Way Things Are Going, His Days Are Numbered

That’s it, I’ve had it up to Shaq’s ears, my jukebox’s blown a fuse.

Welcome to Operation Overload, the story of my brain in the Information Age.

This onset comes as a result of recently being assigned another computer-related “password” which, at last count, brings the running total to, oh, 25 or 30.

“Password” was a fine game show hosted by Allen Ludden, yet now I can’t even watch reruns because the very word triggers anger knowing some tool bar-tender in tech resources is about to cause another noggin logjam.

Once, “Open Sesame” served as a perfectly respectable password--it was a favorite of genies and gentiles--while a “PIN” number applied specifically to bowling, for example, the dreaded 7-10 split.

Now, you can’t pick up a phone or log on to a computer or go about your daily business without having to cull from the cobwebs of memory.

A number of these passwords must be at least six characters and include one numeral and a lowercase letter.

For security reasons, in many cases, you must commit these codes to memory and destroy the physical evidence.

So, I ask: Did my life need to become the opening of “Mission Impossible?”

Recently, my company converted to an electronic expense reporting system, which required--bingo--more codes, only adding to the digital pile. I now need a password to withdraw money from the bank, review my 401K, log on to the Internet, click onto my favorite Web sites, review my frequent flier account, sign on to my e-mail, sign on to our newspaper’s archive system and intra-office system.

Passwords are required for my office voice mail, home business voice mail and cell phone voice mail.

I’m not sure the Amazing Kreskin, even in his prime, could keep a handle on so many figures.

Should I lock keys in my SUV, of course, there’s a secret code that will open the door. (I don’t know it.) At home, we have codes to reprogram the television remote control and one to turn off our fire alarm. (I’m batting .500 on this frontal lobe front.)

Not long back, a man in tech support flashed me an Albert Belle dagger stare after noticing I had Scotch-taped my top-secret passwords onto my laptop computer.

“Nice security,” he snapped.

It was either that or taping codes to a wristband like a quarterback on game day. That’s the problem with high tech, it has become as bloated as Paul Hackett’s playbook.

A brain crash was inevitable. My synapses snapped recently at the local ATM.

You know the drill: Stick left arm out car window, extract quick cash from dispenser. Except, when I went to punch in the PIN, my brain froze like a left-hander standing in the batter’s box against Randy Johnson.

I had to pull away from the kiosk--embarrassed and strapped for cash.

What does this have to do with sports?

Plenty.

In simpler times, sports helped keep my figures straight.

I can still remember my high school locker combination, 44-17-8, because I attached a sporting face to it. My combination was not a sequence of abstract numbers but a series of uniform numbers.

Hence, 44-17-8 was Henry Aaron-Jim Hart-Carl Yastrzemski.

I can remember my high school locker number was 717 because it was Babe Ruth’s career home run total plus three.

You say stupid and sophomoric?

Hey, I was a stupid sophomore.

Yet, this system worked brilliantly for years. In the 1980s, I could commit to memory a gym locker combination because to me it was Joe Montana (16), Nolan Ryan with the Angels (30) and former Ram cornerback Jerry Gray (25).

What could be simpler? Go to Montana, twist right to Ryan and then left to Gray.

Historically, I owed a debt of gratitude to the New York Yankees because, prior to 1929, baseball players didn’t wear uniform numbers.

Sadly, this meant an early 20th century fan of the Chicago Cubs could not take advantage of Tinker to Evers to Chance as a way of unlocking a bike chain.

The Yankees revolutionized the numbers-game game when, for purposes of making players more recognizable to fans, they affixed numbers to their men based on the team’s batting order.

Earle Combs batted first, so he was No. 1. And so it followed. Mark Koenig was No. 2, Babe Ruth was No. 3, Lou Gehrig was No. 4, Bob Meusel was No. 5, Tony Lazzeri wore No. 6.

Numbers became synonymous with players allowing a future kid to remember combinations by simply remembering pictures on trading cards: Willie Mays (24), Jim Brown (32), Wayne Gretzky (99).

Then it went haywire. Players grew weary of indentured servitude. A labor boss named Marvin Miller helped forge free agency, which led to player movement and a Dizzy Dean-dizzying era of uniform changes.

Bill Gates complicated the matter irrevocably by launching that “Windows” ship.

My system started taking a beating. Ryan went from No. 30 with the Angels to No. 34 with Houston. Montana, always the No. 16 in combination code, ended up a No. 19 with the Kansas City Chiefs.

Michael Jordan, a No. 23 you could always count on, retired, then came back as a No. 45. Then he retired again, only to return as a No. 23.

Ken Griffey Jr. was No. 24 in Seattle. He could never replace Mays as the Say Hey Code Kid, but it didn’t help when Griffey left Seattle and became a No. 30 for the Cincinnati Reds.

No wonder this confounding confluence of password and number swaps came to a head at the ATM. I couldn’t remember if my PIN number was Ripken (8), Johnson (51), Don Drysdale (53), or some combination of Ryan with the Rangers (34), Deacon Jones (75) or Ted Williams (9).

Perhaps I was confusing my ATM number with an old college lock combination. Joe DiMaggio (5), Roman Gabriel (18), Gordie Howe (9).

No doubt, this not-so-beautiful mind is teetering on the technology brink.

News item: Buffalo Bills recently acquire quarterback Drew Bledsoe in trade from New England.

Second thought: if he doesn’t get to keep uniform No. 11, I may have to call a locksmith.