I can't remember much of the next day or the days to follow.

Tony went to the hospital. Got a patch. I scurried away and hid at a girlfriend's place for a few days after a good friend of mine yelled at me, "Hey, Chris! Keep your eye out for my screwdriver, will ya?" After all, they were friends, not mental health counselors.

Tony finally came and got me at my retreat. His eye was indeed damaged. Badly. For a couple of years he needed to wear a prism on one lens of his glasses to keep from seeing double. But he has always been one the luckiest bastards I have ever met. He wasn't mad – he was everything but. He comforted me. Told me there was nothing to forgive. Joked it was his fault – God was getting him for the thought of breaking Lent. Life was good again.

There are few instances in your life that leave a decided mark on you. I don't know if I'd have had the forgiveness Tony had. I think I might have still been mad that I might lose an eye. You'd think you would be. Maybe he was and just didn't say. Somehow, I don't think so. I could tell. Tony was just a great friend.

I'll probably even tell this story at his wedding ... with one exception. I won't tell the real ending.