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.