They say that a man will see just about everything if he lives ling enough. Well, I’m only 33, which makes me feel pretty lucky that I didn’t have to put in much time, relatively speaking, to see the greatest baseball injury since Vince Coleman was swallowed by a tarp in St. Louis during the ’85 postseason.

Carlos Zambrano has computer elbow.  (http://sports.espn.go.com/mlb/news/story?id=2066296)

Computer elbow?

The guy’s apparently damaging his arm from too much emailing, thus the front office has taken it upon themselves to put the kabash on the downward spiral Zambrano seems all too willing to lead himself down. For his part, Carlos seems to have seen the light, quoted as saying "I have to spend one hour and take it easy."  Similar to the intervention Brandon, Kelly and the gang held to save Dylan from himself, this candid confrontation seems to have done the trick.

And that’s great for Carlos. But what about folks not in the position to simply cut back on time spent in front of the ol’ PC? I, for example, write regularly for ESPN The Magazine and espn.com. I spent October-March chained to my computer, getting my first book, Fishing on the Edge, on shelves as we speak (Only this blog’s second shameless plug. An admirable amount of restraint, if I do say so myself. I’d pat myself on the back, but I’m too concerned about injury from contorting my arm so unnaturally.). I work on scripts. Heck, this blog ain’t typing itself, people! I don’t mean to over-dramatize the situation, but I’m literally risking my health, my livelihood, even my LIFE entertaining y’all. (And that’s just professionally. My personal life, with its foolhardy, extreme sports mentality towards email, web surfing, and instant messaging is nothing short of a death wish.).

Thanks to the courage Carlos Zambrano has displayed tackling this problem, I’ve decided to take certain steps in my own life. Obviously I can’t stop writing. It’s my passion. It’s what I love to do. Plus, I have no other skills whatsoever (Seriously. None. Try me). Slowing down is not an option. But I have to prepare for a potentially grim future and try to evade it as best as possible. Thus, I’ve taken the following steps to protect myself.   

I’ve insured both of my arms at $1,000,000 each. Its not enough to just cover my right arm. I can’t produce such quality writing relying solely on my non-throwing hand. If one arm’s damaged, I’ll simply have to make due with a cool mil and not try to dwell on lost future revenues.

I’m making an appointment with Dr. Arthur Ting, personal physician to Barry Bonds. I need to know that if surgery, drugs, or procedures that might be deemed “controversial” are necessary to preserve my gift, I have a doctor that won’t let the AMA or federal law bully him around.

I’ve reinventing myself as more of a “closer” writer, and will bring in a stable of “starting” and “Middle relief” writers for future projects. Let these other saps wear their elbows to the nub. I have too much going for me to blow out my arm.

My elbow will sit in a bucket of ice ten minutes of each hour I write. I’m also gonna start putting on a jacket when I’m having writers block. Keeping it warm could make all the difference.

Three words. Cream. Clear. Whizzenator.

I will more than likely retire from writing as a relatively young man. When I’m older, I want to be able to play with my kids and the toll this profession takes on one’s elbows is brutal. I look at older writers like Norman Mailer, J.D. Salinger, or Elmore Leonard cringing to lift a beer to their mouth and think, “I don’t want that to be me.”

For the gift of reason, the gift of perspective, the gift to start over while I still have a chance, I say "thank you, Carlos Zambrano."

Thank you.

I was a catcher for most of my baseball “career,” until 8^th grade knee problems forced a switch to the outfield, which ended said “career” a few years later. (Seemingly born with no hint of depth perception, lining up fly balls proved more difficult than astrophysics). But I was actually a pretty good catcher, and one of my idols was Tony Pena. This guy was incredible in the early to mid 80’s. He had a cannon arm. He played in a one-legged crouch behind the plate, slanted back, looking more like a low rider cruising the LBC than an athlete.

Low riders are cool. Tony Pena was cool.

And when he was traded to St. Louis (my hometown) from the Pirates, I was ecstatic. I told everyone who would listen (plus those clearly tuning me out) that he was the man. Everything was set for a new hero in St. Louis, except for one small little problem.

He ****** upon arrival.

I have no idea what the **** happened, but all of a sudden, the guy looked like he’d never picked up a bat before. Nobody cared that he was still a human backstop, because we had traded city-fave Andy Van Slyke away, along with C Mike LaValliere, who ended up winning a gold glove anyway. He picked up the slack eventually, but was never the same, and eventually ended up in Boston a few years later. I was pissed, not at Pena (I actually loyally defended him against all smack talkers, roughly everybody I lectured about how good he’d be), but at having to see an idol not come through.

It’s always depressing whenever someone you worship, whether in sports, music, acting, or Polynesian dance (if that’s your thing), loses it for whatever reason. Nicolas Cage was one of the most inspiring artistic forces on the planet to me during high school and college. Interesting roles, bold choices, ridiculous range as an actor. Then he turned into this very blatant 20 million dollar check *****, and spent roughly 1996 until now doing nothing particularly good (With Adaptation and Face/Off the lone bright spots). And it ****** to see, not just because I often wasted 9 bucks to see this ****, but because it exposed the fallibility of heroes. You choose them on instinct, gut reactions and because of the awe they spark, which makes it that much more personal when they fold under the weight of (sometimes unfair) expectations.

Thus, when Tony Pena became the Royals skipper, I was immediately rooting for this chance for both of us to find redemption. He’d use the knowledge, skills and charisma he had as a player to guide his troops. I’d be right for having crowed about his knowledge, skills and charisma. And for a while, I was. Pena inexplicably took that team to a winning record in 2003, and I even got to interview him for a piece my brother Brian and I did on Beltran for ESPN The Magazine. He was a seriously cool cat and I felt 14 again, rediscovering hero worship.

Unfortunately (Or predictably, when you really check that roster), reality reared its ugly head and the team reverted to garbage. I cringed at seeing Pena get fired for not being able to make wine from L.A. tap quality water. But I never had to see it, since he resigned and beat them to the punch, perhaps even sacrificing himself to light a fire in the clubhouse. Either way, he wasn’t canned.  If the writing’s already on the wall, you might as well choose how the sentence gets punctuated.

I always knew the guy was a stud.    

I apologize for the recent lack of activity. I’m having computer issues, so dealing with that, plus my occasionally infrequent access to a working machine has made things tough. Hopefully, it’ll become less of a problem as I count down the days until I get mine back. Good times.

Anyway…

Note to Torre:

If you wanna see how effective your new potluck dinner lineup can be, you might consider debuting it on a day Kevin Brown isn’t pitching. Just thinking out loud here. (On the plus side, though, Brown has managed to inch his era up to 8.25. When it hits a perfect 10, I believe he earns enough points for a free latte at a Midtown Starbucks).

(Note: This could just as easily be a cappucino photo. I didn’t do any research)

That said, as goofy as a lineup featuring Womack in left sounds, for the problems that team’s having, I say they still didn’t take it far enough.  If they’re looking to shake things up, then seriously, go hog wild. I say, take things a few steps past “odd” straight into a territory I like to refer to as “batty.” Let’s go to town and be creative. Therefore, here are some adjustments I think would fit the game plan perfectly, all of which involve New York luminaries:

Sign Mo Vaughn at his old Mets salary: Cashman and Steinbrenner want to stand behind their game plan of overpaying names? Then put your money where your mouths reside, fellas. If this philosophy really works so well, then they’re can’t be a better missing link on the planet than this future center fielder (As long as we’re going nutty, let’s go NUTTY).

Let Stephon Marbury lead off: This Bomber squad is slow, needs scoring and a player the kids can identify with. Coney Island’s finest fits the bill on all three counts. This speedster will be more obsessed with putting points on the board than the team could ever possibly hope for. Sure, it’ll be a change of pace dealing with an overpaid, all-name lineup after spending a season with the Knicks, but he’ll make the necessary adjustments.

The new Co-skip: P.Diddy. Torre’s got credentials out the Yin Yang, no doubt. But each year he’s getting more quantity (of dollars) than quality (of players), and it’s finally hit a standstill. He’s in over his head when it comes to making flash from cash. In the meantime, Mr. Diddy has gone from guiding the genuinely talented (Biggie) to the marginally serviceable (Mase) to currently being best known as a Hamptons party ringmaster. It’s the same trajectory as Torre, but Puffy manages to make it work. If anyone knows how to live off a name (like the Yanks are attempting) it’s this guy. Give him a $5,000 pinstripe suit and a spot in the dugout.

The other new Co-Skip: Martin Scorsese. He loves NY and inexplicably seems destined to never win an Oscar. A World Series ring would probably make him feel a little better. He’s also fallen in love lately with sweeping, epic, period sagas. (A style change I’m not digging, but that’s for another blog. The results aren’t awful, but let’s just say I seriously miss Goodfellas). Nonetheless, oversized style will fit in well with the new project he’d be helming.

Utility Man Extraordinaire, Jason Alexander: The Yankees were great when George Costanza was working in the front office, and Alexander can’t keep a sitcom on the air. They need each other. Desperately. Let him play a little RF, pinch run, or just wash batting helmets.  Just reunite this combo ASAP before the Yankees go 50-112 and we end up with a sitcom based on Skip Bayless. As much as I’d love to watch the former, I seriously can’t handle the latter.   

Finally… Batting 5^th, DH Randy Johnson: Yeah, he can’t pitch with that nasty groin. And he’s pissed. Seriously pissed. Let him take a few cuts. A couple are leaving the park, guaranteed. All kidding aside, how much less could he produce than Giambi?

How does unbridled genius flow so naturally for some and not others, yet those with no flow always end up running things while those whose cup runneth over have no outlets? I don’t know. Such is the curse of my life.