If Tim Tebow Was a Paramedic

Those of you who read Sean Eddy at Medic Madness are probably familiar with his Celebrity Medic series, in which he imagines what a celebrity or fictional character would be like as a paramedic. So, given the dramatic win last weekend and the upcoming divisional playoff game against the Patriots, Sean and Greg Friese have challenged us to imagine what it would be like if Broncos quarterback Tim Tebow were a paramedic. If you’d like to play along, consider this a meme. Drop us a link to your blog post in the comments.

Hey, Tim? Nice veins.

If Tim Tebow Was A Paramedic:

He’d have more code saves than any other medic in your system.

Of course, his detractors would point out that the reason is that Tim Tebow has more people die in his rig than any other medic in the system, because Tim Tebow struggles reading 12-lead EKG’s  and recognizing subtle patient presentations…

… but his fans would  counter with the fact that, once the patient is dead, Tim Tebow always seems to convert the patient to a perfusing rhythm on the first shock.

“Yeah, but that doesn’t happen until they’re dead!” his critics would retort.

“What does it matter as long as they go home neurologically intact?” his fans would crow. “A save is a save, baby!”

“Dude, the guy‘s a weak medic,” would come the counter argument. “He can’t read EKG’s, struggles with drug dosages, can’t remember the landmarks to do a needle decompression, breaks half a dozen teeth when he tries to intubate someone – “

“ –but gets the tube in when it really counts!” his fans would proclaim. “That’s what’s important, right?”

Puhleeze. The guy has killed more people than smallpox.”

“He’s saved more people than Billy Graham!”

“Grim Reaper!”

“Johnny Gage and Roy DeSoto!”

“Dude, you’re talking about the guy like he’s an elite medic. Elite medics know cardiology like Tom Bouthillet. Elite medics manage an airway like Ambulance Driver. Elite medics are cool under pressure like TOTWTYTR. Tebow couldn’t stand on a stepladder and kiss those guys’ asses.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, how many code saves did those guys have this month? None, baby! Woo hoo!”

“That’s because those guys don’t let their patients code. They manage the call, so they don’t have to do any heroics at the end!”

“ Tim Tebow rules!”

“Tim Tebow drools.”

“You just hate him because he’s guided by the hand o’ Gawd!”

“I hate him because he gets the credit for every save, when it wouldn’t have been possible without the uninterrupted chest compressions done by his partner, or the prompt call to 911 by the patient’s family, or for the contributions of half a dozen other people. Nobody gets a save all by themselves. Resuscitation is a team sport.”


“Yeah, but now he’s a medic. Everybody in this system was an awesome EMT-B, or they wouldn’t even be here. This is the pros, baby, and your boy’s game doesn’t work here.”


“Not gonna happen. Maybe your boy might make a decent – I mean just decent – medic with a lot of practice and a few years. But he ain’t there now, and he doesn’t even deserve to be mentioned in the same breath as Rogue Medic, or AD, or TOTWTYR, or Happy Medic. “


“Blow me.”

[fisticuffs ensue]

And while the argument raged around him, Tim Tebow would keep on running calls and doing his best for his patients, because he’s Tim Tebow, and he’s a good kid. He’d recognize that he’s got a gift for the heroic save, but he’d also be honest and admit that he’s still nowhere near the medic he should be.

And nobody would outwork him in getting there.

He’d be humble and self-effacing to his fans, always deflecting praise to his teammates (and God), and he’d be gracious to his critics. And he’d make some serious gaffes, but he’d keep on racking up saves.

And after each one, he’d Tebow.




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