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.