"Choco Papa`s Health Note"

                        Every morning, I walk down the stairs from my apartment. Fourteen steps. And every morning, my knees announce each one. Click. Pop. Crack. Click. Pop. Crack. My wife says she can hear me coming from the bedroom. She doesn't need an alarm clock. She has my knees. I'm 59 years old, but my knees are at least 60. Probably 65. They've lived a harder life than the rest of me. While my brain was sitting in boardrooms and my hands were signing contracts, my knees were still paying the bill for what I did to them in my twenties. Let me do the math. In my professional baseball career, I estimate I slid into bases roughly 2,000 times. Each slide slammed my knees into packed dirt at full sprint speed. I squatted behind home plate for catching drills thousands of times — deep squats, full body weight, for hours. I sprinted from first to third, stopped hard, pivoted, pushed off. Over and over. Season after season. Tha...

  Let me tell you about the worst deal I ever made. For twenty years, I sold my body and didn't even know it. First on the baseball diamond, then in the boardroom. The currency was different but the transaction was the same — trade your health now, get paid today, worry about the cost later. Later is here. And the buyback price is brutal.   When My Body Was the Product I was a professional baseball player in South Korea's KBO league. If you don't know Korean baseball, picture this: the same intensity as MLB's minor leagues, but with a military-style training culture where pain is considered weakness and rest is considered laziness. My day started at 5 AM. Running until my lungs burned. Batting practice until my palms bled through the gloves. Fielding drills until my knees screamed. Then weight training, because apparently destroying your body once a day wasn't enough. I was in my twenties. I felt like a machine. Machines don't need maintenance, right? My coaches...