I played ball pretty regularly for about the first 20 years of my life. Baseball was, in fact, the love of my life: I lived in a Mantleian Universe. My world revolved around Mickey Mantle.
For all my strengths on the ball field, my throwing arm was my finest. When I played third base, I could zing the ball across the diamond and beat a fast runner who had hit a slow roller. When I played the outfield, I routinely nailed runners injudicious enough to try to take an extra-base. And when I took to the hill, for the most part, I methodically mowed batters down with Teutonic efficiency.
In all my ball-playing years, through all that throwing, I never had an arm problem.
But today, as the specter of old age increasingly sucks the sap out of my body, I am going to the orthopedist.
Three months ago, I fell in the dog run, chasing Whiskey and as I broke my fall, I wrenched my shoulder. Bumped up and bruised, I didn't go to the doctor right away. After last year's medical travails, I had had enough of doctors. Besides, I had always healed on my own.
Not this time.
My right arm is dead. I can hardly move it at all without pain. In fact, even typing hurts.
Today we'll see what gives.
My wife tells me that the esteemed doctor I'm seeing is the team orthopedist for the New York Knicks.
I hope I turn out better than they have.