Dear Impingement,
I address you today with a mix of exasperation and a profound, albeit ridiculous, sense of respect for your enduring effectiveness. For too long, you have been a silent, insidious saboteur in the world of professional baseball, and now, once again, you have claimed another victim: Chris Martin’s shoulder.
Look, I get it. You're good at what you do. You find a tiny space, you set up shop, and boom – suddenly a multi-million-dollar arm is rendered temporarily useless. It's almost... admirable in its precision. But can we talk? Just for a moment, as one sentient entity to another, even if one of us is a calcified menace lurking in a rotator cuff?
What is your endgame, Impingement? Is it chaos? Is it to test the depth charts of every MLB franchise? Do you revel in the anguish of fantasy baseball owners? Because if so, mission accomplished, you tiny, cartilaginous fiend. We, the fans, are tired. The Texas Rangers, specifically, are tired. Their bullpen, a delicate ecosystem at the best of times, simply cannot afford your disruptive influence right now. Gavin Collyer and Cal Quantrill are fine pitchers, truly, but they’re not Chris Martin, are they? Not when we need *him* to face that menacing clean-up hitter in the eighth.
I’ve seen your work before, Impingement. You've haunted many an ace, many a closer. You’re like the ultimate squatter, but instead of an abandoned building, you choose the most finely tuned athletic machinery known to man. Do you not feel the guilt? The collective groan of thousands when the words "shoulder impingement" flash across the ticker? Do you not hear the desperate pleas of trainers wielding ice packs and resistance bands like medieval weaponry against your microscopic tyranny?
I appeal to your better nature, if a microscopic anatomical obstruction even possesses one. Consider the long-term implications. Chris Martin is a man, a husband, perhaps even a dog-owner. He has hopes, dreams, and a desire to throw a slider that buckles knees. By imprisoning his mobility, you’re not just sidelining a pitcher; you’re dampening a spirit. And for what? A slight reduction in subacromial space? Is that truly worth the emotional toll on an entire fan base?
I implore you, Impingement, to reconsider your residency. Pack your bags. Un-impinge. There are plenty of other, less vital shoulders in the world. Perhaps a mannequin’s? Or a particularly sturdy coat rack? Release Chris Martin. Let his shoulder once again move with the fluid grace of a true professional. For the love of the game, for the sanctity of the bullpen, for the mental well-being of every Rangers supporter, please, just… get out of there. We beg you. Our playoff hopes depend on your mercy.
