I’ve never been one to meddle in other people’s affairs – just ask my good buddy Javon Walker — and I want to assure Packer fans that as training camp starts up, my mind is focused like a white-hot laser beam on the upcoming football season. That said, we players do find ourselves with some fleeting moments of idle time when the Shermanator doesn’t have us logging two-a-days, and in those infrequent moments of repose I’ve been reading a lot in the Urinal-Sentinel about the injury bug that has been plaguing the starting rotation of the New York Yankees. To that band of fallen flamethrowers, this here hard-tossin’ Titletown sumgun can only say: suck it up, Susans.

Take Carl Pavano, for example. Carl went down following a late June start against the Orioles, complaining for a few days after the game that his shoulder was feeling a little tighter than usual or some such malarkey. Carl, listen up: you don’t know from shoulder pain. I remember on a Sunday night game against Tampa Bay back in December 1995, I had Chidi Ahanotu roll up on me like a truck full of Hawaiian sweet bread. As I was crashing down into that unseasonably cold turf in the house that Hugh Culverhouse built, I felt my shoulder pop right out of its socket like it was a damn lego. But did I start crying about it and run off to the CFL for some “rehab starts?” No way, son. I had Reggie White pop that sucker back in right there on the sideline and pressed on with the matter at hand: winning a darn football game.

But Carl isn’t the only offender. Exhibit B is Jaret Wright, who was resurrected last year from the long relief boneyard by Leo Dr. Frankenstein Mazzone. You’d think that after being pieced back together from Whitey Ford and Cy Young parts by Atlanta’s in-house mad scientist that Jaret would be darn near indestructible. Alas, it appears that is not the case: He too has been taken down by some ill-defined shoulder glitch. Are shoulder problems some kind of communicable disease in the Bronx? I swear, I remember a few years ago Brian Urlacher sheered Ahman Green’s arm right off on a third-and-short. There was blood and junk all over the place, gore just shootin’ out everywhere on those white road jerseys the Bears wear. But Ahman didn’t take three months off – hell, his disembodied arm didn’t even fumble the ball (perhaps we should saw his arm off more often, har har). The trainers came out and they stuffed all those slithery tendons and junk back in there, tied it off with some laces from Doug Pederson’s shoulder pads, and voila! Ahman didn’t miss a snap.

To my dismay, Randy Johnson can now also be counted among those afflicted with girlish frailty. The Big Unit complained after his start in Toronto on Saturday of back spasms that flared up when he was – take it easy there! – jogging over to cover first base on a routine groundball. If Randy wants to experience a for-real back spasm, however, I recommend that he set up for a pitch, get midway through his motion, and then let Robert Porcher take him down full-speed from behind. Ol’ Robert got me that way on more than one occasion, and each and every time it happened my life flashed before my eyes and I got a little replay of my last several meals in the back of my throat. But that’s just the way it goes when you’re getting paid millions of dollars to play a little kids’ game on TV. You get back up on your feet, take the next snap, and then see if you can’t throw your next pass hard enough to wedge the ball between Javon’s ribs.

Which brings us to Kevin Brown. Kevin, fine southern gentleman that he is, seems to have come down with a hardcore case of the I-don’t-give-a-shits. How do I know? I know because Kevin is as tough as a flatbed truck packed with 35 tons of Quikrete. Once, he stopped by a Packers-Steelers game up at Lambeau, and before kickoff a little game of touch broke out in the parking lot between some hardcore tailgaters and a few of the players. Kevin wisely decided to buddy up with the guys who brought the brats and the brews, and quarterbacked the tailgate team. On this one play, Gilbert Brown rushed up the middle and it looked like he was gonna sack Kevin for certain. But what happened next still gives me the shivers. Kevin did this Barry Sanders shuffle, let the big guy get a little bit off-balance, and then reached down Gilbert’s throat, yanked his liver up out of there, squeezed some liver juice onto the grill to keep those brats nice and sweaty, and completed a beautiful Hail Mary to this title clerk from Badger State Auto Sales. But was anyone crying about a little spilled liver juice? Heck, no. Kevin helped the fans win a pickup game against their heroes, Gilbert got his liver back, and everyone went home happy. So when I hear that a guy like Kevin is sitting out with a back problem, I can only think that the tarpon are running hot and heavy down in the Gulf of Mexico and that KB is out there with his rod and reel and a cooler full of cold ones, keeping his priorities straight.

Brett Favre is the quarterback of the Green Bay Packers. He uses Snapper riding lawnmowers.