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Deep thoughts in snow: Send search crew
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Editor's Note: When we got to work today, we found another e-mail from that bartending, skateboarding buddy of ours in California. We decided to pass it along again. A word of warning: always wear a helmet.

Chapter 15
... in which our hero finds himself in an icy tomb following bad advice to Gary Sheffield

I apologize if this is a little garbled. I'm typing with one free hand on my wireless Palm Pilot. My other arm is pinned and immobilized. I'm buried head-first somewhere near the top of Snow Summit at Big Bear in the San Bernardino Mountains.

I took off on my snowboard and started carving my way through some trees and must have taken a wrong turn. I launched off a rock face and just planted myself. My head broke through into an air pocket. I can breathe for the time being. I just hope my red snowboard is visible sticking out of the powder. If you read this on ESPN.com, please send a search crew. It's pretty cold, let's leave it at that.

You could say this all started back in L.A. when Gary Sheffield walked into Lore's looking for me. He said Shawn Green told him how much I improved his attitude heading into spring training this season.

"Everybody's getting these 10-year deals," Sheffield said. "Rodriguez. Jeter. Look at my numbers. All I've got is the next three years for $30 million. Who can feel secure with just three measly years?"

Sheffield said he was thinking of asking for a 30-year contract extension.

I told him that would put him in his 60s, a time when few major-league players have proven to be at their most productive.

"That's a motivator. I'm still swinging the bat real good," he said. "No reason I won't be three decades from now."

A few Margarita Xtremes later Sheffield made up his mind that $30 million for the next three years is a disrespectful slap in the face without a contract extension. So he demanded the Dodgers trade him. You know what kind of headlines that made. People started wondering why he hadn't been talked out of such a crazy idea.


	Gary Sheffield doesn't think $30 million over the next three years will buy him enough love.

That was the same night Roger Clinton came into the bar to talk about all the heat his brother was taking over those presidential pardons. I told him no matter what happened, his couldn't get taken away. So he began downing Margaritas and wound up getting busted for DUI a couple of hours later.

Note to rescue team: I'm maybe a quarter-mile south of the summit, although I don't know how far I've rolled. Please hurry. Hypothermia setting in. Again: look for the red snowboard.

Note to my girlfriend Janine: You were right all along. I turned into a jerk with my 900 Wheeler hotline. I'm sorry. I got carried away. Maybe it was natural. Who wouldn't get puffed up by people like Sheffield and Mark Cuban and even David Stern calling to ask my advice? I suppose that's no excuse. I got the whole city in an uproar over Sheffield. I gave Ismael Valdes bad directions to the Angels' training camp. I lost my focus, being the best bartender and extreme athlete I can be.

Note to Puker: You're still my best friend, dude. No matter what. You can have my clothes. And my video camera. Take whatever CDs you want. Feed Orville, please.

Note to Stu Getzler of Lore's Famous Sports Bar and Cafe: Dude, I apologize for turning you into the Health Department, but I needed a few days off to think, and the best way to get the time was to have the restaurant closed down after it failed a surprise inspection. I'm sure you'll be back in business by the weekend (even if it's without yours truly) as soon as you clean up the droppings.

Also, tell Cubes to pay the fine and stay off the court.

My right hand is almost numb. I can deal with frostbite. Losing a few fingertips is not the worst thing in the world. I just don't want to lose my nose and wind up getting thawed out a couple thousand years from now and getting my own National Geographic special.

Anyway, to everybody in L.A.: I tried to make it right. Before I left to come up here, I checked in with my good friend Sammy Sosa to see if he'd OK a trade to take Sheffield's place. He said he would.

Well, that's it. The battery is almost dead. Being buried under a mountain of snow at least gives you time to think. So if the jump I just took turns out to be my last, I have reason to be grateful. It helped me get my brain back on track and set things straight.

But I hope it doesn't turn out that way. I hope the rescue team gets word and finds me and drags me out of here. Because there are some more good runs left in me. Not to mention plenty of video footage of Puker and Janine to shoot. Bottom line: go-for-it. But don't become a pig in the process.

Hurry. It's getting dark.

Next Week: In chapter 16, our hero goes head to head with gangrene