A Cinderfella Story

I'm still dumbfounded. By now, you've seen or heard about how Vanessa and I made, not just the back pages, but the front pages of both the News and the Post. Let me be the million and sixth cover boy to state emphatically, "It's not what you think." I've heard people use this phrase in movies, on their second or third cell phones (athletes, once they get paid the big bucks, have one cell phone to speak with the wife and their other cell phones for girlfriends), even in the mirror (I do this when starting to feel more balding than the previous day). But when I state emphatically to you that "It's not what you think," you must realize that I'm telling the truth. Because I'm not like other guys (usually used by other guys at strip clubs).

Here's what happened. Vanessa and I got to baseball commissioner Elliott Pollock's townhouse on Saturday evening around 7:15. We weren't trying to be fashionably late. Traffic into Manhattan was ridiculous. It's Christmas. I usually drive us, but we splurged and hired a limo service to ferry us into NYC, from East Side to West Side, and then back home to New Jersey. Our driver was a pleasant man named Maceo. He says hi.

Elliott's party was fun. Great food. Many officials from the league and their families. I was the only player at first, which made Vanessa the only player's wife in attendance at first. There was dancing. So we danced a bit. I looked down at Vanessa's watch and it was 9:30. We had to leave to make it to Mrs. Delaney's party across town. Since Vanessa danced without her shoes, we spent twenty minutes looking for them. We found one. I could tell it was hers because it was made of glass and hers was the only foot in the kingdom that fit. We married three hours later, accompanied by a fairy godmother and a band of mice with Brooklyn accents.

The second shoe was lost, so we left, hopped into the Maceo Mobile, and sped toward a shoe store (name escapes me; college football was on the radio). Vanessa hopped out, bought a pair of pumps, and dove back in. We made it to Mrs. Delaney's by 10:45.

Needless to say, Mrs. Delaney was slightly miffed that we were three hours and fifteen minutes tardy for her party. I explained about the shoe, the mice and the bitter stepmother. She nodded and led us into her grand chalet. Beautiful place. Her townhouse is the size of Staten Island, only it wasn't built on top of industrial waste.

Kai Goto was there. We exchanged bows and we let some photographers take pictures of us pretending to Indian leg wrestle. Felipe Castro was there with his wife, Celia. His mother missed her plane from Venezuela, apparently, so she couldn't be there. Felipe was a little distressed, but Kai and I helped sooth him by helping him count the money in his wallet.

Around midnight, I started to list a bit. The wall held me up, but my tiredness remained. I grabbed Vanessa and made mention of Maceo turning into a lizard and his limo transforming back into a Dodge Dart if we didn't leave immediately. She was sympathetic, but wanted to head back to Elliott's to find her shoe. We bid Mrs. Delaney and other guests an adieu, told her her party was the best New York had to offer, and made a beeline for the car.

If you recall, the weather was pretty crappy Saturday night into Sunday. A mix of snow and freezing rain was falling when we asked Maceo to take us back to Elliott's. He sped through Central Park, hydroplaning only when the road wasn't in a straight line.

Back inside Elliott's, the party was jamming. It was about 12:40 or so. Vanessa searched for her shoe and I saw 4 or 5 retired players milling about. I'm not going to reveal their names because they specifically asked that I not tell anyone they'd been there. I asked if the other 65 people in attendance had also signed their confidentiality agreement. Humorless, they withdrew into the crowd and used Elliott's drapes as substitutes for napkins.

Somehow, Vanessa and I found ourselves dancing again. The D.J. was really good. But for the record, I do not wish that I had Jesse's girl. I have a woman like that. Unfortunately, Vanessa lost one of her new shoes. I swear, Elliott's place is like a washing machine/dryer combo that takes your pairs of socks and only returns one. At least Vanessa was back to owning a pair of shoes, one of which was in Maceo's possession in the limo.

Here's where it got a little strange. We left Elliott's after 40 minutes or so and made it downstairs. Vanessa told me not to let go of her as she hopped around. I responded emphatically that I would never do such a thing. The doorman winked at me as he opened the door. Outside, about twenty reporters with cameras, both the still and video kinds, were waiting. Out of surprise, I instantly dropped Vanessa's arm and she fell to the snowy, slippery sidewalk. People yelled things at us, mostly questions, and I helped her up. She snapped something at me pertaining to how she'd never ask me to hold a fishing pole while she tied the bait to the hook. I've never fished. Just because she did as a kid every Saturday with her dad doesn't make her better than me. So I told her I was sorry for dropping her to the snowy, slippery sidewalk, but if she had put GPS units into her shoes like I had suggested, she never would have needed me to hold her up in the first place. As she told me how ridiculous I sounded (I made the part of about suggesting she put GPS units into her shoes), Maceo pulled up. We slipped inside and drove off.

But wait. There's more.

The reporters were there because they'd been tipped off Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie were in the building for an event. Totally serious. I never saw them at Elliott's and apparently the reporters never saw them outside. Thus, rather than write off their stalk as pointless, they used their photo of Vanessa on the sidewalk and me looking down at her. Her face is of pain (it was cold, snowy and icy down there). Mine is of "Uh oh, I'm in trouble," which can look angry to passers-by with cameras, both the still and video kind. This photo eventually accompanied a special Sunday front page headline: Another Scott Down For The Count. This, of course, was in reference to when I spent the better part of last April 2nd on the grass in front of the pitcher's mound, writhing in pain after my angry elbow showed off its anger.

And if you think the photos made us look bad, I'm sure you read the accompanying articles which did not paint a flattering picture either. I swear, both the Post and News must employ the same reporters because both articles were basically the same thing. They told of how fat I'd gotten, how unhappy I was, and how witnesses at Elliott's party saw me talking to shadowy figures, probably female, near Elliott's drapery.

None of it was really a big deal, until I received a call directly from Mrs. Delaney around 11:00 AM Sunday morning asking what happened, how it happened, and what was I thinking. I explained the story to her, but she was still upset. At that point, I apologized for being late to her party and not going home from there but instead going to a rival party on the other side of town. I swore to her, and swear to her now as she actually reads this filth I call truth, that we only went back to Elliott's to find Vanessa's shoe. And so I could have one more little baked brie. Those things were really good.

I thought all was well until I received a call Sunday night from super agent Jack Perry. The team was asking me to apologize to a women's rights group which felt I had made fun of them by allowing my woman, who's my wife, to fall to a snowy, slippery sidewalk in the snowy, freezing rain on a very early Sunday morning. I explained to Jack that women fall all the time. Does Brad have to apologize to the plumbers and pipe fitters union every time Angelina slips in her tub? Jack said all I had to do was write a brief statement and he'd release it. I shook my head and told him I'd write a brief statement.

Here it is: Go away.

I am a team player, as Mrs. Delaney knows. I'll do anything to help my team win. But don't ask me to pander to a bunch of divorced women who focus their energies on the imaginary problems of others instead of focusing on their own. In the end, it will be they who shall apologize to me.

Fairy godmother was right. We should have just gone home at midnight.