Your eyes widen at the sight of the broad-skulled behemoth lumbering towards you, but you turn your attention to the others at the table, hoping to win them over.

"You look like you all play together, I can t-t-t-tell already that you have a camaraderie about you," you stammer, cursing yourself for using a word with so many syllables. 

"I would have joined the rugby team myself, if it weren't for my crippling shin splints, chronic asthma, and delicate skin.  The closest I get to participating in team sports is helping out at my father's sports therapy clinic," you soldier on.

You barely breathe the last word out before you are lifted out of your chair. 

"It's time to take out the trash," the brute growls, as the heady aromatic blend of beef-a-roni and orange soda assaults your nostrils.

"Wait," a voice calls out from the table, "Do you mean 'Back-in-Action Clinic' on Main Street?  That's the best clinic in town!"

You glance to your left, recognizing the quarterback's face, and noticing his arm in a sling.  That isn't the clinic you meant, but desperation and fear threaten to wash over you.  Do you...

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