Friday, November 30, 2007

A Mini Minicamp Summit

I leave this morning for Fort Myers, Florida to attend our earliest minicamp since I've been with the team. It's so early, actually, that it's not technically a minicamp. In the players union agreement with ownership, no official minicamp is allowed to be held prior to a specific date, which I believe is in the first week of January. So this minicamp is going to not really be a minicamp. It will be smaller than that; just pitchers. Not even catchers. It's been internally dubbed a "pitchers' summit," but I don't like that term because it implies we'll be climbing really high mountains with oxygen tanks strapped to our backs and little American flags in our hands to plant when we reach the top. How about Mini Minicamp. There's an Austin Powers theme there, which relieves some stress about it, and no pressure is added to sleep in a tent in the midst of a 5-day snowstorm.

Pitching coaches from the entire organization will attend, as will those players signed for next season and a handful of minor league prospects. New manager Rick Churches is running the camp, his first. I can tell he's excited, because he called me three times last night to remind me not to miss my plane.

Rick: What are you flying, Continental?
Me: I think so.
Rick: You can print out your boarding pass before you leave your house, you know.
Me: Can you have someone do it for me?
Rick: No.
Me: I hope I make my flight then.

Ten minutes later, Vanessa saw I'd gotten an email with my boarding pass attached. She was nice enough to print it out for me and put it in a manila folder labeled "BOARDING PASS - YOU NEED THIS TO GET ON THE PLANE."

I don't fly commercial very much. The team gets charters during the season and when I do sponsorship deals, the companies usually put me up in one of their private corporate jets if I need to go anywhere as part of our deal. When Vanessa really wants to get under my skin, she'll say we should go on vacation at Newark Airport where I can watch travelers who've gotten bumped from their flights sleep on the floor. If I see any of them this morning, I'll give them my unneeded mountain-climbing tent.

Rehab is going along slowly. My arm feels fine. My legs are coming around. A pitcher needs strong legs to push off from the mound and generate energy to flow through the upper torso, shoulder and arm. If my legs can match the strength of my appetite of the last 6 months, I should easily win 30 games this season.

I land in Orlando around 11:30 AM and then a car is taking me to the Fort Myers complex. The doctor will see me at 2:00-ish and then we have our first Mini Minicamp Summit meeting at 3:30. I fly home Sunday afternoon.

I'll try to give you an update from Florida tomorrow, but I may be held up most of the weekend. Wintry weather coming for Sunday. I'll be sure to bundle up.

Thursday, November 29, 2007

The Daily Paper(ing)

Every morning I go out and pick up my newspapers from the end of the driveway. This is a somewhat old fashioned exercise since I can get all of the same information from the same papers on the Internet. I subscribe anyway. I like to see the big headline letters on the back page. I like the word games the headlines make. When I was traded to New York, I remember reading the headline on the back of the Post: Great Scott! The News had Scott Free! since the trade ended up, with all due respect, being a little one-sided in favor of my new team. I don't read the articles about me so much anymore because they're largely negative. Yes, I've put on some weight. I don't need columnists, beat writers, and some guy who thinks he can draw funny cartoons to remind me. But I respect the importance of the stories (emphasis on "stories") they print and enjoy the trip down my driveway.

I didn't enjoy either today.

First, I'd already done a 35-minute run, which was about 3 1/2 miles for those of you keeping score. (A couple columnists are upset I'm blogging. It takes away their scoop power.) When I started and ended my run, it was dark out. I don't switch on our outside lights because I'm growing to enjoy the cloak of anonymity the darkness provides. A person of my ilk, who appreciates all that life has befallen him - wife, kids, loads of money, I get to play a game for a living - can grow tired of the constant fame and its posse of head-turns, autograph hounds, and whisper campaigns of "Is that Jimmy Scott? My God, he's put on a lot of weight." Leaving my house in the dark and returning in the dark gives me time to reflect, breathe heavily, spit and emit gasses from parts of my body without anyone knowing.

I was literally struck by the news today. Our "paperboy," really a 40+ year old man who drives what looks to be a late-90s Plymouth Voyager, whips papers out of the passenger window while he drives erratically around the streets of Madison (my town). I've successfully avoided his whippings in the past, pretending like it's a game of dodge ball and he's got the ball. I've never heard him laugh, nor have I seen his eyes, so I tend to think he is unaware of our daily game. He's got a lot going on behind the steering wheel, like driving. But he's also looking for his stack of papers, making the proper whip through the window, changing his loud radio station from Spanish Talk Radio to the Spanish Morning Zoo and back to Spanish Talk when the commercial comes on. So when he whipped out his/my paper today and it landed across my solar plexus, I was upset because:

1. I lost the day's game
2. My paperboy derived no satisfaction from striking me with a two-pound wad of newsprint

He drove off, weaving back and forth to satisfy his subscribers on both sides of my street. I watched him go, his music and talk fading with the distance between us, knowing we'd meet again.

Thus, the good run had been replaced by some discontentment after getting hit. I took a deep breath, coughed a little, and turned to head inside.

My driveway is pretty long. In some small towns it could be considered a street or way or avenue or cul de sac due to its relative longation. To me, it's a 400 foot stretch of asphalt that needs to be sealed before the first snow.

As I traversed my personal Jimmy Scott Lane, something caught my eye. Not in my eye. I wear goggles when I run to avoid foreign objects, like flying newspapers, lodging in my corneas. No, my peripheral vision made me turn my head toward my front lawn. I looked at the trees. I looked at the bushes. I looked at the shrubs and the fallen leaves that hadn't been collected yet. My eyes had adjusted to the darkness and a dim, soft glow of impending dawn aided my vision. I wished it was still pitch black, my thoughts cloaked by daydreams. But that wasn't to be. Instead, I was horrified to see something I'd only wished on my worst enemies and people I didn't like.

My entire property was covered with toilet paper.

At some point between 10:30 PM last night and 5:17 AM today, vandal(s) carpeted my lawn, trees and all of the trimmings with what appeared to be two-ply Don't Squeeze the Charmin. I stood and surveyed the damage. Morning moisture had flattened out the intended softness of the brand which lay before me. It clung to bushes and hung from branches. Who would perform such a bastardly, dastardly act? And who was going to pay to clean it up?

I went inside and dialed 911. The woman who answered was nice enough to listen to my ravings and heavy breathing before nicely asking me to hang up and only use 911 in real emergencies, like if the toilet paper had been used and was currently on fire. She suggested I call the police directly. I thanked her and dialed 411. Assuming I'd incorrectly guess the phone number of my local police department, I needed a second opinion. The operator snickered, told me it was one of the first numbers any first-grader should have memorized, and played a recording of an annoyed voice that spewed off the number so quickly I couldn't write it down even if I'd had a pen or pencil or quill with me at that time. I hung up, found a writing utensil, and called back. Same operator - what are the chances of that? She snickered again and suggested I listen more carefully to the annoyed recording. I was paying 75 cents each time I called her. I thanked her by not saying anything - for fear I'd say the wrong thing and call her something my mother said not to call other people back when I was in first grade. The annoyed recording gave me the number and I wrote it down diligently, having to call 411 back only one more time because I was unsure if I copied down the correct area code.

By now, my house was stirring. Julia and Grace were upstairs arguing over who could use the "good" blow dryer first. Vanessa was making the bed. I could tell by the sound of her heavy footsteps upstairs making our bedroom floor creak and crack like a yule log. Just as I began to dial the 973 (The area code for my house is the same as for my municipal police department! Go figure.), a thought occurred to me. I hung up and trounced upstairs.

The arguing by my girls was reaching a climax. I usually watch and silently giggle when they argue. Especially because I'm not the one being argued with. The fun usually lasts until one of them, or Vanessa, tells me to stop laughing so loud. I couldn't watch and silently giggle this time. I knew who had pelted my front yard with poo poo paper.

Me: Hey!
Them: What!
Me: Are your cheerleader and volleyball friends constipated?
Them: What?
Me: Look outside.

I took control of the hair dryer and aimed it at their backs as I followed them toward a window overlooking the front yard. I was security. They were the guilty parties.

Them: We can't see anything.

I turned off the 1200 watts of lights in the room.

Them: Oh.

That answer was enough for me. The mystery was solved before I had to involve Vanessa, who no doubt would have known the answer before dialing 911 and asking for somebody legally armed to the teeth with assault weapons. When she asked me what was going on, I pointed outside with the hair dryer.

Vanessa: I can't see anything.
Me: Julia, turn off the lights and do something with that wet head. You'll catch a cold.
Vanessa: Looks like some senior girls gave our kids a nice present.

I argued against the niceness of the gift and demanded names. Vanessa told me not to worry. Leaf pickup was today anyway. The timing was good. The landscapers would simply have to spend a little extra time pulling down the mess from our bushes and trees, especially the toilet paper clinging to our large ash. I asked who was going to pay the overtime. Vanessa just looked at me. I asked who was going to pay for my four 411 calls (the fourth was to double-confirm my notes from the third call). She sighed and shook her head.

Me: Oh.

A New York tabloid headline suddenly appeared in my head: Double Ply At Jimmy Scott's House. Another reason to not read the articles.

I rubbed my solar plexus and looked outside one more time. The dim glow was less dim now. I could almost see the hanging paper glisten outside. From far away, it may have even looked pretty.

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

Seeking My Endorsement

Jack Perry, super agent to the baseball stars, surprised me yesterday with a contract offer from Pepsi. They have a new ad campaign, Bringing You Back To Life, and they think I am the definition of someone thought of as gone who has now returned. For $3 million, I would appear on up to 4 different television commercials (the first to air on Easter Sunday), in radio and print ads, and throughout a massive Internet campaign targeted at sites like the New York Times. Those annoying pop up ads that disturb the flow of your daily web surfing? Imagine my face featured on 7% of them.

Was I interested? Of course I was interested. $3 million for two days out of my schedule and the potential to be seen by the same many millions of people who, like me, prefer to read the Sunday Times Magazine for free (and immediately click out of those annoying pop up ads), was like asking a hungry wolf if he was interested in the elk carcass listing on that nearby snowy ridge.

But it can never as easy as just saying yes, especially if it's a company like Pepsi that wants to engage my services. I'm a big star, you know. I only threw two pitches in 2007 but remain considered an A-lister of the sports world. Yes, I've fallen a few notches below Tiger and Peyton and Maria, but, when it comes to baseball, I'm still close to the top. Because of this, I couldn't just say Yes to Pepsi's offer. I needed to give them a counter-proposal, because that's what A-listers like me are supposed to do. I had to ask for a little bit more of one thing and also throw something new into the ring. The little bit more would be the money. Pepsi earns more than me. After a few hours of research, one of Jack's staffers suggested $3 million spent on me was worth $55 million to Pepsi in direct revenue. Using the old 'To make money you gotta spend money' mantra, we decided to go back and ask Pepsi for $5.7 million and be willing to settle for $4.2 million. It's not what I used to get, but, then again, I did only throw two pitches this year. (Back in '99, Reebok paid me $22 million for shoe rights to my name. Remember "The Jimmy"? Didn't think so.)

Besides the $5.7 million, we also had to ask for something else, something Pepsi hadn't yet thought of. Jack and I brainstormed a little. A donation to The Scott Foundation? It would be tax-deductible and make both Pepsi and me look like wonderful entities. Nice, but not what I was looking for at that moment in time. A lifetime supply of Pepsi products for Julia and Grace's school? Maybe. But after 10 minutes of research, one of Jack's staffers discovered Julia and Grace's school, Madison High, had a contract with Hi-C. Hi-C is owned by Coke.

Back to the drawing board.

How about renaming all of Pepsi's arenas around the country The Jimmy Scott Dome or Jimmy Scott's Wild Meeting Place or, simply, The J.S. Arena? One of Jack's staffers suggested that, while my name means something, with all due respect, Pepsi's means a little bit more. Besides, if Pepsi spent $100 million for naming rights to a large structure, they probably had a good reason. Yeah, I thought, like to sell more Pepsi Cola.

I should mention that this was all taking place by conference call. Jack's super agent office is in California, and he wasn't on the call the entire time. This is a busy time for the fellow. He's trying to get much larger contracts signed than my rinky dink $5.7 million, settling for $4.2, endorsement deal with a manufacturer of fizzy drinks. Since I was on speaker phone in their office, I put them on speaker phone in my office, which is really my recently remodeled basement, a place I like to call my Entertainment Veranda. When Vanessa asked what an Entertainment Veranda was, I spread my arms and said, "This." She shook her head and went back upstairs into the Food Preparation Gallery (she of minimal imagination calls it a kitchen). Having Jack's staffers, and occasionally Jack himself, on speakerphone in my Entertainment Veranda meant their voices carried through the vents and up into the greater part of my Greater Living Facility (house). Eventually, Julia, Grace and Vanessa were lounging on the couches, enjoying the comfort of $2000 throw pillows and listening to me try to negotiate something I didn't really care about into my special new endorsement deal. Occasionally, they'd smile at each other when I'd bring up how Pepsi should donate $10 million per year over the next 5 toward ending the illegal elephant tusk market in Africa or $22 million per year over the next 2 toward new BMWs for runaway teens.

Then, Vanessa spoke up. Usually this is a no-no when it comes to contracts. I'm supposed to know what's best. I have the experience, after all. To which she normally replies, "If you're so experienced, why did you give back $9 million to the team last month?" I don't like to argue with the woman in front of large cordless telephones, so I let her speak her peace.

Vanessa: Why not put the girls in the commercials with their father?
Me: What?
Julia: Cool.
Grace: And 2 new BMWs.
Me: Let's get back to the real world, shall we?
Jack: I think they'll go for it.

30 seconds later, the call was over. 10 minutes later, we had a deal. $4.8 million for me, $100,000 per daughter toward their college degrees, and 2 new VW Bugs (one blue, one yellow). Jack's staffer, who recapped the deal for us, said he'd messenger the contracts to us in a few days. Filming is tentatively scheduled to take place the week between Christmas and New Year's. And, one more thing, Pepsi demanded I lose 20 pounds before going on camera.

Seems like they asked for a little something we hadn't yet thought of too.

Tuesday, November 27, 2007

The Far East

Word on the street, or at least this morning's NY Post, is that the team has submitted its bid for - their quotes - "The Jimmy Scott of Japan," Kai Goto. Many thoughts cross my mind as I read this. If I opted to play in Japan in 2009, would I be called "The Kai Goto of Japan"? Is Kai's wife "The Vanessa Scott of Japan"? Because the team saved $9 million on me after I stupidly, virtually gave it back to them, will they win the bidding over the next team by $9 million? Will "my" $9 million make the difference?

It's a strange process we set up with the Japanese Baseball League. If a player there is still under contract, his team can basically sell him to the (sealed) highest bidder here in the U.S. Then, the winning team is not only on the hook for the full bid, but a new contract for the player too.

Judging by how much every team in both leagues needs pitching, good pitching, and the "Jimmy Scott of Japan" is scouted as a very good pitcher, my guess is the winning bid will be upwards of $40 million. When I came to New York in '94, that was our team's entire payroll.

I hope Kai gets as much as possible. Then he can be the most expensive rookie ever to wear fishnet stockings, a spiked thong and three-breasted brassiere on Rookie Haze Day.

I wonder what the papers in Japan will think of their hero then.

Monday, November 26, 2007

Rain Out

I woke up refreshed enough this morning to have the urge to go back to sleep, not because I needed to convalesce after throwing up on demand for two days but because I was sleepy. Vanessa is two to three days ahead of me when it comes to this particular illness. (She's years ahead of me when it comes to everything else.) She knows that once the puking stops, it's time to get out of bed and make up for lost time. After she kicked me at 5:17 AM this morning and gave me the "making up for lost time" speech, I told her that if I had to make up for lost time, I'd never make it into bed in the first place. Because it was 5:17 AM, neither one of us laughed, since it was 5:17 AM and what I said wasn't that funny. Still, I like to think she curled her lip just a little in preparation for a future Mona Lisa smile.

We have a sunroof in our bathroom that, because of the master bathroom's position in the house, rarely gets much sun. It serves other purposes. This morning, the loud striking of water on sunroof told me that rain was pouring down outside. One of the great reasons to be a baseball player for a living is that, unlike football players, we know a little mist can throw off even the most hearty umpires. Add even the threat of rain and, with few exceptions, they get all nervous. Will we get the full game in? Will we get even an official 4 1/2 inning game in? Will my underpants show through my wet butt?

I crawled back into bed. It was raining, after all. I can't play in this. Got a leg kick less than two seconds after hitting the sheets. Here's what happened:

Me: Ouch.
Vanessa: Get up.
Me: It's raining.
Vanessa: I don't care.

Vanessa would have been one of those umpires that insists ball be played until Noah's Ark floated over the Jumbotron looking for two volunteers from each team. (Even God picks All Stars.)

I took another kick, this one to the shin, and rolled out of bed again. Angry with my wife for being strong and capable and a better spouse than me at this point in our marriage, I yanked my pre-chosen running clothes off of the top of the TV and stomped out of the room, careful not to disturb her. I avoided most of the creaky parts of the floor except the big one near the door. As referenced earlier, she's years ahead of me in just about everything. Maturity included.

Outside, the rain poured down. Since I can't run with an umbrella, I took one deep, healthy breath and started, submerging my left foot into a puddle on step #2. Not a good way to begin any exercise period. I considered retreating back inside but assumed Vanessa, in all of her damned wisdom, had rigged some sort of mechanism that would land a mannequin's foot on my thigh, creating a temporary Charlie Horse of epic proportions (and since it's just a mannequin foot, I can only guess the rest of the mannequin's proportions). I put one foot in front of the other - in homage to claymation Christmas TV specials - and began a "light" jog. Remember, I'd been releasing toxic sludge out of my mouth for the past two days. Anything stronger than "light" and the rain would have had to fall into a giant IV bag connecting to my empty veins.

Few cars on the road. The Monday after any holiday, even if the holiday was 4 days previous, is always one of the toughest Mondays of the year. Who wants to put the joy and kinship of the previous 4 days behind them to rejoin their real-world struggles answering phones or answering bosses or running in the pouring rain at 5:29 in the AM time?

Funny thing. I did. After about a half mile, I was completely soaked. Getting wet is tough, but once you're inundated with moisture, you no longer care. It was clear to me that my underpants were showing through my butt, but the cool morning air felt good rushing down my esophagus. The slap of rain against my face became war paint. I haven't worn my game face since last April. I didn't really wear it today. But I came close. A bit of game time intensity pushed its way through the depressed lethargy in my psyche. I could say I felt alive this morning, almost for the first time in 6 months, but I don't want to jinx it. It doesn't rain every morning, and in a couple weeks this could all be snow. Even the heartiest umpires, like my wife, wouldn't force me out running at 5:17 AM in the driving snow.

Right?

Sunday, November 25, 2007

Early Bird Gets The Germ

You ever get naked dreams? The ones where you're trying to perform every day tasks - ones that require clothing - but you're fully nude? The scene in "Bull Durham" where Nuke LaLuche stands on the mound wearing nothing but Susan Sarandon's panties is tame compared to the dreams most big leaguers have had. Hell, when you're naked and you're not supposed to be, and don't want to be, a pair of women's panties covering up a man's tool shed is conservative.

I get these dreams maybe two times a year. When I least expect it, I'm ten years old again, walking to school, realizing I'm fully unclothed, and then running from bush to car to small dog, hiding. I usually wake up before resolution. Being that I'm 39 and I get two of these a year, that's 78 instances of embarrassed, unresolved self-nudity floating all over my subconscious.

Number 79 happened Friday night. But instead of being in a childhood scene, I was in present day. Like "Bull Durham," I was on the pitching mound. But no shoes, no hat, no glove, and definitely no panties. It was the playoffs and there I was, feeling totally unprepared. A baseball rested in my right hand, but my surgically repaired right elbow wouldn't bend. The stadium was at times empty, sometimes bursting to standing room only. I was supposed to throw the first pitch. As I looked around at my teammates, who looked back as if I was, not so much a crazy man but someone who was disappointing them, I got a sick feeling in my stomach.

I saw Vanessa in the stands, shaking her head. I'd let her down again too. The sick feeling became more real. Rick Churches strolled out to the mound demanding the ball. No words of encouragement. No pat on the tush. I handed him the ball and began the dreaded long guillotine back to the dugout and clubhouse. Fans threw things at me - bottles, candy, a battery (small and from an iPod, but just as deadly). The sickness raged in my chest, worked its way up to my throat...

I woke up, ripped the sheets off my sweat-drenched body, ran to the toilet and made it just in time. I cleaned up and stumbled back into the bedroom. 5:18 AM read the clock. I was up just like I'd planned, only I hadn't planned on feeling like this. Friday was going to be my new beginning. My head was where it had to be, my body not. Hence, the early wake up to work out. I had been convinced I wouldn't get the flu bug that'd been rifling through my house like a burglar looking for jewelry. But instead, I crawled back into bed, shivering.

Saturday a washout, today a washout. I think I'm coming down with something.

Friday, November 23, 2007

Shifting Agendas

Strange morning. I'm never the first one up unless kicked out of the bed by a very attractive lady who has some secret agenda. No agenda like that today. My body, all screwed up from getting up early or getting up late or digesting too much Italian food, was done with sleep at exactly 8:03 AM. Vanessa, who'd been up all night throwing up, had, after all, not had the will power to kick me out of bed at 5:17 in the AM time to get me exercising. And since she had no makeup and had been throwing up all night, the only agenda this vaguely unattractive woman was following was to purge her body of this flu bug. Which meant she'd be in bed all day.

Which meant I'd be on my own all day.

Well, if that's how she wanted to play, then I could follow my own agenda by eating, watching TV, and giving my body more time to heal after my invasive April elbow surgery, exactly 6 months ago today. My agenda including anything but preparing for the next baseball season. Did I mention how being lethargic has been so cathartic for me?

At 9:03 sharp, the phone rang. I let it go since nobody ever calls me. Grace, throwing up 37% less than her sister and mother, was watching TV, the TV I wanted to watch. She picked up the phone and said it was for me. I picked up in the kitchen and figured I'd pour myself a bowl of cereal. I thought we still had some Cocoa Puffs in the cabinet. It was Howard Phillips, who is our union head.

Howard: I read your blog last night.
Me: That's when I wrote it.
Howard: I didn't like it.
Me: You can stop reading then.

It's not so much he didn't like the concept of this fabulous blog, my way to reach out to the masses in a very impersonal way yet still get things off my chest without hurting any feelings or affecting the world negatively. He had two problems with my last post:

1. I had lunch with the commissioner without telling anybody ahead of time.
2. Maybe I stated some positions the union had that could hurt us in upcoming negotiations.

I asked Howard if he'd read the part about how I cut my thumb and ended up getting 6 stitches. He said he was too upset with me to remember. Apparently, commissioner Elliott Pollock, he of the young, charming and good looking ilk, had called Howard this morning to talk. Elliott had gotten a cold feeling from me at lunch and wanted to know if this was true of how our negotiations were going to go. Howard, who already drinks too much Pepto Bismol from the bottle, told Elliott that we would proceed in a professional manner and don't take anything Jimmy Scott says or does as what the entire union wants. Elliott then asked if I was being facetious by characterizing him as young, charming and good looking in last night's blog. Howard said he couldn't speak directly for me, but he was sure I meant nothing other than the fact that Elliott was, and is, young, charming and good looking. Elliott ended the conversation gracefully, as Howard did with me, asking me not to blog for a few days or so to "let the congestion in the air clear of the foul smell I'd created."

A little miffed, I couldn't eat my Cocoa Puffs. I guess neither Elliott nor Howard cared about my bloody thumb and six stitches. I decided to leave the kitchen to itself.

Vanessa still hadn't stirred out of bed, so I went upstairs. She was in the same position I'd left her in 30 minutes or so earlier, only Julia had joined her on my side of the bed. Neither female was wearing any makeup, but they were awake, watching TV. She could tell something bothered me, Vanessa that is, so she asked me to get her a wet washcloth and then tell her all about it. I got her the washcloth, but it wasn't wet enough. I went back into the bathroom and brought it back to her. Now it was dripping too much. I went back and squeezed the hell out of it. Just right. Now Julia wanted one. I had to go into the hallway and find another dry washcloth so that I could make it not too wet but wet enough that it would be just right for my lovely daughter whose face was covered in burst blood vessels from barfing for almost two days straight. I did so and she smiled, which was nice to see. Vanessa clicked off the TV and said they were going to try to sleep some more. She'd forgotten that I was supposed to tell her everything about the Elliott lunch debacle I had created and Howard's distressed call over how my cut thumb that neither man seemed to care about was going to lead to the owners contracting 5 teams and making salary cap of five dollars and ninety five cents per team. I left them to their germs and returned downstairs.

Grace was still watching TV. But now she was texting on her cell phone. I asked her why she just didn't call the person and save the skin on her fingertips. She hushed me and went on tapping, quite intensely. I asked her what the subject was and she looked at me, knowing I was completely bored. Here's how the conversation went.

Me: What are you typing?
Grace: Nothing.
Me: Are you keeping a secret from your father?
Grace: No.
Me: Well, still...

I left the room to her tapping and her germs and her teenage angst. I should have told her to put a Nirvana disc on the CD player for some angst inspiration, but I don't think she knows what a CD is. If you can't download it for free from some site that is named after strange fruit or extinct Japanese giant monsters, then it must not be worth owning in the first place.

I still wasn't hungry, the TVs were taken up, and I was completely confused about my place in the union and bored with doing a whole lot of nothing. At a crossroads, I had two ways to go:

1. Come up with a hobby real quick and immerse myself in it.
2. Work out.

I took a deep breath, positive that I was immune to my family's vomit spasms, and snuck back into my bedroom. The ladies without makeup were snoring gently. I picked spots on the floor that wouldn't creak and grabbed some sweats out of my drawer. Picking the same spots for the return trip out of the room, I closed the door with a gentle thud.

Ten minutes later, I was running the streets of Madison, waving to cars honking their horns at me and some college kids on Thanksgiving break who sang the "Rocky" theme song to me. Yeah, we forget how fat Sly was in the first Rocky.

So today was Agenda Slapdown Day. At least for me. I felt pretty good after my run, too. Maybe it won't be so bad getting up early tomorrow. As much as I seem to fight it, the road beckons this bored soul. The time of my self-imposed lethargy has just about run out.

Thursday, November 22, 2007

Last Weekend Leads To Today

SATURDAY

I woke up hung over with tiredness due to the intense nature of Friday's press conference, interviews, owner meeting and charity event. Saturday was much the same. Got up early (sun was up, thank God) and ate a scrapple sandwich on multi (2) grain bread. Olivia Newton-John's "Xanadu" played on the radio. She was my first love. I had her Greatest Hits LP as a kid and had to hide it from my big brother so he wouldn't make fun of me for being in love with a beautiful blonde woman who could sing. Funny the things that used to embarrass us.

Such as one time liking the song "Xanadu." But I've gotten off topic.

Vanessa, Julia, Grace and I had to be back in the City for an 11:00 AM meeting at Macy's. Yes, as you read this, you'll have already no doubt seen me on television in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade. But this is pre-parade that I'm talking about, so hang tight.

The meeting was to take place at the Herald Square Macy's. Because of the Broadway strike, our float was, at the last minute, being transformed from the "Legally Blonde" float into a New York Baseball Thru The Ages float, sponsored by Preparation H. Ten Hall of Fame ballplayers and their families were to join us on the float. None of them were at the meeting - all were scheduled to fly or drive in the Wednesday before. I asked when they were going to meet with the lady we were meeting with, a Mrs. Santana (she didn't give us her first name). She said they wouldn't. It would be up to us to tell them what to do. I didn't think that was fair, considering I wasn't planning on listening to Mrs. Santana's instructions in the first place.

Not that what she wanted us to do would be hard. Just stand, wave and smile. "No singing, right?" I said. I have a horrible voice. It carries well, like if I'm in the dugout and the umpire is behind home plate and, since I've already been taken out of the game because of his horrible, inconsistent calls, he can hear me call him various names over the cacophony of 30,000+ fans in the stadium (unless we're in San Juan, then it's 15,000+). Mrs. Santana looked at me. "No singing," she said. While relieved, I was somewhat insulted by the way her eyes slapped me across the face. I wanted to belt out, right in front of her, the closest song to my brain right then and there, just to prove her wrong. But I don't know all the words to "Xanadu." Humming wouldn't have had the same effect.

Stand, smile and wave. It hit me. They called us all the way into the City to tell us three things. They could have just as easily emailed my agent, who could have then passed it along to one of his three assistants, who could have had one of Jack's 47 "junior" agents pass along the message to one of their assistants, who could have called us and left a message on our voicemail. Mrs. Santana could have saved us a whole lot of effort.

Her last comment was for us to wear clothes with "earth tones." I asked her what she meant. "Be organic." I asked her what she meant. "This will be a green parade. Think green." I nodded and thought green.

We left after about 40 minutes. I signed some autographs for a bunch of nice people working behind the scenes (they began planning this year's parade two years ago). Many pictures were taken. Then, it was off to a nice little lunch at Carmine's (I like their large family portions) where I could load up on carbs for my afternoon run. I really loaded up. Couldn't run later. Too full.

Which brings us to today's parade. You saw me on the float with the one other man. Where was everybody else? Vanessa and the girls are sharing a nice little flu, so they stayed home to throw up. The other New York Hall of Famers missed planes, or had cancelled flights, or couldn't make it in time because of all of Wednesday's rain and fog and Thursday's fog. Too bad. It was the first 65 degree New York Thanksgiving I can remember.

I showed up at Columbus Circle wearing green pants, a green tie, and a green team cap that we wear on St. Patrick's Day at spring training. I was only 20 minutes late. Pretty good for me. I wiped some sleep from my eye as Mrs. Santana, in a rush, explained I was all there was.

Me: There must be someone else.
Mrs. Santana: Don't pressure me. I haven't slept.
Me: I'm going to look like an idiot. It's a really big float. I'm still not going to sing, right?
Mrs. Santana: Fine!

I haven't seen her since, but I guess she made some calls. I had no idea what a big deal the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade is, because not 20 minutes later (so, in effect, I could have been 40 minutes late and been okay), one Elliott Pollock shows up. Not wearing green. He wore a blue Armani suit. Cufflinks. We were some pair all right, the Jolly Green Giant and his business manager.

This was my first face-to-face meeting with Elliott, our new league commissioner. He's pretty much what I've read: young (32), charming, smart, and good looking. We shook hands and he said he was a big fan. Of the parade. Not sure if he knows my background, but I've pitched some pretty good games for "his" league. He can thank people like me for that last 6 year $2 billion TV contract from FOX and ESPN. But I didn't say anything. I told him I was more comfortable with the kind of balloon animals that I can fit in my hands. Imagine if a clown came to your kid's birthday party and blew up a balloon animal so big fifty people with ropes would have to keep it from sailing off? That would be one fun party.

Elliott is very serious. Here's our very first exchange:

Elliott: I've read your blog.
Me: Me too.
Elliott: I don't get it.
Me: You can stop reading then.

He told me that we should go out for lunch after the parade, just he and I. Since I didn't want to watch my loved ones throw up at home, I said sure. I loved the family portions at Carmine's.

We stood, smiled and waved. Rascal Flatts was behind us and every once in a while I could hear them sing. Made me a little jealous. We had some pictures taken after the parade. They're big baseball fans. They asked Elliott if a team would ever move to Nashville. He gave no comment. I like a commissioner who has nothing to say.

So we went to lunch. Seafood. I'm good with all kinds of food, so that which comes from the sea is fine with me. We were actually able to walk to the Blue Fin in Times Square without too many of the 3 million+ people asking me how my arm felt. Since I'm me and Elliott is charming, smart and good looking, we got a table pretty quickly.

He asked me what I felt about the upcoming labor/management negotiations. Our labor contract expires at the end of the next season, and both sides are starting to ramp up the public relations. I didn't want to say too much since I'm no longer top player on the union side. After my injury last year, I even gave up being player rep for the team. If I'm not there, I can't help. So I've been a little out of the loop. That's what I told Elliott. He sat back and looked at me. I sat back and looked at him. I should have been looking down, because that was the same moment I was breaking open an Alaskan King Crab leg. Those suckers are hard and sharp. SLICE! My thumb began to bleed. "Excuse me," I said.

The bathroom is very cool at the Blue Fin. If you're ever in Times Square in New York City, use the Blue Fin bathroom. You never want to leave.

I couldn't leave because of the blood. My thumb was really bleeding, and I looked at the floor and saw a trail of blood behind me. Reaching for some paper towels, I began to wipe the floor. More blood flowed out of my thumb. The blood oozed out of the towel I was using as a tourniquette, creating more mess. I washed the cut. Nice gash. The floor still had blood. The sink had blood. The counter had blood from when I reached for the towels. Somehow, both the mirror and walls had some blood. The damn bathroom looked like a murder scene. I half expected a crew from Law & Order to barge in and start to film. (Writers strike. Dumb thought.)

I don't like to panic. Especially when I'm bleeding. So I tried to stay cool and think of something else. Like how the commissioner for the big leagues is sitting at my table waiting for me. No. That led to anxiety. Funny how I can stand alone in front of 55,000 people who are yelling nasty things at me and I can feel entirely comfortable. But if I'm alone, bleeding, in the very cool bathroom of the Blue Fin, I'm about to fall to the ground and have convulsions just because I haven't ever had one before and this would be the perfect time to try. So I let my brain take over. New subject. Find a new subject. I look up at the mirror and see myself. Oh God. I notice something I don't like. My hair. It's... It's not as thick as it once was. Not as full. Yes, it's got some strands of gray. But that's cool. Soon I'll look like a college professor. I can grow out my beard and wear cardigan sweaters; hold a pipe and wave it around like a banana. But it can't go gray if it's not there. My God. I'm going bald.

It worked. My bleeding extremity suddenly didn't seem like such a big deal. The charming, smart and good looking Elliott Pollock sitting outside waiting for me didn't seem like such a big deal. My hair, or sudden lack of, did. I shook my soon-to-be-naked head, wrapped a few more towels around my thumb, and left the mess for some underpaid attendant to clean up. I had other matters to worry about.

Needless to say, Elliott, who'd been waiting for about 15 minutes for me, couldn't stay long. He had to get to a Thanksgiving dinner. I shook his hand and watched him leave. He's so cool. I had no idea until he was gone that he'd stiffed me on the check. So much for the "giving" part of the day.

I sit in my large home now, thumb stitched six times with dissolvable stitches, wondering how they dissolve and where they go. Hopefully not in my pizza. Vanessa told me her feet will be ready to kick me at 5:17 tomorrow morning. I asked her if her flu would preclude her from doing such a horrible thing. She looked at me and slapped me across the face with her eyes.

I've got a lot to be thankful for. Especially that this day is now over.

Wednesday, November 21, 2007

This Weekend Past Part II: Owning Up

FRIDAY AFTERNOON

When you're a baseball player, your manager isn't your only boss. There's also the GM, the President slash CEO, and maybe then an owner. We had a large ownership group until September, one whose size make it hard to keep track of all the ass that was needed to be kissed. That's why I always kept a media guide in my locker. If some stranger in a suit ambled nearby, I could pull out the guide, find a picture and make my match. It was like speed dating, only in my case, my potential suitor could reject me by releasing me outright or trying to trade me for someone with better dieting habits.

The days of my wearing out my media guide should be over now. We have one main owner, Mrs. Joan Delaney, who loves the game, loves New York and apparently loves me. I know this because she told me.

After Friday's press conference and gourmet pizza lunch, Vanessa (back from her shopping spree) and I had a sit-down with Mrs. Delaney in her new office, which wasn't new in terms of construction. It was just new to her. The office and stadium are both 47 years old. You'll be happy to hear about her two priorities for the 2008 season:

1. To win a World Championship
2. To get the team a new stadium

Neither will be easy, but she's confident about #1 after the team's "reconciliation" (her words) with me and some other moves she's authorized GM Alvin Kirby to make. I flinched a little when she said she was willing to spend what it takes to win now. Vanessa kept a stone face, but she knew if I hadn't caved so quickly, we'd be $9 million richer and I wouldn't be committed to sitting next to my father in the broadcast booth in 2009 (although she admits ratings should be great when fans get a whiff of the relationship "Red" Scott and I share).

The new stadium might be even more difficult than winning a championship, if only because Mrs. Delaney and the mayor don't see eye-to-eye about much. But our crosstown rivals were just given zoning approval and a $200 million match by the City to begin construction for their new place, so one would think we were next. One would think.

After leaving, it was time to meet up with Julia, Grace and my parents at Chelsea Piers for our annual three-hour Thanksgiving Sports-A-Thon to raise money for M.S. The event was our biggest yet. We raised almost $347,000. I need to thank those of my teammates who were able to make it, the Chelsea Piers staff, and surprise guest, Mrs. Delaney. I have to admit, she looked a little strange when she entered wearing her hamster fur scarf, but it was cold outside. She asked me if I wanted to try it on, but I couldn't. Rodents give me nightmares, especially nocturnal ones (meaning both rodents and nightmares). Julia and Grace thought it was kind of disgusting, a bunch of dead Chuck E. Cheeses straddling the neck of my team's new owner. When they were young they had pet gerbils. Once I explained the differences between hamsters and gerbils (gerbils don't have sweat glands, hamsters are loners), they felt a little better. They're waiting for the return call from PETA just in case.

We got home around 1:30 AM on Saturday, all of us tired. I was especially exhausted after being up since 5:17 in the early AM morning. But I felt good about myself, raising money, having some good talks with the team - my employers, after all - and continuing to raise money for a great cause. Saturday was going to be busy as well, so as I slapped my head against my pillow, I tried hard not to dream of four-legged creatures that could fit in the palm of my hand yet still kill me if they found 2479 friends who all wanted to attack me at the same time. I was glad I'd gotten up so early to work out that morning. It gave me the subconscious strength to be able to run away.

Tomorrow: The completion of last weekend's trilogy recap.

Tuesday, November 20, 2007

THIS WEEKEND PAST - PART I

It's been a little longer than I had hoped since my last post, but if you were me these last few days, you too would want to spend as much time as possible decomposing, or is that decompressing (?), on the couch in front of the Tivo edits of every college football game that played on Saturday. Cut out the commercials and instant replays and a 60-minute game takes 60 minutes to watch. Heaven.

So what happened during the Friday-Sunday time period? Lots. Let us begin.

FRIDAY

Since Vanessa has calculated we are not going to be receiving $9 million in contract money for this season, she got me up at 5:00 AM (in the morning!) with a kick to the hip - she stayed in bed - and a beeping on my alarm that she had set the evening before. Her point: If I won't make that $9 million this year, I better be in good enough shape and pitch well enough that I could potentially earn it next year. Her next point: "Potentially earn it next year" means this may not be my last season, the upcoming one, after all. That's assuming I'm any good. We'll know that soon enough.

So I fall out of bed, literally, throw on some clothes and go for a jog. It's dark in N.J. at 5:17 AM in mid-November. While running, I spent half my time trying to work Julia's iPod and the other half trying to avoid newspapers being thrown out of cars by 21st century paper boys, the kind that drive 1996 Plymouth Voyagers with windows open, blasting Spanish talk radio. And to think I used to ride a bike for my old paper route, papers on my rattrap, Walkman blasting a cassette of the Rolling Stones' Tattoo You. Times have changed.

Times have changed. About a mile into my run, I realize my smoker's cough has come back. This is not a good sign, since I've never smoked in my life. I slow down and wish I hadn't had so much pizza for dinner the previous night. I heave some into what I think are bushes, but upon further inspection are somebody's garbage cans (Friday pickup in most neighborhoods nearby). I run away quickly, hoping my vomit can't be positively identified without a team of forensic specialists, who are probably still asleep because it's so damn early and dark.

I get home and drop to the floor. Good run.

The press conference is scheduled for 11:00 at the Stadium Club in Manhattan. We pull the girls out of school for the day and we get there at 11:10 (all the lots were filled within a five-block radius that charged less than $25 for a 2-hour period). "Red" Scott is just taking the podium as a bunch of new employees from our newly restructured Media Relations department pull us to a little curtained-off area five steps from the podium. "Red," who refuses anyone to print his first name without the surrounding apostrophes, has begun some long speech about growing up a New York fan, how this will be his "dream job," and how he and his wife (who's also my mom) will be moving into the area for this last stop on a long and memorable career. Vanessa tapped me on my shoulder with her fist, waking me up. I remind her that I could have gone jogging at 5:17 PM. It's just as dark but I'm more awake. She won't have any of it.

"Dad" - sorry - Dad, who is "Red" Scott, then introduces Vanessa, Julia, Grace and me to come up and join him at the podium. It's a small podium, so my three ladies each hug him and walk to the adjoining table to take their seats. I don't hug him. We shake hands. He taps me on the back. Then I use my hips to push him aside so I can have the microphone to myself. I ignore the spittle he's left on it and watch him sit down next to my mother, Margaret "Peggy" Scott. I just call her Mom (no apostrophes required).

I give a quick 30-second speech about how happy I am to be playing another year in New York; how great it is that my family doesn't have to move, what with our charity work and the girls in the middle of their high school years. Then I take some questions, all relatively tame for the first 10-seconds. The rest focus on the acrimony between the team and me, me and the team, my agent and me, me and my agent, and so on. Jack, who is my agent again and has a real name again because I can't hold a grudge much longer than my previous evening's dinner at about 5:27 in the early AM morning, stands when I introduce him and tell the world that he's the best agent ever.

GM Alvin Kirby stands near me, along with incredibly untested new manager Rick Churches, and we all take turns answering questions about my rehab ("Was out working bright and early this morning," I said), my place in the rotation ("To be determined," said Rick, which stung even though I smiled) and this blog ("I don't know what happens in it," I said. "It's ghost-written by sweatshop labor in Indonesia.") Lots of laughs, except for the reporter from the Daily Indonesian. (They love their New York baseball.)

Press conference over, we all break up into groups for smaller sessions. My first session is with the print media. Then I talk to the dot com media. After that, it's TV, then live radio with the three sports stations in town. Occasionally, I look for Vanessa and the girls, who have disappeared with my mother to go shopping. They, of course, didn't tell me they were leaving. Or they did and I forgot. Either way, if you saw me on TV Friday night (or on the web anytime), you'll see me continuously crane my neck from side-to-side trying to find my family. I look more like a giraffe trying to reach the leaves at the top of the tree than a ballplayer who's right arm may or may not be good enough for a spot "to be determined" in my new manager's 2008 rotation.

Lunch was good, but could have been better. Gourmet pizza. Was in the mood for lamb chops. Will put that in my contract for the next press conference.

Tomorrow: What happened Friday night when the forensic team of specialists stopped by my house. (Just kidding.) The Friday evening charity event will be discussed in great detail tomorrow. Visit with the team doctor today, a midday run (when it's light out), and phoner with the Indonesian Consulate about human rights.

Friday, November 16, 2007

A Pressing Conference

Not much time today to write. Have the big press conference this afternoon in the City, then radio interviews and a charity event tonight. Will write more soon with great detail and grace of word.

- Jimmy

Thursday, November 15, 2007

Survival of the Fittest

I act too rashly sometimes. Vanessa knows. Even the kids do, and they try to stop me from doing stupid things because of this. But they need to be in the room or else I'm free to do stupid things.

Me: (Into phone) Please deliver a personal pan pizza with everything on it.
Pizza Hut: We have a buy two, get one free offer.
Me: I'll take ten.

Before you know it, I'm juggling 15 pizzas in my doorway while trying to give the 18 year old delivery boy his $2 tip.

Me: Here you go. Oops. (Three pizzas fall to the ground.)
Him: Cheap prick. (Walks away)

So when Vanessa heard I had settled my dispute with the team fairly simultaneously with the news of my father, "Red" Scott, signing a deal to be one of the TV broadcast analysts doing our games, she was more than a little concerned. I could tell because of her initial reaction:

Vanessa: (Looking me in the eyes) What did you do?
Me: (Sniffing and looking away) What?

I explained my new deal, one that includes a 3 year contract to broadcast the team's games on TV when I'm done playing after next season. She was still concerned.

Vanessa: (Into my eyes) How much?
Me: (Sniffing and looking at my feet. Nice shoes.) Hmm?

I can tell she's mad because she doesn't even get into my choice to not (again) discuss a major family matter with her before pulling the trigger on my decision. Couple that with the new plan (admittedly never thought of before the other day) of Play one more year, Broadcast for three. Translation: I will be living the big league road warrior lifestyle (meaning no home duties like doing dishes, touring colleges with the kids, cleaning out a freezer filled with 13 (I ate two) personal pan pizzas with everything on them) for four more years.

Vanessa's eyes narrow. They beam their red glow so fiercely I feel like I'm staring straight into a laser. I reach for a CD. Calmly, yet firmly, she asks, "What about the $9 million?"

There's a famous photograph I've seen in art shops of a lone lighthouse situated on a tiny rocky island, which is not much bigger than the lighthouse itself. It's the middle of a storm and a giant, terrible wave is striking the lighthouse nearly two-thirds of the way up its side. It's fascinating to look at. You can't help but think, "I'd hate to be that lighthouse."

Vanessa has been aiming her laser beam eyes at me for a good ten seconds now. With the patience and maturity of a medieval barber, she waits for me to swallow a bite that had sausage, onions, mushrooms and pepperoni (only 12 left in the freezer now). It doesn't go down well. As she hands me a glass full of water, I realize I am the lighthouse.

I take in a breath to explain how our income projection for the coming baseball season will have to be revised when Julia, guitar in hand, enters the kitchen. One look at her parents is all she needs. She strums a badly played chord and sings, "What did Dad do now?"

She races away before Vanessa can reach her with a wooden spoon. Then, attention (unfortunately) back on me:

Vanessa: The money's gone, isn't it?
Me: Yes.
Vanessa: I understand.

Left alone in the kitchen, I can't help but contemplate what life will be like for Vanessa and me after the next four years run out. Chances are, until then somebody's going to like me not being around all the time. As upset as she is with me, Vanessa knows that with the money I've given up, I've just bought us four more years of marriage.

Wednesday, November 14, 2007

Trading Rumors

Lots of hot stove rumors floating around. With the GM meetings just completed last week and only one deal coming out of them, I thought this would be a good post to talk about something other than my contract (everybody's talking, no punches thrown so far). Today, I want to let you in on what it's like to be traded. I'll do it from a few perspectives - Player, Wife and Kid.

PLAYER
I've been traded once and "on the block" too many times to count (eleven). I know guys who have been traded totally out of the blue. Martin "Bruiser" Stanley told me once that every team he's played for (six) he thought he'd end his career with. Since he was just traded from us two days ago (the one deal I alluded to earlier), I asked him if he was surprised this time. He said no. The team was $9 million over budget. He'll earn $9 million this year. He was a goner. Then he hung up on me.

WIFE
Bruiser's wife, Janice, who's also not currently speaking with me, once commented that she'd had to move 47 times in 14 years of marriage. That includes minor leagues, spring training, big leagues... I know she's tired of it.

When I was traded from Chicago to New York in mid-'94, that was our fifteenth move since getting married at the ripe old age of 20 in 1988. I've been fortunate to have been able to stay in one place ever since, but I know a trade, while part of the business, can wreak havoc on a marriage. Many wives have problems making new friends or getting jobs of their own because of the instability of a player's life. That's why I've never revoked my no-trade clause. I love New York, but most important, this is my family's home. Which brings me to...

KIDS
Julia and Grace were only 2 when we were traded here. Too young to consciously understand much of anything (potty training, Vanessa recalls, took 5 years), they don't remember the move from Chicago. They do remember the possible trade to Detroit three years ago and how they told me that if I accepted they'd disown me. Twelve year old girl-twins are not to be reckoned with, especially when they take after their mother, who, in this case, is my wife. Detroit stayed in Michigan and we stayed in New York (actually a suburb in NJ).

Long ago, I was but a child. Born to a father who himself was a big league pitcher, my mother and I suffered through an intolerable number of moves. He was one of those guys who was cut or traded every year. In '76 he was traded twice in one day. My mother likes to tell friends the true story of how she broke our apartment lease in Milwaukee, verbally committed to one in St. Louis, then turned around, broke that and still found us a place in Atlanta, all in the space of about three hours. My dad responds, if he's within earshot (Dad likes to have the last word. You should listen to him call a game.), that his wife did what she had to do. It's not like she was a superhero or anything. She knew what she was getting into. I admire her for it just the same.

As I got older, I realized there was something about my right arm that let me throw a baseball really fast and wiggly. But the moving from place to place didn't stop. Dad, or "Red" as he tells me and anyone within earshot to call him, became a broadcaster; first radio then TV. The number of people within earshot of his now famous "It's a can of corn" proclamations grew exponentially as his jobs moved to larger and larger cities. He didn't realize I needed stability. I was in high school. Scouts couldn't see me if they couldn't find me.

We argued constantly. He has a booming voice, strong vocabulary and, like I mentioned earlier, always gets in the last word, so he won most arguments. Eventually, we stopped talking altogether, ironic for a man who now made a living using his vocal cords.

Fast forward to today. We get along because we have to. We're only-father and baseball-son. Mom's coming over for Thanksgiving and Dad'll be there too, I guess, getting up three or four times during the meal to blow his nose, go to the bathroom, or write some new idea of his down. 1976 was 31 years ago, but I still think three teams in three hours was the greatest day of his life.

Baseball is a game, but it's a job too. Being traded to another city is like switching jobs or being transferred somewhere else. Some guys quit after a while, other thrive on it. Their families? Innocent bystanders at a drive-by shooting, dodging the bullets and sometimes getting hit.

"Red," who's now 65 and nearing the end of his second career, is still moving. Today he got his new assignment - a two-year contract doing TV here in New York. Broadcasting my games. You know how he told me? "Guess who has a longer term deal in New York than you, buddy boy?" I didn't have to answer. I slammed down the phone and called my former agent, Tiger Woods' Caddy. I suddenly knew how to resolve this $9 million contractual problem.

"Tell them to keep their money. Get me a three year deal to do their games on TV the moment I retire." I almost hung up. "Oh," I added. "Tell them I like to work alone."

Tuesday, November 13, 2007

What's So Free About Being An Agent?

At midnight this morning, teams could begin the official buying of human beings to slave on professional baseball fields for them in front of millions of people across the country. I could have been one of these indentured-servants-to-be, but we all know by now I opted to do otherwise.

It's not just the players who are salivating at the mouth (as if there's someplace else to engage in the legal act of salivation), the agents are too. Because when you see Player A sign with Team B for X amount of dollars, Agent 007 gets a nice little portion of that check. Fans and team management likes to blame agents for the spiraling salaries we as players can receive, but agents do more than that. I've had three agents in my 21 years in professional baseball. Each successive agent has succeeded more in the pocketbook because of my abilities, the game's economics, and, oh hell, I'll admit it, their hard work.

Now is one of those times they work the hardest. It's not just guys like me who earn $10 million, $15 million, even $25 million per year they concentrate on. There are also the very important bench guys who'll get a one year $650K deal who they need to find jobs for. Also, there are the guys just looking for an invitation from a big league club to spring training, some former stars who can't let go of the game, who need one more summer in The Life, who drive their respective agents crazy pestering them for work. Finally, there are the players who believe they are better than everyone else, the ones who live through the Law of Excuses, of untapped excellence, who are misunderstood by other players, their managers and coaching staffs, their wives/girlfriends... These guys, in general, are also one step closer to legal insanity than any other players in the game. I've played with a number of this type of player. Examples:

A) Orville - Scared to death of flying, tough considering you can't get from an extra-inning midnight game in New York to the clubhouse in LA at 4PM by minivan. By the time I played with this guy, he was what we called a Roadtrip Alcoholic. The only way to get him on and off the plane was to liquor him up so bad, has hangover lasted until the flight home. Then we'd do it all over again. Never hit higher than .270 but swore in some alternate universe he was a .330 slugger.

B) Neville - Guys have different hobbies, like hunting, videogames big time over the past five or six years, collecting cars... But Neville's hobby was falling hardcore in love with any female in a skirt. As a result, he collected wives. A number of reasons this can't be good:

1. It's illegal to be married to more than one person at a time in America.
2. He'd break taboo and make moves on girlfriends and wives of teammates. Not a good way to make friends.
3. Everybody knew about it.

It's amazing to me the media never reported on this guy, because the man did these things in an internet, post-TMZ world. The guy's currently out of baseball, but I heard he called his agent just last week looking to make a comeback. I guess if you're married to more than one woman at a time, you can be divorced to them at the same time too. Sounds like the guy needs a spreadsheet to keep track of who's getting alimony.

C) Devil - Growing up, every class in school had its troublemaker. That doesn't change when we get older. Never. Every single team I've played for has had the one - sometimes two or three (bad job by upper mgt. there) - of these guys who break rules, break laws, and, through osmosis, help break up a team. They make a lot of money because they're genuinely talented, and even the biggest jerk will get a $9 million contract if he can hit a ball over a wall or throw a ball through it. Agents have love/hate relationships with these players. Marquee names, marquee salaries, but high maintenance individuals. Many won't return calls or give feedback other than, "$10 million. That's all I want. Tell me when you get it." These guys follow the money, and sometimes they get lucky and it's a winning team that wants them. Contracts longer than 2 years are not for the GM (or agent) with a faint of heart. I hate these guys, who say stupid things like the holocaust, dinosaurs and gays never existed. 9/11 was a conspiracy, and we're all out to get them. We are, but they perform on the field, so we pretend we're not if they ask.

So when you start seeing the money get thrown around starting today, think about all of the parties involved. We don't play in a vacuum, nor do we get paid in one. Blame the agents all you want, but it ain't a party without them.

Sunday, November 11, 2007

Private Lessons

Got a call from Tiger Woods' Caddy today. Apparently, the team is going to sue both of us and would I consider splitting legal costs. One minute we're not talking, the next we're supposed to get into a potentially protracted legal battle together. I told him I'd get back to him.

This is all my fault, according to my wife, Medusa, I mean Vanessa. She says I should have talked about my feelings with somebody - anybody, before we got to this stage. I asked her who.

Vanessa: How about Tiger Woods' Caddy (not the name she used)?

Me: No.

Vanessa: How about your father?

Me: Nyet.

Vanessa: Why not me?

Me: Hmm?

I love my wife. L-O-V-E. She's my bridge over troubled water, my ju nu say qua. But she doesn't always understand me as well as me. Here's what wouldn've happened:

Me: I think I want to opt.

Vanessa: Are you sure?

See? I want her to say, "Opt away! Let's make the lovin' now." But instead, she questions my decision. She'll tell you any statement someone states that begins with "I think..." is not the same as "I'm a gonna and you can't stop me." After 19 years of matrimony mony, you'd think she'd know this.

Anyway, the past has passed. Maybe I should have spoken with her, no, let me re-phrase. I should have gone to her first and said, "I want to opt." But I didn't. We did not make the lovin' then or since.

My oldest twin daughter (by three minutes), Julia, likes to sing her way out of sticky situations. When she was recently threatened with a three-day suspension from school because her cheerleaders formed a pyramid in the shape of a lesbian vagina (or so said her principal; I thought all va-jay-jays were the same) at the girl's JV volleyball game (Grace sat out with nostril spasms), Julia came home and wrote a song on her guitar about the confrontation. It was terrible (the song, I mean). But the important point, Vanessa said, is the girl expressed her emotions.

Thus, the important lessons I've learned since this debacle has begun are:

1. When making a statement to my wife, make it definitive. "I want to make the lovin' now."

1. a) When she says no, pretend you realize your timing was bad.

1. b) When she says no, have her define a situation in which she could possibly say yes.

2. Express my emotions; communication is the key to thwarting potential lawsuits.

3. Don't announce I'm going to take a nap. Just take one. It gives off the impression that someone like me must deserve one. How else could I fall asleep with the TV on the Spike channel?

I realize #3 seems out of place, but it's an ongoing lesson I'm trying to learn. Check back soon. I'm going to take a nap now.

Friday, November 9, 2007

Contractions

Since it's been leaked, I may as well come out and address the really big headlines that two papers and one worldwide web had about me today. First, my agent and I have parted ways. Second, we've parted ways because my team of thirteen years is going to allegedly attempt to void my existing contract. Let me respond to each and then retreat to my couch and pillow tandem.

My current former agent, who shall for now on be addressed as Tiger Woods' Caddy, told my employers I was going to opt out of my contract and take a very generous buyout. While I had been leaning in that direction, I never flat out said I'd do it. Yes, I led on Tiger Woods' Caddy. Call me a golf club tease. But since I never actually said or wrote or hummed "I am retiring," there was room for me to opt back in for next season.

Still, the team talked to him, not to me, so they were under the same impression as Tiger Woods' Caddy, that I was done. Over. Out. All three parties are to blame for not communicating directly. I know they wanted Jimmy Scott 1994-2006. They don't want Jimmy Scott 2007-2008. But hey, insurance covered 80% of my contract last year for them and they still made hand over fist on ticket, concession and internet revenue, much of that because of players like me who have stayed with the team through collusion ('95), a bad strike ('99) and took a "hometown discount" in 2004 to finish my career in NY. I did say that. Here's the quote. "I am going to finish my playing career in NY." (I actually said "NY" and not "New York." Kind of took away some of the power of the statement, don't you think?)

So, if you consider the revenue I helped generate for the team, the money I let them keep so they could afford me through 2008, and the goodwill we've generally felt for each other for the last thirteen years, you'd be surprised this issue has gone this far.

What happens next? Vanessa says I should get everyone together in one room - me, team and Tiger Woods' Caddy - and talk it out. She thinks chances are good, based upon the reasons stated above, that we can work this all out before more lawyers get involved than the army needed for Katie Holmes' and Tom Cruise's pre-nup. She says it would be big of me to be the first one to pick up the phone and make the calls. It's times like these I wish I had an ex-wife's shoulder to cry upon. An ex-wife would listen and take my side and tell me I'm in the full right here. Then I'd hand her the monthly $64,000 alimony check and return to my current family.

It's not clear what I'll do yet, but you can be sure I'll lead Tiger Woods' Caddy on more than I have to. He's more fun when he's mad.

Kid Stuff

My twin daughters, Julia and Grace, were born naturally, meaning Vanessa didn't use any drugs - not even Advil. We dropped a stick in her mouth and let her bite down and scream like the dickens until both babies were sucked out, vacuum style, with bullet-shaped heads. When she recently overheard me complain about the pain I felt in my arm last April after my elbow tendon decided to go on a season-long strike, she laughed at me. "You don't know pain," she said. Maybe, but at least she had something to chew on at her moment of maximum vulnerability.

I've tried to become more involved in Julia and Grace's lives over the past seven months. I couldn't throw a ball for a while, which I'm best at, so I needed to focus my energies somewhere else. Unlike my dad, "Red" (quotes his) Scott, who's started and failed at more ventures than pitches thrown in an extra inning game, I don't share his desire to be involved in everything. If Al Gore "invented" (quotes his) the internet, then "Red" Scott was the first to use it to lose a buck or two. With that knowledge about me, you can understand how difficult it was for me to start attending high school volleyball games.

I remember when I could get around and, while I'd be recognized, it wasn't so big a deal that people decided to film me with their cell phones as I bought Advil for Vanessa (she'll take it now if she gets a paper cut). What do they do with the photos, the movies they take? Did Google spend a billion dollars for YouTube because of crap like that? Ten, eleven years ago, when "Red" Scott could still lose money on physical businesses like his fashion line (Sock-A-Doodle-Doos, with little chicken heads attached to the heals of a pair of tube socks), if someone wanted my picture, they'd ask and we'd both smile for the camera. Secretive and unrehearsed these days, it's a good thing I wear my bathrobe when I walk out on my driveway to pick up the morning paper.

So you can get a sense of my apprehension when I attend Grace's JV volleyball games. I get into the gym, usually midway through the first period. (I arrive late because I forget today is a game day.) One head, then another, then in batches of twenty, turn my way. I see their lips move.


Some of Them: Think he could've afforded a watch?

Me: What did I miss?

More of them: He got fat.

I grab my slab of space and park my butt midway between the top and very top of the pullout wooden bleachers. The higher I go, the fewer eyes look down upon me. Plus, Grace doesn't like it if I'm too close. I make enough of a scene just attending. But when I begin to lose myself in the game and criticize the officiating, loudly, or her coach, very loudly, or the mascot - I've been around mascots for 20 years, I know what's funny and what's not - extremely loudly, it's best that I do it from as far away as possible. Vanessa once suggested I bring my baseball glove so when I rant and swear I can do it into the webbing of my Rawlings, like when I'm on the mound and I just threw a borderline strike that was definitely on my side of the border DAMMIT! I told Vanessa I bring enough attention to myself just showing up (late). Last thing I want to do is hear scoffs and snickers.


Some of Them: Wrong sport, Sport.

Me: Shut up.

More of them: He should've wiped the sleep out of his eyes before leaving the couch.


Grace is on the front line, bobbing and ready, the ball's coming her way, and... BAM! Her Morristown opposite - taller, stronger, angrier about some teenage thing - spikes the ball straight onto Grace's nose. She goes down. Her coach and assistant rush onto the floor while the angry Morristown girl trades high fives with the other tall, strong angry girls.

I'm just about to get up and make my way to the bathroom (my eyes do get a little crusty after a long nap) when Julia rushes onto the court, not to hand her sister a stick to chomp on for the pain, but to lead nine other girls into cheerleading position. I stay because: a) Julia will see me if I go to the bathroom now b) She'll be disappointed, probably, if I miss her routine and c) The perverts sitting in front of me are more overweight than me and have no intention of missing both a bloody nose, gushing violently as the coaches escort Grace to the sidelines, and a team of 15 year old girls dancing around in short skirts to something fast by Chingy.

Vanessa, who arrived sometime before me, is with Grace now, holding an ice pack to our daughter's nose. She takes turns examining Grace bleed, observing Julia do the Chingy dance, and looking for me. I wish I could hide my face behind a baseball glove right around now. I'd totally forgotten to even look for Vanessa when I entered the gym. I know exactly what happened when I did, too:


Lady Sitting With Vanessa: Should we make some room for your husband?

Vanessa: No.

Someone Nearby: He got fat.


We lose the match in three sets and Grace sits out the remainder of the contest. Julia causes a stir when one of the cheers she leads is somewhat pro-lesbian (she's upset that she has to cheer for girls, so she's taking the matter to an extreme). Vanessa finally finds me, curled up in the fetal position and sucking my thumb on the top row. She waves me down so we can get the girls home, so I push past the perverts and make a general disturbance all the way down.


Perverts: Hey!

Me: Sorry.

Everyone Else: Fat ass.


In the car, I inform Vanessa that we'll have to go back to the school later to pick up my big, yellow, expensive Hummer since we drove there separately. She looks at Grace, her nose bandaged , shirt bloodied, and Julia, chanting some T-Pain along with her iPod, then turns to me and says, "Why don't you run back by yourself. You can consider it your rehab for the day."

I rub a last particle of grit from an eye and gaze at my daughters in the rearview mirror before turning to my wife and saying, "But I forgot where I parked."

She turns toward the road, says nothing, and looks straight ahead, her teeth chomping down on an imaginary stick.

Thursday, November 8, 2007

Another Off Season

So what happens when we pack up our lockers, look at the floor during the last interview, and then go home? That's what this blog is for. I'm sure there are lots of baseball fans who can't get enough of the game during the season, so in the off season they must feel like a junkie going practically cold turkey. I figured I'm good for a few hits, so here you'll follow me throughout the off season as I rehab, attend charity functions like fan fest, ingratiate myself with Vanessa and the girls, and prepare for 2008. It won't be as exciting as one of my no-hitters, but maybe this will help hold you over until spring training.

Let me start with a bombshell: I've accepted my contractual option to play in New York for another year. I've opted. After a miserable season, both personally and as a team, I felt like there was some unfinished business. I only threw two pitches all year, so that proves the personal professional misery. And even though I didn't spend much time in the clubhouse after my injury, I've played on enough losing teams to know what it's like to play for next season when it's only 40 games into this season. So I'm coming back for 2008 and can hopefully help restore some swagger (and victories).

I'll admit, it wasn't an easy decision. If I had opted out, my contract stated the team would pay me a $3 million buyout. Now that would have been the easiest $3 million I ever made. "Here, Jimmy, do nothing and we'll pay you more than the GDP of Haiti." My family's set financially. I think I've earned close to $150 million over the last 19 years. To me, three million dollars is tip money for the bathroom attendant at my local country club. But I don't golf. And besides, $3 million is a whole lot of money to be giving to somebody who hands you a paper towel.

So there was a little bit of guilt built into accepting their buyout. In fact, at one point they sweetened their offer to $7 million. Seven million dollars to walk away and bother my wife for the remainder of our marriage. I know the team was trying to respectfully cut me loose. It's been a great thirteen years in NY. Three championships is something I'll always be proud of. But 2007, with my season-ending injury and misfortune plaguing us in the standings... I had to come back.

There's more. If I'm going to be really honest with you, I might as well start in my first post. My marriage might not be able to withstand another year of my not playing. At least right now. I've been a very lucky man. Marrying Vanessa, us having twin daughters 15 years ago - it's all been an incredible run. Vanessa would tell you the incredible run stopped the moment I fell to the ground last April clutching my elbow, the tendon-snapping still ringing in my ears. From that moment until my opting back in tonight, I've been a burden to her, a weight... I've been the man I'll be when I retire. Vanessa doesn't like that man very much. He's needy and forgetful and selfish. He's not a great husband and a barely satisfactory father. He's a man used to living 6+ months of the year with other men just like him, only some are louder, some are younger, and some can hit a baseball 475 feet. In other words, if I didn't play on one field in 2008, I'd be playing another as soon as the lawyers agreed on who got custody of the toilet seat covers.

I should also state team management is upset with me. Why do you think they sweetened their buyout offer? Because they thought I'd take it. They wanted me to take it. I'd be lying if I said my agent and I hadn't pretty much given every indication that we would. Jack Perry, my agent, even went so far as to tell them we had a deal. Only I never said that and I never signed off. I couldn't. The game is still a part of me. I still need to compete. I need the camaraderie of 24 other guys and 49,000 of the best fans in the world cheering me on. Maybe that's why Vanessa isn't looking very forward to retirement. Even though she's my biggest fan, she can only scream as loud as one.

It was a real scene, actually, when I faxed in my contract, checking the Jimmy Scott Opts To Play In 2008 box. Jack was furious, telling me I undermined his professionalism. I understand Rick Churches, or should I say, new manager Rick Churches, threw a fit when he found out his number 5 starter can only throw spitballs out of his mouth. The front office is now $9 million over budget, so nobody up there was happy. And Vanessa, well, even though I knew she wanted me to keep playing, she was was a little peeved that I made the decision without her. Did I mention I was a forgetful and selfish husband?

Bottom line - I'm not done. I know I have a lot of work ahead of me. I know I have a lot of front office and team goodwill to repair. And I now know the end of my career is near. If I don't learn to accept this, the end of my marriage could also be near.

So check back often and wish me luck this off season. I'm going to need it.