anaphylactic shock. I’m back, baby! I record the whole event on snapchat, from the ambulance to the hospital.
I meet my nurse, Leslie, who supplies me with a phone charger, some 3/10 hospital mac and cheese and puts up with… well, my bullshit, to say the least. I invite her to the after party on 40 King Street. She never did show up… but I did.
Back from the dead, I sign a hospital release form against the medical advice of the doctor who “strongly recommends I stay until at least 10 p.m.” I’ve got a two-four of Alpine at home that I’ve hardly put a dent in. Get me out of here.
I show up to 40 King with an eye and a half at the peak of the party and celebrate the night away. Party on! Happy homecoming folks!
The above story is based on true events. Dedicated sports and health journalist Keifer Bell miraculously not only survived a hornet attack, but also completed his assignment on t