Yup. Again. This time without the promises

I’ve never been comfortable with having “fans.”

That’s not to say I’ve never coveted, cultivated or appreciated them. I have. Always. Big-time. They are, after all, the true currency of the industry in which I’ve worked the bulk of my life.

“Haters” are a lesser form of currency, but an undeniable form nonetheless. Show me someone in media/entertainment with a big name, a high profile, a widely considered successful career; I’ll show you quantifiable evidence that this person is reviled by at least 35 percent of his or her flock of followers.

I’ll use my much-younger self as an example.

Born at San Francisco’s St. Mary’s Hospital, quite literally a long-toss away from my eventual alma mater (see: Russell and Cartwright, Bill), I was a Chronicle Kid through and through. The Sporting Green was my bible, my best friend, and my first and most firm connection to my single father.

A former Dons hooper himself, then a high-school history teacher and raiser of three future Dons, my Dad of course was the first to devour the daily dispatches from our local literary luminaries. Ira Miller, Tim Keown, Ray Ratto, Bruce Jenkins, Lowell Cohn. Every one a titan in my young mind. Herb Caen himself would cross over on occasion to marvel at Montana or Humm-Baby himself to thrill on Will.

As the youngest of three boys, I got The Green last. And that was cool by me — I not only kinda dug the kaleidoscope of smudged ink that became of my fingers, but I got to KEEP The Green as long as I wanted. And I kept that bad boy until I’d devoured every word, stat, and agate Transaction.

The short-term benefit of my voracious consumption of All Things Bay Area Sports via those gloriously crumpled and messy pages was my ability to fill the occasional awkward silence that would accompany my Dad and I on the way home from a less-than-stellar BP session that he’d dutifully squeeze in for me between his 11 jobs.

“You see what Lowell Cohn wrote about the Warriors today?”

My Dad LOVED Lowell Cohn. Still does, in fact. Fast forward 20-30 years, to when my career had reached the point that I could call Cohn a colleague, and I watched my Dad turn into a fawning 14-year-old when I introduced him to Lowell.

Lowell got a pretty good kick out of it, too. So a year or so after the initial introduction, my friend Lowell was more than happy to call my Dad on his birthday, and it remains to this day the most memorable “gift” I’ve ever given the man who gave me the gift of The Green, of a love for language, of a fascinating future career.

What does this have to do with “fans” and “haters”? Well, let me let you in on a little secret. Back in the day, when I’d use Lowell’s latest to connect with my Dad? I HATED Lowell Cohn!

He wasn’t just “Lowell Cohn.” If my Dad wasn’t around, he was “Can You Believe That Lowell Fucking Cohn Guy?” I couldn’t stand his takes, I disagreed with him on virtually everything, and I generally despised his presence in The Green.

Now that I’m grown, I love the guy. I understand the method to his madness. I revere the guy. He’s a legend.

But back then? I was a hater. You know what, though? I never missed one of his columns. I absolutely HAD to see what this jackass had to say.

So was I really a “hater”? Or was I a “fan”? Does a distinction even matter? Not really. Certainly not these days. Both are regular consumers of the product on offer, which makes them both “followers.”

So that’s the real currency in this game I’ve played for much of my life. Love me or hate me. Fine with both. As long as you’re paying attention.

What’s the point of this post? I don’t really know, to tell the truth. It’s the first thing I’ve written for public consumption in a long time. And I’m quite certain that anyone who’s followed my mercurial journey likely expects me to make some sort of “I’m back!” proclamation, complete with an ultimately empty promise to post every day; to use this space as both rehab from another self-inflicted setback, and as a springboard to an inspiring comeback that’ll restore me to past glories.

Gross. I’ve done this several times now over the years, and it reminds me of a line I used to drop (with a half-shirt Schwarzenegger accent) from some movie I can’t remember when one of my friends would start to drone on and on: “Your story grows tiresome.”

Thus, no promises this time. Yes, I’ve been through some shit again. Like, some SHIT shit. But I’mma spare you the gory gories, the “message,” the pathetic please-root-for-my-broken-but-brave-soul.

I just felt like writing something again, and this is what came of that feeling.

And it feels pretty good, so I’ll probably do it again. And when I do, I’ll let you know.

Thanks for following along.

—Urb

A lesson from Steve Jobs

The joys of parenthood are many and ever-changing.

The mental victory dance you do at 2:12 a.m. upon hearing your 3-year-old flushing the toilet after her first nocturnal visit to the potty? Yours precedes her own victory dance, two years later, after she’s finished confidently striding across the stage to collect her Kindergarten “diploma.”

Why are you crying, Daddy?

You’ll understand when you have kids of your own, sweetie.

What does the above have to do with sports? Nothing. Absolutely nothing. And that’s why I dig writing here, in my independent little corner of the world wide web, more than any place I’ve written.

With the exception of my book, which was a true labor of love (“labor” being the key word, as it was arduous for both me and my expectant bride), I’ve been writing what other people want me to write my whole career — and for a long time that was fine.

But as I grew older, as I grew more independent in my thinking and nature, I did what a lot of people do as they get older.

I changed.

I developed something of a stubborn streak.

I decided that when push came to shove, I was going to stick to my guns and insist that I’m right.

Not always the best approach in the corporate world, and my two most recent jobs have been with huge, national companies. It’s as much about  who you spend time trying to appease as it is the quality of your performance when it comes to working in big buildings, and I’m the first to admit I haven’t always played nice with the people holding my career cards.

So here I am, writing when I want and about what want.

Liberating, to be sure. Lucrative? Not so much. Not yet, anyway. That’ll come.

That’s the plan, anyway, but it has to start with great work. And for work to be great, it has to be something you love. This is one of the many lessons I’ve learned in the wake of Steve Jobs’ death.

While he was living, I didn’t pay much attention to Jobs’ life, his legacy, his overwhelming impact on the lives of millions of people. Since he passed, though, I’ve devoured every word I can find detailing that life remarkably lived, and among my joyous and profound discoveries is that he lived that remarkable life because he figured something out that it takes many of us far too long to realize, and it’s not a complicated lesson or message.

In fact, it’s pretty simple.

A career is far too long to not spend it truly loving what you do, and life is far too short not to spend it doing what you want with those you hold most dear. Find a way to marry those concepts and you’re way ahead of the game.

You might not change the world as did Jobs, but you can change your world and the world of those around you.

And that’s pretty remarkable, too.

Carroll, Panda and the Giants

Now on the tail end of a busy week of searching for ways to piece together a living, I’ve come to the following conclusion: Looking for work is more exhausting than actually working.

Unless, perhaps, you’re Brian Sabean and his front-office crew. With 13 arbitration-eligible players, eight free agents and holes in the roster a-plenty, they entered the offseason with perhaps the longest to-do list in the big leagues.

They’ve already addressed some of their issues, bringing back lefty relievers Javier Lopez and Jeremy Affeldt last week and acquiring outfielder Melky Cabrera this week by sending mercurial starter Jonathan Sanchez to Kansas City.

There’s still a ton of work to do, though, and among the issues is finding a reliable backup middle infielder.

As of now, Brandon Crawford is atop the depth chart at shortstop, Freddy Sanchez is No. 1 at second base (assuming he’s healthy), and Jeff Keppinger and Mike Fontenot, both among the arbitration-eligible Giants, are No. 2 at shortstop and second base, respectively.

Keppinger should be kept, in my opinion. Freddy hasn’t exactly proven to be a quick healer since he arrived via trade from Pittsburgh, and Keppinger is essentially Freddy Light. He can do everything a healthy Freddy does, just not quite as well.

Fontenot? Eh. He’s a non-tender in my book. Nice little scrapper, but if Crawford doesn’t quite work out, you simply can’t go with Fontenot for the long haul. We’ve seen that movie before. He gets exposed after a week or two, the holes in his swing pried open with the Jaws of Lively Fastballs.

So the need for a reliable backup shortstop should be prioritized — unless, of course, Sabean pulls off a stunner and reels in Jimmy Rollins.

This is what has me thinking about Jamey Carroll, whose name kept popping up on my Twitter feed (@BigUrbSports) this week as a possible “get” for the Giants.

My thoughts as I read the tweets?

Carroll had a nice year for the Dodgers, and he’d be a nice fit as a backup and in the clubhouse, but he made $1.8 million last season, he’s going to be 38 by the time next season starts, and word is he wants more than one year. Under those terms, no thanks. A year and a mil? Bring him on.

On Friday, though, the Twins signed Carroll to a two-year deal said to be worth about $7 million. Wow. If Jamey Carroll is worth $3.5 million, the Twins have scouts that see something I clearly do not.  

Moving on, another priority for the Giants is keeping Pablo Sandoval healthy, and they might want to add “keeping him safe” to the mix. 

While on tour in Taiwan with a Giants manager Bruce Bochy and a group of MLB “all-stars,” the Panda denied having put on some of the pounds he lost last winter, but don’t buy that for a second.

There’s no question he put on weight. It’s undeniable.

But he knows how to get it off, and he’s already working on it at the same Phoenix-area facility that transformed his body and career last offseason. That’s great news, because the Giants absolutely need him at his best again in 2012.

Not-so-great news is that he’s still considering a trip to his native Venezuela for some winter ball. If I’m the Giants, I strongly urge him to reconsider, and this where “keeping him safe” enters the equation.

Or did you miss the terrifying story about Nationals catcher Wilson Ramos being kidnapped from outside his home in Venezuela this week? People with big money are frequent targets of such crimes in that country; it’s why many Venezuelan-born players make their offseason homes in the U.S.

Granted, Sandoval would be there for only a week or two, and he’s a considerably bigger star than Ramos. If he requested national security he’d probably get it. But why take the chance?

That’s it for today, folks. There’s still some daylight left, so there’s still time to hustle for gigs.