Letter To My Younger Self

I want to explain to you why it’s so difficult for me to speak — the diagnosis, all of it — and what my life is like now, because one day you’ll be in my shoes,

Please remember: Duck boats don’t have bathrooms. Not in 2004. We won’t be ready for that yet. Find a tennis ball can.

You’ll be out chasing the females and snorting coke before summer hits. It’ll be nonstop partying. At home. On the road. It won’t matter.

In many ways, you are living a dream. And in many ways, you are a prisoner of that dream.

I always told you to follow your heart with passion. You did it. You still do. I love you for that. Thank you, Gus, for being you — and for letting all of us se

The thing about Chicago basketball is, it’s not even a sport. I mean, it is, but not like that. It’s more like a fight.

“It’s 1991, you’re 35-and-a-half years old, you have two bad knees and seven months left on your contract…you’re going to become a professional wrestler.”

Don’t give up. Just get … how should I put this ... creative. When the throwing problems continue — and the nightmares persist and the injuries begin to mount —

Believe in yourself. Believe in your instinct. And you’ll find out just why God has given you this talent.

What I really want you to know is that even at 33, that hunger you have now is still here. That drive to keep getting better hasn’t left yet.

The one bad thing about this letter is that I can’t use it to reach back and slap you upside the head to knock some sense into you.

The Yankee Way will remind you of your dad, and the importance of doing things the right way. You’ll grow to love it. Then you’ll become a world champion.