For what it's worth, let me begin by saying that I love watching the Little League World Series. I truly do. In fact, since my days as a little leaguer, I've always envied the position these young athletes find themselves in. What a life experience! Taking center stage on ESPN, going toe to toe with the best respective teams from around the world in search of a championship to take back to their hometown. I think I speak for all current and former Little League baseball participants when I say that we've all had our own aspirations while sitting on our couches, of smacking a game-winning home run for the whole world to soak in. Could we even fathom the feeling?

However, the older I get, while I still become filled with jealousy, I also find myself overcome with worry for the future health-related complications of these young, ever-growing talents. Specifically, the pitchers.

With that writer's trap being set, I continue with this: how far is too far, in terms of stressing these young arms to their limit?

One factor we have to keep in the forefront of our minds is the fact that these adolescent competitors are still just 11 and 12 years old; their bodies growing every day. So when I'm casually sitting in a pizza parlor, enjoying a late-night bite to eat, and my eyes catch the television above me and I catch an entire at-bat that features a seven-pitch sequence compete with SEVEN curveballs, I cringe. Simply cringe. I can feel the stress on their fragile arms through the pixels of the television screen. Is a victory, even of that magnitude, really worth the leveraging of their bright, bright futures?

Do we not realize the pressure we are putting on these boys during these games? Precious, precious growth plates in their bones are being pushed to extremes, and to what avail? Granted, I am well aware of my previous decrees of jealousy towards their position. Competition has a way of getting the best of us, young and old, players, parents and coaches, alike. But boy, even if I were in their position, I would not be comfortable doing what they are instructed to do. And when I say instructed, I mean "instructed", to the fullest extent. These games are not called by catchers; there is full blame that needs to be taken by their coaches as well. They call the shots.

But maybe that's just me. After all, I was raised up as a ballplayer by a father and a grandfather who wanted me to be my best, but not at the expense of my health. Don't get me wrong, they wanted to see me succeed, but not ever to that level of becoming a premature, 12-year old puppet with a four-pitch repertoire in my back pocket.

I've seen the worst of the worst occur firsthand. I was standing in the on-deck circle, getting my hacks in before my first at-bat of a travel game when the opposing pitcher (who was roughly 13 years old) snapped off a curveball on his second offering of the game.

He only lasted two pitches.

The pitch sailed four feet above our leadoff hitter's head and smacked the backstop with a deafening thud. As all of our eyes' followed the ball's trajectory, and then refocused on the assumingly embarrassed pitcher's face, we saw something we dreaded.

The boy was keeled over, riddled with pain as he grasped his right arm as tight as he could. His coaches sprinted to his side to tend to his injury as quickly as possible, while both teams and the fans who had gathered all looked on with immense worry. He was rushed to a nearby ER by his parents to be assessed professionally.

He returned towards the latter innings of the game, donning a sling and an unfortunate story to tell; he had fractured a crucial growth plate in his pitching elbow, and would be potentially requiring surgery to return it to a position in which it could heal and continue to grow at a consistent rate with the rest of his young bones.

Sure, he and I were not close by any sense of the word. Hell, I don't even know his name. But from what I can gather, that wasn't the first breaking ball he'd thrown on a baseball diamond.

I take this story with me for life, not as a scare tactic, but as a reminder both for me and fellow young players I come in contact with: while victories on the field are the ultimate end goal, it should not mean we have to sacrifice our well-being to meet that prize. I pitched my fair share of games throughout Little League and beyond into my teenage years, all while finding plenty of success throwing a simple, well-located fastball to get my outs.

Take it from a player who's never suffered a major arm injury: outs can be recorded without the breaking balls. Leave them alone for a few years. Your arm will thank you.

Now excuse me, as I knock on some wood.