Will Carroll, the injury guru over at Baseball Prospectus, ran a terrific little interview with Rickey Henderson earlier this week that is well-worth reading (Nate Silver, one of the fine baseball analysts at BP conducted the interview with Carroll). Will also took the time to bust my chops in his Under The Knife column yesterday. He wrote:

I don't wish harm on anyone, let alone the Yankees. I've heard my dad's tales of Mickey Mantle for more years than I care to count. Still, it's always fun to get an e-mail from my pal Alex Belth anytime something bad happens to the Bombers. He cries, he bitches, he moans--it's like having my own private manic depressive in my Inbox, but he's more entertaining than most people with real mental illnesses. I think there was about a six-second gap between Jason Giambi being hit on the hand by a 90-mph heater and Alex punching out a wailing electronic missive bemoaning the fate of Deodorant Boy. Giambi was hit on the hand by a pitch that wasn't terribly inside--and where's QuesTec when you want to see just how far inside a pitch really was?--and while he's sore and the hand slightly swollen, the X-rays were negative and he reported good progress. Calm down, Yanks fans, he'll be fine.

A few corrections are in order. I don't bitch, I kvetch. I don't moan, I whine (and then I shout and throw things). And I don't cry. I wail.

Capice? (I can't have my character besmirched, after all.)