My Arm

On Monday I had a checkup with the team's physician, Dr. Stanley McGee. He put my right arm, the one I throw with and, coincidentally, the one that was operated on by the aforementioned doctor last April 15th. Nine months and 14 days. I feel like an on-the-wagon alcoholic, counting the days since my last drink. Only I'm counting the days since my last operation. On the day of month ten, I report to spring training. As my mother used to say when she saw me bat in Little League games, "How queer."

Dr. McGee gave a positive report. All is well. He turned the arm and twisted the arm and stomped on the arm with a pair of lead boots. No pain. He squished it in a metal vice and stretched it like a noodle and bit on it with the jaws of a crocodile. No pain. "Strong as an ox," he said. Then he stuck his head out of room and said, "Next!" It was my turn to be examined.

Just kidding.

The examination went well. He gave me a clean bill of health and suggested implants for my semi-balding scalp. Since he's not a psychiatrist, I ignored his comments and decided to crawl into the fetal position on his examination table and suck my thumb. He's a good man.

Afterward, it was a meeting at the stadium with GM Alvin Kirby and new manager Rick Churches. They asked how the exam went, fully knowing since Dr. Stanley's report had been faxed over already and was sitting on Alvin's desk. But I played along. "Amputation scheduled for Thursday. I hope they chop off the right arm. Literally." We laughed. Well, I did. Rick doesn't laugh much. He's always been serious, but now, since he's our manager, he's intense. There are managers who are "players managers" and managers who are "field generals" and managers who don't know who the hell they are. I've played for all three. As long as the team wins, it doesn't matter who the old guy n the funny outfit is at the end of the bench. A manager rarely affects the outcome of a game. But they're lots of fun to criticize!

Being a starting pitcher all my life, I am generally up for criticism once every 5 days. A manager is available to have his ego dragged through the mud 7 days a week. It's not a job I would want, especially with my hair thinning on top. My ego is fragile without the public criticism.

It was a pleasant "sit down" at first, the meeting between Alvin, Rick and me. They asked how my rehab was progressing, asked if I planned on coming to spring training... I stopped them on that. What did they mean, did I plan on coming to spring training? Yes. I have a contract. I'm going to pitch. Then this exchange happened:

Alvin: We're not sure if your arm will be ready for the season.
Me: Dr. Stanley thinks it will be.
Rick: Does he?
Me: Does he? (I made fun of Rick's voice right there. Once again, he didn't laugh.) Of course. he told me himself.
Alvin: We have a second opinion that thinks your arm won't last a bullpen session.
Rick: No shot.
Alvin: You might want to consider retiring.

At this point, I was somewhat angry. Retire? Hadn't we been through all of this in December? We had a little contract trouble, but we worked it out. Then I started working out. I feel good. What were they doing.

Me: I think my agent should be here for this.
Rick: He doesn't have to be here.
Me: Neither do you. (That line pissed him off. It was so cool.)
Rick: I'm the manager of this team.
Me: One you're trying to break it up. Good job, skipper.
Rick: Shut the hell up -

Let me cut in and state some nasty words were used at this point by various parties, including a woman who came in to empty Alvin's ash tray (he's a chain smoker). Alvin asked her nicely to shove the ashes up her poop shoot.

With that in mind, the woman left and we continued with this shocking meeting.

Me: I feel like you guys are ambushing me. No agent. No warning that you now want me off the team. I'm not going to retire and give up the $9 million plus bonuses you're going to pay me.
Alvin: Then insurance will cover everything.

He held up Dr. McGee's report and said it, along with this phantom "second opinion," would be sent to the insurance company. I was welcome to come to spring training and "test out" my arm, but they expected me to spend the year on the disabled list. The insurance company would subsidize the cost of my contract. The team would pay nothing.

We didn't end the meeting on good terms. I stormed out when Rick started talking about team chemistry. The guy probably failed high school chemistry, and now he wants to talk about how he's going to motivate 25 guys to piss where and when he tells them to. I don't think so, Ricky.

I didn't make it 10 feet down the hall before I got a call from Jack Perry, super agent.

Me: Did you hear?
Jack: Mrs. Delaney told me.
Me: This isn't right.
Jack: I'm already filing a grievance with the players association.
Me: My arm is fine.
Jack: I'm sure it is.

We were done. I made it to the parking lot and tried to pull the car key out of my pocket. I couldn't. It was my right arm. Suddenly, I couldn't bend it.

With my good arm, I called Dr. McGee. This wasn't good.