Monday, March 31, 2008

Detours

Just like I'm taking a detour between injury and playing again for the big boys in New York by going to Nashville, I took a detour over the weekend between Florida and Nashville by going home to New Jersey. The plan had been for me to fly straight to Nashville, but plans change. I flew home with Vanessa and the girls on Friday and spent three nights back in my own bed. I don't expect to be home again until May.

I got to Nashville Monday afternoon and checked in with the club at their new stadium (Pepsi Field). Very nice place, much nicer than I ever played in when I was a minor leaguer. Then again, I'm a minor leaguer now (again) so I guess I'll get my chance now.

It was hard to get here from the airport because of road construction. It should normally be a straight shot of about 20 minutes, but it took about an hour. I drove myself (I'm renting a big Ford pickup truck, more on that later) and, because of the load I was pulling (more on that later), I had some problems getting up to speed. But I got here in one piece in time to sign in and check out my locker, which is considerably smaller than I'm used to. I was going to cry, but realized it's only a locker. I held back.

Seriously, I was going to cry. Getting here, I realized I haven't been this homesick since summer camp when I was 10 years old. Sometimes, you don't know how badly you don't want to be somewhere until you get there. I've been trying to put the best spin possible on playing a month in Nashville, and outwardly I seem well adjusted. On the inside, I'm a mess. That's why I went home instead of coming straight here. I was putting off the inevitable as long as possible.

But, I'm still a big boy. I have to suck it up. I would have made a horrible soldier, which makes me respect our troops in Iraq and Afghanistan that much more. I'd probably cry every day over there. Not because of fear. Because I'd miss my wife and darling teenage daughters (who were out when I left NJ so never said goodbye to me). Funny to hear this from a guy who routinely spends 50% of the time away from his family during the 6-month baseball season. Maybe I'm just getting old; either that or soft in my old age. (I turn 40 in less than 2 weeks.)

My living arrangements are set. No hotel. No basement of somebody's house. No rented home. Well, actually, I am renting a home, but it's not a house with a foundation. It's a mobile home. Specifically, it's a 2007 Rockwood Signature Ultra Lite 8293SS (http://www.alsmotorhomes.com/show.php?id=186). It's white, 29 feet long, and has two sinks in the bathroom. Because I'm rich, I arranged to have it and a new black Ford F-150 (http://www.fordvehicles.com/trucks/f150/) waiting for me at the airport. After a five minute lesson on how to drive the Ford and pull the Rockwood, I was off. I parked in a perfect spot: the parking lot of Pepsi Field.

I had someone install cable TV and wifi in the trailer. One of the clubhouse boys (they're actually boys for this team - like 16/17 years old vs. early to mid-twenties for NY) did my food shopping at a Whole Foods. He liked his $50 tip. (Vanessa told me not to overtip as a means of overcompensating for my homesickness. Don't tell her I gave the guy at the airport who gave me the driving tutorial $100.)

Our season starts here on Thursday against New Orleans. I've been anointed the temporary closer for the Nashville squad, and with continued finger pain for Billy Weston in NY, been also told to get my mind around possibly closing games for the Vets when I get called up. And to think I thought I'd be in their starting rotation today for their opening day in Florida. Instead, I take a strange way (to me) back to NY by coming here and pitching out of the bullpen, closing games.

My GM, Alvin Kirby, told me I could spend the opening series with the Veterans in Miami if I wanted and get here in time to be ready for Thursday's game, but I found myself surprisingly decline the offer. I needed to get to Nashville eventually. I need to sleep in this new bed. I need to get used to being here so I can throw a baseball like I need to do. (I've cried three times since starting this post. I'm like an old lady.) I need to get my head in shape, because I've realized it's a ways behind my body.

You can watch my games on the web if you want by purchasing a monthly subscription for $6.95. I know the team, and the league, is hoping to "move" a few thousand extra subscriptions because I'll be down here. I wish I could get a piece of that $6.95. I just tipped the cable guy $75 and hugged him for a little longer than he probably liked. If I don't run out of money before the season starts, I'll probably get arrested for not letting go of a hotdog vendor.

Friday, March 28, 2008

In Stitches

It took 11 stitches to close the injury to my forehead. The doctor performing the procedure told me it looked like the cut was either caused by glass or scissors - very clean but kind of deep. He led me to believe my cut was worse than I had believed, if you can believe that. Vanessa took me home and I couldn't sleep. Horrible night of pain, headache, nightmares...

Meanwhile, I understand the team put Corey Belle on the restricted list first thing this morning. He can't come anywhere near the team and will not be paid. I'm sure he's going to get cut, but my kind of cut will still be worse than his. He'll easily get picked up by another team. I'll have this scar for the rest of my life.

Alvin suffered a broken nose. He was in the complex today with a big white splint-type thing on his face. His eyes were starting to get blackened. He didn't talk to reporters or, as a matter of fact, any of us. He's had a tough go this spring, with the sexual assault charges, the hearing that's scheduled to take place in a few weeks, the public ending of his marriage, and now the Corey Belle fiasco. I hope for his sake it doesn't get any worse.

As for Rick, he was here at 7AM this morning, arm in a sling. He's got a dislocated shoulder and a bunch of cuts and abrasions. Nothing terribly bad, but still, who expected one of his own players to attack him like that?

A few others - Lyman Gaye, Willie Cordero - came in today with cuts, black eyes, etc. Nobody had to take the day off. But this Corey Belle thing was a major distraction. First, he's probably going to hit 40 home runs this year for somebody, we're pretty sure not us now. And when something of this magnitude happens to a team, it's takes a little while to get over it. Getting into a fight is a traumatic event for someone. A freakin' all-out brawl offers ten times the trauma. That it happened twice... well, multiply the second number by a whole lot more.

We're still unsure if Rick or Alvin are going to press charges. The police were here today and questioned everyone. I told them I wasn't going to be responsible for sending a teammate to jail. He does need some pretty serious anger management classes, however. I mentioned to the cops that I was going to officially give Corey the silent treatment "for some time." They didn't know what to make of that, so they moved on. You could kind of tell these guys thought it was pretty cool to be talking to all of us on the team. They were very professional, but you could still sense they were a little in awe.

I didn't do any drills or working out today. My head still hurt and I had no energy. I hung around and chatted and ate a bit. The team breaks camp after a final game tomorrow. The timing is good. We're ready to get out of here.

Vanessa, Alyssa & Grace fly home today. The girls can't wait to go back to their "own" school. Vanessa's looking forward to sleeping in our own bed again too. Her only trepidation is Connie, the stalking neighbor, who keeps calling Vanessa's cell. Vanessa's probably going to get another one. She'll have two and be like some of the guys here who have one cell for their wives and the other for their girlfriends. Only Vanessa will have one for Connie and the other for the rest of the world.

I take off for Nashville on Sunday. My living arrangements are just about set, but I don't want to reveal them until I'm confident that I'll actually do it. My first game with our AAA squad will take place on Thursday. I haven't pitched in the minor leagues since 1988. Can't say I've missed it, but I'll try to make the best of it. That's all we can do when we have no control. I only hope Corey Belle turns his situation into something positive as well.

Thursday, March 27, 2008

A Farewell To Arms

It's been a somewhat tumultuous spring training for me personally, but until the Corey Belle/Lyman Gaye incident the other day, the rest of the team has been fairly sedate. That the Belle/Gaye incident is all anyone will remember from this spring is good in that we didn't have any major injuries (even Lyman escaped his car accident in one piece) and had a winning record (we're 18 and 10 with 3 games left). It's bad because, well, that means everybody's going to remember the day Corey Belle and Lyman Gaye, teammates, got into a fight.

As you all know by now, the fight escalated a bit yesterday. (I say "a bit" sarcastically.)

At this point in spring training, doing drills is a thing of the past. Players are still working on some things, but mostly we're all about starting the season. We've been down here since Valentine's Day and it's time to go home. At least that's what I think. Only I'm not going home, I'm going to Nashville to start my season. My arm strength is improving and I'm hoping to spend only a couple of weeks there instead of a month. I think Rick and Alvin are set on the latter, but I'm going to try to convince them otherwise.

Which leads me to yesterday's simulated game. Wait, before that... Before yesterday even started, the team announced a 10-game suspension for Corey Belle to start the season. Personally, I was hoping for about three times that, just to make a point, because 10 games will be reduced to 4 or 5 after Corey appeals. But it's still something, and I credit manager Rick Churches and GM Alvin Kirby with willing to risk losing our best hitter for the first two weeks of the season.

Turns out they were risking a little bit more.

Back to the fake - sorry - simulated game. I didn't want to travel 2 hours by bus to Daytona to play the Commons, so I found myself on a back field with Willie Cordero, Diego Munoz, Steve Pond and a handful of minor leaguers, pitchers who were about to be sent to their own camp. We were going to get some work in and face mostly minor leaguers. Lyman Gaye was part of the offensive squad so he could get 8 to 10 ABs and work on his timing.

Rick didn't make the trip to Daytona either. He wanted to get a good look at Willie and me and a couple of other guys coming off injury and trying to make an impact as soon as possible. Alvin, as always, was floating around the complex too.

I guess it was the fifth inning. I was on the mound and Lyman was at the plate. Funny to me, since Lyman was the guy at the plate last April when I blew out my elbow. That made this a good test for me. Could I overcome my demons? Could I overcome my recent past? Would I have a bad, superstitious feeling and be unable to perform?

The questions have yet to be answered.

I toed the rubber and looked down at Lyman as he dug into the box. The ball was hidden in my glove and I began my motion. But then something caught my eye and ears. It was Corey Belle, in streetclothes (not fatigues like a few places reported), jawing away. Apparently, he'd gotten the memo about his suspension and wanted to speak about it. He was yelling, "The Belle tolls, mother******! The Belle tolls, mother******!" I was sort of a Hemingway buff in college and pleasantly (under the circumstances) surprised at Corey's literary reference. (Later I was told he'd heard it from a rap song by Lil' J. I have a call into Lil' J's reps for comment.)

Normally, a pitcher can work through this kind of distraction. I've pitched while 50,000 fans (not mine) have booed me. I've pitched while drunken fans brawl in the loge level. I've pitched while The Kissing Thief has run onto the field to make out with a good looking shortstop. But simulated games are different. No matter how hard anyone tries to make them appear real, they're not. So I didn't have my regular intensity. I didn't have the focus I usually have on the mound. That's why, when Corey came barrelling onto the sidelines, I stopped and didn't throw my pitch to Lyman. Instead, I watched.

Corey went straight for Rick. "You ballheaded me, man! You turned it off!" Rick, who had been sitting in a foldout chair in front of the dugout, stood up, not in any threatening manner, just like one would stand when guests came over for brie and crackers. Corey didn't stop. He walked right into Rick. Rick told him to back away. Corey said nothing (finally) and attacked. He threw a punch at Rick's face, made contact, and followed up by starting to strangle (not choke) him. Rick was down on his knees in less than a second (remember these are two very big men, one who hit 40+ HRs last year and one who did 15 years ago).

Corey was now involved in his second fight in three days with a member of his team. The worst part about this one is he was beating up, and apparently trying to kill, his boss. Not a smart move.

By now, Lyman had joined the two-man fray. He made a running tackle of Corey, who didn't release Rick from his grip. The three men rolled. I started to hear the sound of staggered, struggling breathing. Sweat and spit were shooting into the air. A little red, the red of blood, was joining the colors of the men as they battled.

The pile grew. Everyone was trying to get at Corey, who was determined - it seemed - to either kill or send a very pointed message to his field manager.

I had not become involved in the melee. While I've been in my share of on field fights (usually involving some hard playground-type shoving and calling one another's mother nasty names), I've never been in one while rehabbing from an injury. I won't say that wasn't on my mind. I've seen guys get injured during fights and I've seen guys get re-injured during fights. While my first reaction was to join in, my other, somehow mature reaction was to hold off.

To my credit, Willie Cordero, coming off shoulder surgery, was trying to stay out of it as well. I could see him through the bodies, sitting in his chair in the dugout, watching the action like it was the WWE. Steel cage match.

Complex security made it to the scene rather quickly. Two guys in shorts, polo shirts and sunglasses (that's Florida spring training security for ya) jumped in, soon joined by another couple of guys. They succeeded in pulling people away and holding onto Corey (while on the ground).

Rick was up now. So was Lyman. Our on duty trainer was looking at Rick's neck, which was bleeding, and his upper lip, which was bleeding. His uniform was torn and muddy (we had rain last night). Lyman took a knee so he could catch his breath. From where I stood, still on the mound, he was unharmed.

Corey was escorted away after a couple of minutes. Still upset, still yelling stuff, it felt safe to say we weren't going to see Corey again for a long time.

The game was called before I got to throw my pitch. Rick needed some medical attention and everyone else had had their workout. So we retired to the clubhouse, which is a five-minute stroll away.

We were a pretty quiet bunch, even the minor leaguers who must have been in total awe about what they'd just seen. Rick was taken to the training room in the clubhouse and most of us either hit the showers or sat in front of our lockers feeling kind of weird. That was no baseball fight. That was assault and battery and, to most of us, attempted murder. This was the kind of thing that guys get arrested for; that guys go to jail for. There were 20+ witnesses. Corey didn't have a chance.

I showered and just stood under the water. I hadn't lifted one finger for the day (besides my personal morning workout, which doesn't count here) and was exhausted. The hissing of multiple shower heads in action, the heat of the water on my semi-balding skull, it was just what I needed. It was like yoga. Relaxing.

"MOTHERFU****!"

I knew the voice. My stupor was jolted back into the real world. My reaction was to run, not away, but toward the voice. Three or four other guys, also showering, did the same thing. (In retrospect, it must have looked kind of funny to see four wet, grown (one with a good lather on his head) athletic men slipping and sliding around the locker room naked.) We had to find Corey before he found Rick. This was bad.

It got worse.

By the time we got into the training room, Corey was already there. He was in Alvin's face though, not Rick's. Before we could get in between them, Corey attacked. He shoved his forearm into Alvin's face (broke his nose) and pushed him into a cabinet, which shook. You could hear the stuff inside falling about, some glass breaking, some metal objects clanging together.

I was the first one on Corey this time. I grabbed his jaw and pulled upward. Some other guys went for his midsection. We all fell together onto the cold tile floor, Alvin included. I was now at the bottom of the pile. My grip was gone and I was at this point trying to protect what a jock strap was invented for (never fight in the nude, you're not as effective as if you'd been wearing, oh, let's say a suit of armor). Bodies shifted violently. Voices roared. I felt like I was in the middle of the kitchen while a tornado was striking the house. Scared the hell out of me.

And then, suddenly, all of the bodies were off. I layed (or lied?) on the tile, hands covering "down there," legs trying to remember the fetal position I recall I liked so much in my mother's womb. Somebody threw a towel onto me. The action had moved into the locker room, only it was just voices now, Corey's voice and Alvin's voice and Rick's voice and a number of other ones, all yelling insults, screaming some terrible things. The noise moved further away from me and I got up.

The trainer's room was a complete shambles. I had to watch my step as I left. Medical supplies were everywhere. A table was on its side. Chairs were upended.

In the locker room, I could tell things had improved. Corey was definitely gone now, literally and figuratively. His voice carried away quickly and was finally muted for good. Really for good this time.

I wiped the sweat off my brow with the towel and went to my locker and put on some underwear. "You got sometheen on your head, man" Willie Cordero said. He was walking by, a pretty large welt growing under his eye.

I wiped some more sweat and looked for a mirror. Then I saw The Cut. "Oh boy," I said, but not in those words. It wasn't a Cut. It was a Wound. The kind you need to go to the hospital for. Actually it was a Gash (not a Wound) on my forehead. I wasn't sweating, I was bleeding. I looked at the towel in my hand, I guess for the first time. It was stained red with blood. My blood.

I returned to the trainer's room, now being repaired by two clubhouse boys (each in their early-twenties), and found some gauze. I slapped it on my forehead, went to my locker, threw on some clothes, and drove home. I had had enough. I was tired. And I wanted some extra special attention. Vanessa would give it to me. She'd ask what happened and drive me to the doctor and hold my hand and tell me how brave I was. And I'd hold her hand back and be glad that she felt that way about me. Then I'd go home with her and sleep. I wanted to get Corey Belle out of my head once and for all. The Belle tolled today. It tolled for him.

Wednesday, March 26, 2008

You Gotta Have Faith

I mentioned yesterday how our first baseman, Cal Franklin, was a very religious man (and very big too). Every ballclub I've played for has had its contingent of "faithful" players who get together on planes or buses or hotel room suites and discuss the bible. There are other players who aren't as religious as that who still go to church on Sundays. And there are those few who somehow can't speak a full sentence without bringing up the Father, Son & Holy Ghost. Cal is one of these guys.

He wasn't yesterday.

I find it interesting - no facetiousness intended here - that a man as religious as Cal could still harbor such an intense violent streak. No, he hasn't killed anyone. But the power he found yesterday when it came to subduing Corey Belle (once J.D. Bryant ripped Corey off of Lyman Gaye's esophagus) was the spontaneous kind; the kind someone finds within one's self when it counts.

I brought this up to Cal. My question, I guess, was did this ability to be a part of violence mean he wasn't as close to God as he thought?

The first thing Cal did was smile and tell me - not ask - that he knew I was asking to write about it. While true, I was also truly curious. I'm not a God-fearin' fella (pretend I said that with a cowboy accent) and only attend church (I'm an ordained Methodist person) three or four times a year. The faith Cal gets from God I either don't have or get from another source, i.e. my family.

"Think of our game," Cal said. "It's not a game for the passive. While not football, baseball still is full of violence; a violence I fully participate in." He was sitting at his locker, peeling the skin off of an orange. I pretended not to react when little flying drops of citrus struck me in my cornea. "I hit 34 home runs last year," Cal continued. "That's 34 incredible, short bursts of violence. I play first base, right? How many times do you guys throw the ball over to me in a game and I have to slap a tag on the runner? How man times have I collided with a catcher at home plate? Or a second baseman or right fielder or fans in the stands racing after fly balls?"

He looked at me. He does that. I had the feeling he wanted me to literally guess the number of times, even though he really didn't. But he just looks back at you sometimes after speaking and you expect more. But he's done talking, so it's awkward.

"Two thousand fourteen," I finally said.

"Huh?" He shoved a piece of orange in his mouth.

"Nothing. Go on."

"So when I bear hugged Belle Tower yesterday (one of Corey's nicknames) and wrestled him to the ground, I was playing first base. I was a ballplayer. Some guys say you can't separate God out of a man, but I add that you can't ever take a ballplayer off the field."

I nodded. He sounded like he had a good feel for this stuff. I asked him how and he told me he's been thinking a lot about this subject lately. He's about to work on a book that follows him and the presence of Jesus as they play through the season. "Kind of like what you're doing there on the web, but mine isn't in real time." I asked him if he was writing the book himself and he said no. He's about to decide between two beat writers who cover the team all year. He wouldn't tell me who. I asked him if they have to worry about conflict of interest, as they need to cover the team from an objective perspective yet if they're working for him, how can they, who is on the Cal Franklin payroll, criticize him in their columns as the season progresses?

Cal shoved half of the orange in his throat. He drooled a bit. (It was a big orange.) "There's no conflict when you go with the Lord," Cal said.

Yeah, but will his beat writer "employee" be going with the Lord or earning a few extra bucks?

Cal shrugged as if to say it wasn't his problem, nor was it His problem. "Faith," he said. "Live it, learn from it, let it justify who you are."

A clubhouse boy (this one 24) came buy and swept up the orange peels and chewed up (but unswallowed) pieces of orange on the floor in front of Cal's locker. I could tell Cal would spend all day talking to me, but I needed to go out and long toss. Since coming down to Florida, I haven't experienced any pain in my elbow. It seems to be coming along perfectly. I nodded to Cal and started walking away.

"Hey," he said. "How do you know your elbow won't blow out in ten minutes when you start doing the exact thing that blew it out in the first place?"

I told him hard work.

"That's where you and I diverge," he said. "You credit your work ethic. I credit it to faith. You've got it. You just label it in a different way."

Faith. Maybe. Work ethic. Maybe. As long as I'm healthy, I'll take anything I can get.

Tuesday, March 25, 2008

Say Cheese

Today was team picture day. By now, you've heard some of what happened. I'll fill you in on the details as I know them and try to fight my natural urge to edit.

Once upon a time...

There lived a baseball player named Corey Belle. Corey was what they call a five-tool player coming out of high school. He could hit for average, hit for power, run like the wind, throw a bullet from left field to the catcher on the fly, and catch anything that drifted his way. Yes, Corey was "the future of baseball," as his high school coach in whatever town in Kentucky Corey came from said.

But there was a dark side too. On a baseball field, Corey could do anything, wish anything, and it would happen. Off the field, well, the opposite. Trouble found him more often than not, starting with sexual assault charges filed against him his senior year of high school (charges subsequently dropped). While in the minors, he routinely broke curfews, got into two bar fights, one "brawl" (not sure the difference between a fight and a brawl, unless we're talking the number of contestants competing to pulverize one another), and was arrested three times. Again, no indictments. He played great baseball through this, and at the age of 20 was in the big leagues.

Fast forward to eight years later, January 22, 2008. Corey is in Kansas City with some good friends. The parking lot of an after-hours club they're at becomes the scene of gunshots and mayhem. A woman running away gets hit by a car. She lives but suffers a number of broken bones, including her back. Prognosis is not good that she'll ever walk again.

Corey's car is stopped by police and a recently fired gun is discovered inside on the floor. Corey and his friends are arrested and charged with three or four different illegalities. This is Corey's third arrest in two years.

Fast forward again to yesterday. Team picture day. Corey is late, but makes it just in time. Lots of folks (meaning guys on the team) are pi*sed off at him. It's not his first tardy appearance at spring training. But, he hit .321 last year with 41 home runs and 129 RBIs. He's allowed (doesn't mean I agree with it).

I'm standing in the second row, next to Lyman Gaye. Lyman, as we know, is coming off a bad car crash last week, a crash caused by his fiance allegedly beating the hell out of him while she drove. Some temper. Two days in a hospital, another couple to recover at his bungalow, and now Lyman's back trying to get ready for opening day next Monday. The last thing he wants is another distraction.

He gets one. It's called Corey Belle.

"Hey, Mr. Photographer Man, how's 'bout you snap some close-ups of Lyman's purse wounds." Laugh laugh. Ha ha. Corey, even though late, thinks he's funny.

A couple guys snicker lightly, but not hard. Lyman, traded to us in December from, coincidentally, Kansas City, is still trying to find his feet with his new team. He seems like a good guy who's another soul misunderstood by every GM he's ever played for. He's usually good for 20-25 home runs, 90+ RBIs, 20 stolen bases and solid defense in right field, so I'm not sure yet why he keeps getting traded. Maybe it's his choice in women.

Lyman doesn't react to Corey's line. I try to use my peripheral vision in as clandestine a fashion as possible. Lyman appears to be looking straight ahead.

Guys like Corey, in my experience, don't like a non-reaction. They offer stimulus and expect it in return. For example, break the law/get arrested.

Moving on.

The camera man starts snapping away.

"Hey, Mr. Photographer Man, did you catch Lyman's dress?" It's Corey again, speaking out from his perch in the back row.

This time, Lyman flinches. But he keeps his cool. He's trying to at least. I whisper something supportive, like "Corey's a *************, isn't he?" No reaction. That's fine. He probably didn't hear me. The anger was probably too close to boil-over stage.

Very close.

We're almost done. "Photographer Man" takes a few more shots, tells us, jokingly, to say cheese.

Corey: "You say want Lyman to get down on his knees?"

That's it. In less than half a heartbeat, Lyman is no longer standing next to me. He's barrelling through teammates, knocking them over the chairs they're standing on, trying to get to Corey. And then Lyman's got his hands around Corey's throat, Corey's throwing punches and making contact with not just Lyman, but the other guys trying to break it up. Photographer Man is snapping pictures as fast as he can, along with some beat reporters who are hanging around. One of them is holding up his phone, taking video of the event.

Gums Murphy, our 80 year old coach emeritus, is in the pile by now, trying to break it up. Corey's elbow knocks Gums in the forehead. He's down. It takes J.D. Bryant, all 257 pounds of him (that's how he can play both baseball and football), to literally rip Corey off of Lyman. Cal Franklin, normally a religious man (a very large one), holds Corey back and begins to rip into him like it's nobody's business. Corey says something. Before you know it, he and Cal are rolling around on the ground, chairs falling on top of them, punches being thrown, spit flying through the air.

One kick ends it. Our field manager, the one whose job is to keep sh*t like this from ever happening, who claims he would've been a star punter for 13 to 14 teams over 20 years in the NFL if he hadn't chosen baseball as his profession, lays one furious, passionate, perfectly timed kick right on Corey's head. BOOM! Corey's done for the day. Eyes closed. Unconscious but breathing harder than a dog after a two-mile run.

Cal gets off and continues to berate the knocked out Corey with words I've never heard a religious man (a very large one) use. He kicks a chair and walks away, trying to cool off.

I look around at the damage. You'd have thought a tornado had just cut a swath in our little picture taking area. Chairs are on their sides. Shoes have been separated from feet. Torn clothing lays about (or is it lies?).

A couple of golf carts are on the scene by now. Two trainers and a stray minor leaguer or two help lift a woozy Corey Belle off of the ground. He's looking at us, looking at Rick. But he's not angry anymore. He's sorry. A little late, but he knows he made a mistake. He is sat down into the cart and it drives away.

Lyman, for his part, is sitting on a chair and joking around (better than choking around). He's got a cut above his eye that's been reopened (origin: his angry, pulverizing fiance) and a new one on his cheek. He's also got little scrapes and cuts on his neck. He talks about Corey's need for a manicure. The guy can afford it, that's for sure.

Rick pulls a chair over and starts to talk to Lyman. And, like kids, we all gather 'round and listen. Even Cal is back, sitting on the grass. Rick tells us about a fight he got into in '87 with Jose Varmes. Jose broke two fingers and three knuckles and missed three months of the season. Rick won that fight the same way he stopped this one: A perfectly placed kick to a spot no man enjoys, even if he's wearing protective plastic.

If Lyman wanted to be our teammate, to get to know us, today was his initiation. He's got a lot of fans on this team now. Like I said, he's a good guy. When we look back in October, maybe this will be the moment that changed everything for him. Maybe this was the moment he came to feel like one of us.

As for Rick, he did a good job today. He ended a fight, and he ended it in a way that showed who's boss. At the same time, he took down the school bully. Good for him.

Corey, well, he was driven the the hospital for tests. The thought is he probably has a concussion and will miss at least a few days. Chances are good the guy will be suspended by the team for a while. This is Rick's chance to really show who's boss. Suspend the guy for 30 games or something, make a statement. It'll show how Rick doesn't care as much about Corey's 40+ home runs as he cares about keeping the team together. Rick ended the fight, but has a chance to now make the deciding blow.

This is Rick's first big time opportunity as a manager to make the team his own. You know what? I'm rooting for him.

Let's hope we all live happily ever after.

Monday, March 24, 2008

The State of Things

One week to opening day. Kind of exciting if you're me, very exciting if you're a fan. You, as a fan, should be excited because the team looks like it could possibly be the best team we've put on a field since 2000, coincidentally the last time we won a World Championship Series. Only a few questions marks:

1. Lyman Gaye's health - His auto accident last week was more scary than painful. If you think it looked rough on TV, double that if you were there. Strange how my family and I drove past his up-ended car last week on our way to Disney World and had no idea he was inside. He was back with the team over the weekend, but still stiff and sore. The coaching staff is looking at trying to get him into 1 or 2 spring training games by the end of the week. His fiance, who was driving the car, will not be around. Lyman filed a restraining order against her on Friday. Apparently, she was the cause of his injuries, not the accident.

2. Felipe Castro's presence - His mother is still in captivity somewhere in Venezuela. He has not reported to camp, but is expected this week. Rumors are flying around as to his physical shape. When I spoke with him in February, he admitted he wasn't close to being game-ready. I guess we'll know in the coming days.

3. Jimmy Scott's elbow - This is my elbow. Feels good. I still haven't pitched two days in a row. Everyone keeps telling me the bullpen, where I will work from this year, is the perfect place for me at this point in my career. I'll be in more games, be more active with the team... My head isn't there yet, however, which leads me to...

Me. If you're me and the new season is coming, here are some updates:

1. My lawsuit - Team psychologist, Dr. Henry Cohegans, and I settled his lawsuit very quietly last week. As he likes, the terms are under a confidentiality agreement. He also will no longer work with me. So I'm looking for another head-shrinker to help me fine-tune the rough edges of my psyche.

2. My Media Status - I've held pretty firm to my pledge not to speak on the record with the media. A few of my off-the-record comments have been printed, and attributed to me, which makes me pretty upset. I will say that the beat reporters around here have been very professional. These guys work their tails off and are, in nearly every case, people I can trust. Still, a few have tried to "do me in," as a teammate said to me a ways back. When I broke the story of Felipe being named captain and then was told I was off my rocker (meaning the story was untrue), I really had it out with the source who gave me the misinformation. As a result, I learned my lesson. I'm out of the scoop business. Unless I know it's true.

3. Connie - She finally - FINALLY - flew home on Saturday. There were a few days we thought she'd latch onto another family down here, but that was all wishful thinking. She was back to her parasitic ways by last Wednesday and Vanessa had to gently (over three days) negotiate with the woman to leave us along and fly back home. Tough situation. You want the woman out of your life, but she is your neighbor and she is a little off-center. In the movies, she'd come back and do something violent to us (maybe take me hostage and force Vanessa to save me). Just as my lawsuit with Dr. Cohegans was settled, I asked (free of charge) him if we had to worry about Connie. He said probably not. But he also said you never know. Truly helpful information. Somebody tell me if I just broke another confidentiality agreement with the man.

4. Nashville - The team is researching places for me to stay near the ballpark. It appears I will be in extended spring training for about 10 days then report to Nashville for the start of their season during the second week of April. The goal is once I can pitch 4 times a week (broken up as 2 days in a row, one day off, and 2 days in a row again), they'll call me up to New York. Meanwhile, I've thrown around the idea of living with a host family, preferably in their basement, instead of a hotel. The food might be better. And maybe they'll have a 12 year old kid who idolizes me and will make my ego soar to new heights. Or I'll just live in a trailer in the parking lot. You never know.

Friday, March 21, 2008

Pools

Most of the team has put in their picks for the NCAA tournament pool, the general consensus being Duke is going to be this year's ultimate champion. I took North Carolina as my pick. Don't ask me why. I follow college basketball as much as I follow the plotlines of Desperate Housewives. I like the state, so I chose their team. Pretty simple philosophy.

I went swimming yesterday. For an hour, I worked various muscle groups to develop strength and endurance. Swimming is a great cardiovascular workout. Plus, it's hard to get all sweaty if you're already wet.

On the drive back to the Fort Pierce complex from the YMCA complex (really just one building), I got a call from my super agent, Jack Perry, asking how I was feeling about what went down the other night, what with Rick announcing to the press before telling me I was ticketed for a full season in the bullpen. I told him I had mixed feelings. It's not worth rehashing my relationship with my manager. It is what it is and I don't see us becoming blood brothers in the near future. And I'm not sure if I care to pitch out of the bullpen all year. It's just not something I've ever done. But the pundits (I want to be a pundit one day) think this makes the team stronger and will work out better for me personally. Dominant 7th and 8th inning guys are more important now than ever, and pulling down some very nice contracts. I saw Tommy Smythe got 4 years and $28 million from Baltimore in the off season to fill that role for them. Last year, Tommy threw 74 innings and appeared in 76 games. I'm used to appearing in 30-35 games and throwing 220+ innings. I can't decide which is more important to a team, the number of games a pitcher pitches in or the number of innings he gives you. There are roto guys who have their theories, but I'm not a roto guy and I'm not a coach, so I'll just sit on my hands, chew some macadamias and spit out my own thoughts.

I entered the clubhouse and saw about half the team milling around. None of them had pants on, apparently making fun of me for my rant in Rick's office the other night as I wore only my underwear. I pretended not to notice until I reached my locker and saw a pile about 7 feet high of pants blocking my view of my deodorant. There were jeans and slacks and overalls, some new, some dusty, some dirty. Most were the size of an elephant, so somebody here raided the closest men's big & tall store stockroom. I didn't want to touch them, so I gave Teddy, one of our "clubhouse boys" (he's 20) $50 to clean up the area. I then asked for donations from around the team to help refund my Teddy tip. None given.

Meanwhile, Johnny Mathis, our talkative young backup catcher, was walking around collecting papers from everyone. I asked Johnny what he was doing. He said a few guys put together a pool about me. The boxes were based upon games and innings pitched for the year. He said I couldn't enter because of "conflict of interest." I told him that wasn't fair. He said I had to take it up with pool management. Who's the manager, I asked. Johnny smiled and told me.

My manager, Rick Churches.

As an FYI, Rick bet that I'd appear in 77 games and pitch 89 innings.

If that's not motivation, I'm not sure what is.

Thursday, March 20, 2008

Looking For The Same Page

We're not on the same page. The "we" in this case is me and the management of the New York Veterans. It seems that just as we start getting into a good groove, just as we begin to get along, or learn how to co-exist on the same earth together, something else happens. Admittedly, I've been the cause of the "something else" more than once. But this time, I had nothing to do with it.

Over the last few days, I've started hearing little pieces of gossip about me. Baseball gossip, which is different from personal "did you hear Jimmy's going to buy a toupee" gossip. Generally, the baseball gossip is more serious (nope, I have not purchased a toupee, just a larger hat). The gossip I've been hearing is that GM Alvin and manager Rick have spoken with each other about my possibly returning to the team sooner, but in the bullpen. Not necessarily a bad thing. Whatever brings me back to the team the quickest, I'll do (how's that for a tired cliche?).

But it gets better.

Rick has a weekly show on WTEM - Sports Radio ("The Team!"). He spoke before last night's game with Jock & Jerry about various aspects of the team, including my status. I wasn't listening because I'm in Florida and The Team! is in New York, plus I don't know Rick's personal schedule. I think he gets paid $100,000 or so to do this every-Wednesday afternoon gig. On the show, Rick made a sort of announcement about me that he hadn't yet talked to me about. Not a good thing.

More on that in a moment.

We played Cleveland last night, one of the small handful of night games on our spring training schedule. Closer Billy Weston's middle finger was still stiff, so they tell me around the 4th inning that they'll bring me in in his scheduled spot in the 6th inning (they put the veteran relievers who've made the team in the game earlier so they don't have to stick around until the end of the game) "just to get some light work in." Fine, not a big deal. I'd rather pitch in a real game than on a back field to a few young minor leaguers who can still grow hair on their scalps.

Only Rick didn't bring me in for the 6th. Or the 7th. Or the 8th. I'm sitting around for an hour waiting to be told to warm up. No communication at all. Quite frankly, I wanted to be home by the end of the game. I got here early in the morning, worked out hard for a few hours, watched video for a while, and expected to be in bed by 10 pm. Instead, at 9:15 I was told to finally run out to the bullpen to warm up. I was going in for the 9th.

I shook my head and ran out. Began to throw to Johnny Mathis, who looks like will be our opening day backup catcher. Man, Johnny can talk. Nice kid. Loves to talk though. But who am I to criticize?

So I'm warming up with Johnny, he's chattering away, and the fans start gathering close to the bullpen area, which isn't really a pen, it's a strip of grass with mound and plate near the right field line. The fans start yelling things, like how am I going to get to 300 wins if I'm a reliever or if I'd get as many saves as victories and stuff like that. One guy told me I was ugly and going bald. I reminded him that I was rich too, so I had a leg up on him. Shut his mouth right away.

The 9th inning starts. We're ahead by 1 run. I'm not pretending, like I did a few days ago, that this is the World Championship Series. I'm pretending this is spring training and I just want to get my pitches to work so I can build up arm strength and be back in the rotation by May 1. I don't get the chance. First pitch fastball = ground ball out. Next batter (anyone know #97 on Cleveland?) hits my second pitch a mile high straight up. Johnny loses it in the lights but makes a last-second basket catch. 3 pitches, 2 outs. I throw a ball one to the next guy, but on my next pitch he grounds the ball to me. I toss to first and my day is over. 5 pitches, game over.

Only my day wasn't over.

While I haven't spoken to reporters in a couple of months now, they still speak to me. A hundred of them (not really) crowded around my locker after the game. "Did you hear, Jimmy?" "What did Rick tell you, Jimmy?" Blah, blah, blah. I told them Rick didn't tell me anything, so I have nothing to say to them. As I'm wondering if I broke my vow not to speak to the press by speaking to them, another one says that Rick, on The Team! before the game, said I was going to pitch strictly out of the bullpen this year. Plus, I'd still start the season in Nashville, but build myself to the point where I could pitch on back-to-back days, maybe three in a row if possible.

I smiled. Nodded. This was news to me. I've been under the assumption, since this is what they'd told me, that I was going to Nashville to pitch every fifth day. I'd only be in Nashville on game days and be back in the rotation by May 1. Apparently, they changed their minds.

Without telling me.

I went into Rick's office, furious. I didn't care that his door was shut, or that the entire New York media crew was watching, or that I didn't have any pants on. I was furious to care.

Rick seemed to be waiting for me. He was in the office with Alvin, bench coach Chazz Waters and pitching coach Bobby Spencer. Seemed like they were all waiting for me. So I started gently. "Jes*s fu*cking Chri*st, Rick! You don't make a fu*king announcement like this to the g*ddam* fuc*ing media without tell me first, you f*cking ignoramus!"

Rick hadn't just been waiting for me to come in. He'd also been waiting to apologize. Seems he made a mistake by telling the media about his new plan before telling me. And Alvin and Chazz were in there explaining the media world to Rick, interesting since Rick was part of the media up until last October. But new jobs, new perspectives sometimes blind us to what's right. What Rick did was wrong. And Alvin and Chazz were there (before me) to let him know this.

Bobby was the first to jump in. He stood up and said, "Jimmy, you want to go get some pants?"

"No! I don't need any fu*king g*ddam* pants!" I was still a little upset. (FYI - I did have on underwear. Don't want you to get the impression that I'm... oh forget it.) Bobby sat down.

"Jimmy," Alvin said, "we're sorry you heard it this way."

"Heard what?" I said. "Tell me what I'm hearing, then tell me if it's true."

Bobby popped up out of his chair again. "I think you'll make a great 8th inning guy. You hit 91 on the gun tonight. Did you know that? Your pitches are moving all over the place, then ending up in the strike zone. At this point in your body's physical career, you'll be better off pitching four or five innings a week over 7 days rather than five and a third every 5th." Then he sat down.

"Rick," I said, "why are you so quiet?"

"Because I don't want to upset you any more than I already have."

This was strange. Rick has been a giant tumor growing inside of me since he took this job. Now he's suddenly apologetic? Now he's being sensitive with me? Now he cares about my feelings?

"To tell you the truth," Rick said, looking at Alvin and then back at me, "we thought you were washed up. We thought you were dead weight pulling down lots of money and mouthing off at every opportunity to save your job."

"We knew you were working hard," Alvin said.

"No you didn't," I said.

"Yes we did. We just didn't think you were getting any results."

All they had to do was watch, I told them. Instead, we went to arbitration over my contract, over my health and their misconception about it, over their desire to send me out to pasture to chew on grass all day. They should have known I'm not an outfielder.

"You're getting results now," Chazz said. He smiled. Chazz was my manager here for six years, back when I was winning 20 games a season, the team was winning back-to-back world championships, and he was manager of the year three times. He knows me better than anyone in this organization. "If you want to keep making a sh*tload of money and playing ball, you'll see that this will extend your career longer than you could have imagined."

"That's my problem," I said. "I imagined I'd play this year, pitch at the beginning of games, win 10 or 15, and be done with a little over 300 for my career and another championship for us."

"You're a part of this team," Rick said. "And maybe not for just one year."

Again with the sensitivity.

They then told me I'd be in Nashville for between 2 weeks and a month. But I'd have to be with the team the whole time, the Nashville team. No trips to New York on days I didn't pitch. They wanted me to get to the point where I could throw an inning three days in a row.

"You can do it," Bobby Spencer said, once again standing up. "Your body, as it stands (I was standing, as a matter of fact), is built better for this than what you wanted, or expected." Once again, he sat down.

My head was spinning. I walked out and didn't commit to anything. I just walked out. Still not wearing pants.

The media pounced the moment I re-entered the locker room. Was I mad? Was I prepared to pitch from the pen? Could I adjust to this new situation? Where was I going to live in Nashville?

The last question got to me. I didn't know. I didn't know about anything. I thought I'd be home with Vanessa, with my girls. I wanted that. I expected that. Then a weird thing happened. I got a giant lump in my throat knowing I'd be living by myself for a month. A 10-day roadtrip, that's one thing. 30 days away, that's another. The only thing I knew as I blew off the media at my locker and pulled on a pair of jeans was that I was going to miss my family more this year than ever. And even worse, what if Bobby and Chazz were right? What if I was better off in this new situation? What if the pull of success, of winning, made me change my mind and want to keep playing for another 2, 3 or 4 years? That hasn't my family plan ever since the injury. But suppose I wanted to change it? Suppose my future success altered my present perspective?

I drove home to tell Vanessa so she wouldn't hear the news from the media first. I suddenly had a lot to say, but no idea what needed to be said. The lump in my throat grew larger as I pulled out of the players' parking lot and turned on the radio. The local sports station was on. Apparently, I was headed for the bullpen.

Wednesday, March 19, 2008

Spring Break In One Day

We had our traditional one day off in March yesterday (after a horrible start, we're now 13 and 7; meaningless unless your team lost 93 games last year). I decided to follow the schedule and do nothing. No workouts. No baseball. No sparring verbally with teammates or management. It was going to be a day of solitude, just me and my X-Box.

Was...

I was awakened at 7 am by Vanessa rumbling around the room. I asked her what her deal was (in those exact words, which she loved [I'm being sarcastic]). She reminded me - REMINDED ME - that we were pulling Alyssa and Grace out of school for the day and driving up to Disney World in Orlando. Right away. So move.

So long solitude, hello crowds.

I must admit, although you can probably tell, I didn't want to go. I didn't want to go so badly I'd forgotten we had planned this ten days ago when I got into an argument with the girls, who were mad I'd forced them down here to Florida only to never see them. I'm a jerk. I'll admit that too.

We got out of the house quickly. Not to beat the crowds. To beat Connie, Vanessa's stalker friend who won't leave. We pulled out of our rented driveway in our rental car, drove down our rented streets, past the rent-a-cop providing semi-insufficient security at the guardhouse, and sped away. In the rearview mirror, I could see a woman in a miniskirt and heels racing after us, arms waving, breakfast danishes falling to the sidewalk. Right before I turned the corner, I saw her make a beeline for the guardhouse. I was happy we'd told him we were going south and flying to Miami for the day. I hoped that would throw her off our scent.

We hopped on the highway and drove north, all four of us relieved that it was just the four of us in our spacious team-paid rental car and the fifth Beatle had been left behind. I was so happy, I let Alyssa sing about it, which she did. Horribly. She's taking up harmonica too, by the way. 'Nuff said.

We had breakfast at a waffle house, the girls begging me to park in back, out of view of the road. They "premonissed" (not sure if that's a word, but it sounds good) that Connie would pick up our trail soon enough. Both Vanessa and I, because we're mature parents, told them they were being silly. I made an extra effort to hide, I mean, park the car behind a dumpster just the same.

Food eaten and digesting, we were off again, driving toward the world's greatest theme park. In traffic. There was an accident up ahead which slowed us down for an hour. Sports car on its roof, resting between highway and median. Nice car. Recognizable. Two ambulances, four fire trucks and five state trooper vehicles cut the four-lanes into one. I couldn't see anything specific, so we continued onward. "Maybe we should switch cars with the one on its roof," Alyssa said. "That way Connie'll think we're in a hospital."

"No," Vanessa said in her "Now your imagination is running away with you" voice.

"Yeah," I said in my "Not a bad idea, Alyssa" voice.

We arrived in the Walt Disney World parking lot after paying $25 for the privilege, hopped a monorail and were off to the Magic Kingdom. I've been coming down to Florida for 20 years and think Vanessa and I had only brought the girls here once, when they were little kiddies. I could see in their fifteen year old eyes an excitement fifteen year olds are generally too cool to show. I didn't say anything and let them feel, thinking to myself, 'You are mature, Mr. Scott.' My outward, physical smile lasted as long as it took to read this sentence.

"Sh*t," I said. "Sh*t," Vanessa and the girls said simultaneously.

There, in front of us, was J.D. Bryant, our gifted and talented new third baseman, along with his wife Karen, gifted and talented anchor of ABC's Morning Comments, the top-rated show amongst the white female demographic of 27-43 year olds. They had their three kids with them, names unremembered. J.D. and Karen, when together, are wonderful people in small doses. About 30 seconds worth. Then it's best to move along. They bicker as a couple. They don't fight. They bicker. Little quips. Little shrugs. Little eye rolls. But these "littles" add up to a consistency that will drive you nuts.

"We should spend the day together!" Karen said! (worth two exclamation points). She's a very chipper gal, especially in the mornings when TV cameras are pointed her way.

Vanessa, who'd been saddled with a stalking friend for the last 9 days, thanked Karen for the offer (Karen is very liberal in her political views; Vanessa, if possible, would be part of a vast right-wing conspiracy if anyone let her.) But she (Vanessa) said we were meeting our friend Connie in Cinderella's castle in 20 minutes. But thank you.

At that point, J.D. and Karen were besieged by a group of autograph seekers, who thankfully didn't recognize me in my sunglasses, Hawaiian shirt and straw cowboy hat (yes, I word pants). We waved and skipped away, happy to have now avoided Connie, the Bryants, and groups of autograph seekers.

The next few hours were fun. We had a nice lunch. We saw Kai Goto and his family, but they kept moving (Kai looking a little harried), so an exchange of waves was enough. They were followed by about 30 Japanese photographers. Looked like fun.

We saw Paul Hudson and his kids. Raina, his wife, is suing him for divorce (and many millions of dollars [American]). I know as many details as the NY Post will publish, which is to say I know as much as you. He looked happy to be out and about and with his kids. But even as he hugged Vanessa, I could see a few stray onlookers, who were probably hoping to make a few bucks, taking pictures with cameras or cell phones. The guy can't even catch a break on a day at the theme park with his kids.

We had just left him when it happened.

Quietly, under her breath, Grace said the one word none of us wanted to hear. "Connie." We looked up. There she was, Connie, being driving on a Disney World golf cart by a security attendant. We couldn't run or hide. It was too late. She was coming straight for us.

"Go,"Vanessa said. "I'll deal with this."

We told her we wouldn't leave her. It wasn't fair to her. Seriously, Vanessa aged about 10 years in the ten seconds it took Connie to thank the golf cart driver, turn, and smile.

"I didn't think I'd ever find you!" Connie said!! (If you'd heard her voice, you might've added another exclamation mark.)

"Neither did we," I said. "Know what I'm saying?"

She did, but pretended she didn't. I wished the security guy would come back, armed, so he could escort this woman off the premises at gunpoint. But no security guy. No guns. No golf carts. Just Connie, smiling her sad smile. If she had given us some space, maybe I would have allowed myself to feel bad for her. Then I thought -

"It's not our fault your unhappy," Vanessa said. (Which I was thinking. It was kismet!!!!) "You've got to let us go."

"What do you mean?" Connie said, although she knew.

Vanessa tried to use her manners. "Go home, Connie," she said. "Go home now and talk to your family. You can't be with us anymore."

"Hello again!!!!" It was Karen Quinn, J.D. and the kids. Had they snuck up on us too?

"Dude," J.D. said to me. "Comere." (He was saying, "Come here," but he combines words a lot.)

Vanessa nodded. She was probably going to try to have Connie stalk Karen now instead. Not a bad idea. Meanwhile, J.D.'s three boys were oogling Alyssa and Grace, who were paying attention to text messages on their phones. I made a mental note (that I'd quickly forget) to remind my fifteen year old daughters that boys look at them a lot, so kicking these boys in the cajones is a viable option.

"Diju hear 'bout Lyman?" J.D. said to me. I shook my head. "Bad car crashnstuff. He'sinna hospital." (He said, "Bad car crash and stuff. He's in a hospital.")

J.D. didn't know any details beyond that. But we both wondered what would happen to our starting right fielder, a man the team expected 25 home runs, 90 RBIs and 20 stolen bases from starting in two weeks.

"You're kidding!!!!!" Karen and Connie were getting along. Vanessa had an evil look in her eye. "You've GOT to tell me about this!!!!!" Karen was enraptured by something Connie had alluded to. Vanessa took this as our cue.

My nuclear family of four left the Bryants with Connie, who was now allegedly going to dinner with them in Treasure Island. Don't ask me how Connie had traveled to Disney World or how she was getting back. I didn't know and didn't want to ask.

We decided to go before Connie decided to latch onto us again. We passed Kai and his family and the 30 Japanese photographers. He looked exhausted. The season hasn't even begun and the guy's held more press conferences than I have had in my career. Talk about an unwanted burden.

We hopped the monorail to the $25 parking lot, constantly looking behind us. No Connie. We got off the monorail, ran down the stairs, turned and ran back up, hopping another monorail and getting off at Epcot. We let two pass before jumping onto another and circling the entire park (I purposely left my hat at one stop and sunglasses at another to confuse the woman), arriving back at the rip-off parking lot. We split up then as we deboarded. The three girls (Vanessa included) ran to the car. I stood and watched other monorails come and go. No Connie.

The squeal of a set of rental car breaks told me I had but seconds to spare. I threw myself into our car, Secret Service style, and let Vanessa speed off at up to 7 mph. We all sat very low, pretending we were in our 80s (lots of those people in Florida at this, and pretty much any time of year). We reached the exit followed by a myriad of different cars. We hoped Connie wasn't in any of them.

After parking three restaurants down from where we ate dinner, I took a taxi back to the car while my familial companions hid behind an Exxon restroom across the street. I picked them up, returned our rental car (complaining it was "too roomy") and got something a little...different from what Connie expected. The rent-a-cop at the guard house of our rental home complex swore he hadn't seen Connie and swore he wouldn't let her in or tell her he'd seen us. I gave him a $50 bill and told him I'd find him and kill him if Connie bothered us for the rest of the night. I dropped everyone off at the house and parked my new rented big black Hummer down the street, hoping to keep this woman completely off our trail.

No lights that night. We were all in bed by 8:30. When the doorbell rang around ten o'clock, Vanessa and I both pretended we were asleep. As I wondered how I'd find and kill the security guard, Vanessa and I both knew that somehow this woman had to go.

Tuesday, March 18, 2008

Reel Games

I've been watching a lot of video of myself from when I was pitching with Chicago. Not that I feel like I can pitch with that velocity ever again, but I did have a very fluid pitching motion. It was so loose. Somewhere along the way, I developed this herky jerky style near the end of my windup that gave me incredible results but I think caused too much stress on my elbow. Thus, BOOM! No more elbow. I'm hoping watching old "home movies" will help bring me back to the days when I didn't need to worry so much about getting hurt.

I've pitched in two live games now. That puts me ahead of schedule. The problem is I've only pitched an inning in each. My arm strength is pretty much there. My head is on the way. I'll admit it, I get concerned that my elbow will act up and either explode again or cause me just enough pain to turn me into a scared, ineffective pitcher.

Those guys exist, and have existed my whole career, the guys who get hurt and can't come back all the way because they remember the pain too well and don't want to go through it all again. It's an unfair analogy to our military, but one guy once told me coming back from a major injury had to feel like going back to Iraq or Vietnam for another tour of duty. You never know when something's going to come out of the shadows or up from the sand and end it all for you.

As for me, I started meditation last week. Since Dr. Cohegans is suing me, he won't help me with my head, so I bought some new age music CDs and sit with the headphones on in the whirlpool, eyes closed (to block out the Cartoon Channel on the TV hanging from the wall). I try to put myself in a game, mentally, then throw to batters with the soft, gentle motion of my youth that I've memorized from the films. I throw again and again until I feel natural, until the motion is like breathing, involuntary.

I guess it's working. In my two "real" innings, I've faced six batters and gotten six outs. It was strange pitching the ninth inning yesterday. Normal closer Billy Weston had a stiff middle finger on his pitching hand and couldn't throw, so they juggled things and put me there. I pretended it was Game 7 of the World Championship Series and we had a one-run lead. It was fun. Three up, three down. Hit 89 on the gun once too.

The plan is for me to not throw at all today, then long toss again on Wednesday. Maybe I can get into another game Thursday or Friday and extend myself a little. Slowly, I'll get up to 3, then 4, then 5, 6 and hopefully 7 innings. By the first week in May, I should be in the rotation.

Until then, I'll stay behind in Florida for a week before heading to Nashville. Since I'll be on schedule to pitch every fifth day, I'll be a commuter, meaning I'll fly into Nashville (or wherever we're going to play) the night before I pitch and fly home the next morning. That way, I get to stay with the big club and still see my family (there's no way I'll be able to convince the girls to stay with me in Nashville for a month, even though it would probably be a positive influence on Alyssa's guitar playing).

I've come a long way since December, when I began to rehab in earnest. I'm proud of the hard work I put in and pleasantly surprised at how my body responded. I can sense, maybe through my meditation, that surprisingly good things are coming my way, and the team's way too. The season starts in two weeks. The countdown has begun.

Monday, March 17, 2008

At Week's End, The Weekend

You're probably wondering if Vanessa's "friend" Connie is her real name. Yes, it is. Long ago, when we first met, I asked Connie if she cared if I used her real name. She said no, everything about her is an open book. "You can look it up," she said. I've never Googled her, but maybe I should, because she's a little frightening.

Connie paid us a surprise visit last Sunday (the 9th). She said she would still until the end of the weekend, which to us meant that afternoon. She rephrased later and said, "until week's end," which to us was yesterday. It's Monday. She's still here.

She's not staying with us. Vanessa has a rule that beginning February 14th, we do not have guests stay at our home until the end of baseball season. This rule has been in effect ever since I was with Chicago and we had that remarkable run back in 1993. My first ring, Chicago's first in 80-something years... Unforgettable.

We lived outside of Chicago then, in Lake Forest. The relatives, the old friends, the acquaintances... they all came out of the woodwork that year, asking for tickets, a place to stay, signed memorabilia - you name it. I think the night before Game 7 we had 10 people staying over in addition to Vanessa, the girls and me. Not a comfortable situation when you're scheduled to pitch that night in 35 degree weather, the biggest game possibly ever in my life, and I'm home that morning wondering if Cousin Todd was smoking in my backyard and flicking his butts onto my lawn (he was).

Since then, nobody stays over. They can sleep in a tent at a nearby campground, or in an RV somewhere (not in our driveway), or in a hotel. Connie stayed in a hotel this week. All week. She's there now, but probably enroute as I type this. She would have liked to stay over. It's easy to tell someone wants to spend the night when you have to literally push that person out your door at 11pm (Vanessa claims she gave a friendly shove - I was already in bed).

Not sure when she's going home, but Vanessa is exhausted. Two weeks of spring training left before the season starts. We'll be back in New Jersey soon enough, and Connie lives just three houses down. Vanessa gets enough of her when we're home. I'm just happy I have a reason to leave the house alone every day. But Vanessa is stuck. Got a charity thing? Connie can help. Need to go food shopping? Connie will push the cart. Need to slit your wrists? Connie will be ready with rags to clean the blood off the floor.

Yeah, sick stuff. So, does Connie know I'm writing this stuff about her? Here's the weird thing: Yes. She does. She reads this blog every day. She comes over and quotes lines to Vanessa. Vanessa, who only scans this a couple times a week at the most (looking to see what I've said about her), thinks Connie likes the attention. So am I helping or hurting? Should I commit to a news blackout of Connie? Not sure what that would prove. She'd probably keep reading, waiting to see her name in print. I can write about her more often. No, she'd enjoy that too. I asked Vanessa. "What should I do?" She just held out her wrists and said she had no idea. I was pushed aside suddenly, as Connie came bounding out from another room, rags in her hands, ready to wipe up my wife's sacrificial blood.

Friday, March 14, 2008

Action and Reaction

Split squad games today with half of the team taking the bus to Fort Myers. It's about a 3-hour drive. Times like these I'm happy for my veteran status. The guys had to be on the bus by 7:15 this morning. I showed up around 8 AM. The locker room was quiet, just the way I like it. This place can get crazy, especially after a big game that we won. But routines the way they are before a game can give the room a jungle-type of atmosphere. It's harder for me to concentrate then, so I savor the times when it's completely quiet and I can be alone.

When I arrived, my locker was filled from top to bottom with pieces of crumpled papers. A sign above the stall said "Jimmy's Frivolous Lawsuits." I guess my being sued just brings out the comedian in some people. I paid a clubhouse boy $50 to clean up the mess and put in a call to my tax attorney to see if I can write the tab off as a business expense. You should have seen the boy's face when I asked for a receipt.

Manager Rick Churches didn't make the trip. He sent Chazz Waters to manage the group playing in Fort Myers. Chazz is Rick's bench coach and managed us to two world titles back-to-back, in 1999 and 2000. I was disappointed when Chazz was fired in '02, but not surprised. Less than two years from a championship and the guy gets canned because half the team is in the hospital being cured of the biggest injury bug to ever hit the franchise. That 5 1/2 years seems like a long time ago.

Alvin hired Chazz to be Rick's right hand man. I know Rick had his eyes on a few other folks, but since this is Rick's first managing job - ever - Alvin only let Rick hire one coach, batting coach Matt LaConte, probably because it was a no-brainer of a decision. Matt works harder than anyone here. He's got no life outside of this team, but that's the way he is. Matt made the trip to Fort Myers with Chazz.

The dynamic between Rick and Chazz is interesting to see. Rick is clearly insecure around a man who, one could argue (although I don't know this for certain), would like his old job back. I haven't seen or heard Chazz doing anything unprofessional, but Rick does what he can to keep everyone apprised of who is boss. That's probably why Chazz will spend 6 hours on a bus today and Rick won't even get on an exercise bike.

As my locker was being cleaned out and sanitized (I have OCD when it comes to a baseball locker room), I was in the whirlpool. I've started using it before my day begins to help me loosen up. I feel like I'm close to the best shape of my life (except for my elbow), but still, as I near 40, my body needs whatever help it can get to give me a leg up on stiffness and and soreness. Ten minutes into my session, Rick came into the room (but not the whirlpool). He asked me to pay him a visit in his office as soon as I was done. I said okay and hung out for another 20 minutes.

After dressing and straightening out my locker, I entered Rick's office. It was about five minutes before batting practice (Baltimore was in today for a 1:00 game). "Where the hell have you been?" Apparently, Rick had wanted me to leave the whirlpool as soon as he asked me into his office. "You said come in when I was done," I said. He just shook his head. I know I'm like the dog that can do nothing but wrong for his owner, but at least I didn't poop on Rick's rug.

He pushed a piece of paper across his desk. "Read it," he said. I picked it up and saw the heading, CONFIDENTIALITY AGREEMENT BETWEEN RICK CHURCHES & JIMMY SCOTT. I stopped reading. "What?" he said. I put it back on his desk and walked out of the room. My lawyer called me an idiot for signing the agreement with the team shrink, especially without having a lawyer read it first. When I asked my anonymous lawyer what choice I'd had, he said I had two choices, sign it or not. He would have leaned toward the not. Learning from my mistake, I leaned toward the not with Rick.

I was pulling up my uniform pants - the locker room was pretty crowded by now - when Rick came back my way (this is about 4 minutes after I'd left him). He handed me another piece of paper. "What's this?" I said, pulling up my zipper. He turned and walked away. I looked down. It was a bill for $350 from some seven-named law firm. I crumpled it up and threw it on the floor. Before I had a chance to look up, a whole garbage can full of crumpled up papers was poured onto the floor. It was Rick. He'd taken the practical joke refuse that had been cleaned out of my locker and littered the entire space between me and that one piece of paper. Now I looked up. He was, um, upset. But rather than say anything (the very full locker room was painfully quiet), he pointed toward his office. I got up and followed him inside.

The door slammed. "I'm not going to pay $50 to clean that mess up," I said.

Rick stepped into my face (no witnesses, so this will always be his word against mine) and told me he never wanted me to pitch for him again. "Why, did Chazz get promoted?" I could tell Rick was this close to popping me in the jaw. But that action would have brought a reaction he would not have liked. I'm not saying I would have popped him back. I am saying half the team would have seen me walk out of his office with no teeth - when I had teeth going in - put one and one together and not believed me when I said I'd walked into a door. After my filing another grievance, and quite possibly winning this one too, Rick would have been fined, suspended, and eventually fired. Chazz probably would have gotten promoted, thus making me a soothsayer.

Rick Churches is a very smart man. I hope I have never led you to believe otherwise. His one flaw is his temper, at least with me. Lots of other guys think he's a breath of fresh air after Larry Picketts, who I liked but many players thought was too excitable when spurned on by umpires or nasty fans. It was Larry's uninvited call to Sports Radio WTEM (The Team!), in reaction to fan criticism, that got him canned last year. A "heart-attack temper" is how Alvin described the man he fired six hours after Larry hung up the phone. Rick would never make the same mistake Larry made. And that's why, after I laid out the scenario above about what would happen should Rick knock me silly, he sat down and smiled.

"I want to win," is what Rick said. I told him I did too. "I don't think we need you to win," he said in return.

"You're wrong," I volleyed back. He didn't say anything for a moment. "If you don't think you need me to win, that means you're not totally sure," I said. "You could have said outright and unequivocally, 'We don't need you to win.' You didn't say that, so there must be a little doubt somewhere in that head of yours. And that means a very small part of your growing body thinks you do need me."

He shook his head. "I don't want you." I laughed and said I didn't want to sleep with him, I just want to play baseball. Winning baseball. He called me a Wisenheimer, a name he's called me about 50 times this month. I've played for 20 years and never had a nickname. If Rick does one thing to me before I retire, he'll get Topps to replace the name Jimmy on my baseball card with the name Wisenheimer. It would just come back to haunt Rick, however. Wisenheimer is such a long name, I'd need a bigger plaque in the Hall of Fame.

I told him that too. He shook his head again and pushed his confidentiality agreement toward me. He really, really wanted me to sign it. I said no, that this was a manager's office in a baseball team's clubhouse, not a Madison Avenue conference room in the firm of Lawyer, Lawyer & Lawyer. "Treat me like a man, like a ballplayer," I said. "Or give one of these to every reporter covering the team. Let's see what kind of reaction the back page of the NY Post gives you then."

A knock on the door interrupted us. It was 80 year old Gums Murphy (there's no way anyone would ask him to spend 6 hours on a bus). The team was on the field taking batting practice. Rick should be out there with them.

Rick said thank you to Gums and stood up. Since taking the job in October, Rick has literally put on 20 pounds. I always thought stress was supposed to do the opposite. No, I didn't tell him that. He would have punched me in the jaw.

I reached out my hand, an action I hoped would be met with a reaction of the same. He shook and told me to think a little bit more. Over the last two weeks, I've been prosecuted by the media for inaccurately blogging about Felipe Castro and sued by the team psychologist for accurately blogging about my sessions with him, against his wishes. "If you really want to play baseball," Rick said, "you'll give up the blog bullsh*t and just play."

I nodded and told him I couldn't do that. I promised myself I wouldn't fall back into the good old boy baseball routine of having no control over what's said about me and my family and what I say in return.

He shrugged. "If negative headlines and a lawsuit are your definition of control," Rick said, "I'm afraid you're in for a very long baseball season."

He walked through the locker room and out to the field, leaving me in the silence of the clubhouse, just like when I'd entered, just the way I thought I liked it.

Thursday, March 13, 2008

My First (Threatened) Lawsuit, And Then...

Vanessa told me it was bound to happen sometime, if only because of the notoriety this blog has received. I was officially given an ultimatum yesterday from team psychologist, Dr. Henry Cohegans: Never mention his name or allude to any conversations we've had or will have ever again or else he'll sue me, based upon my breaking the terms of a confidentiality agreement I signed with him once I started writing this. I have one word for him:

Sorry.

Still, I contacted my lawyer, recommended years ago by Jack Perry, my super agent (I bought him a cape for his birthday. No card, no note, no nothing. Rude.). This lawyer, who asked that he not be identified publicly for his own p.r. purposes, told me that technically I didn't break the agreement. However, he believes I did break the "spirit" of the agreement in the manner that I alluded to our discussions (see March 11, February 22 and February 14 posts to judge for yourself). While this lawyer, probably the finest in the world (like I'd know), is probably correct, I decided to call Dr. Cohegans on my own to try to nip this in the bud before it became bigger than it had to be.

Dr. Cohegans:
Me: Hi, It's -
Dr. Cohegans:
Me: Wow, you're snippy when you're upset. Want to talk about it?
Dr. Cohegans:
Me: That was a low blow. But I'm bigger than that, so I'd like to offer an apology.
Dr. Cohegans:
Me: It is too worth something. What if I promised to make you look hyper-intelligent when I-
Dr. Cohegans:
Me: It is too possible. All I need to-
Dr. Cohegans:
Me: Fine. My lawyer said we should revise the agreement.
Dr. Cohegans:
Me: I just thought it'd be cheaper if we -
Dr. Cohegans:
Me: No, I've never been to law school. Have you?
Dr. Cohegans:
Me: Yeah, but how many classes-
Dr. Cohegans:
Me: Did you pass the bar?
Dr. Cohegans:
Me: So you're real smart. Have you ever thrown a fastball 98 miles an hour?
Dr. Cohegans:
Me: I'm just saying there's one thing I can do better than-

It went on like that for about 10 minutes.

Vanessa told me, before I made the call, that I'd only make things worse. But I like to go to bed at night knowing I did everything I could to improve a situation, be it rehabbing from my injury or getting along better with team management or finding a way to make my girls like me. So I thought, hey, a few minutes on the horn with good ol' Doc Cohegans couldn't do any harm, right?

The official suit was filed this morning. Apparently, the doctor was unhappy with my tact on the phone yesterday. My lawyer, still unnamed (now he wants me to sign a confidentiality agreement too - I'll need a lawyer to read it over first), told me I was, in loose terms, an idiot for trying to solve the problem over the phone.

Fine, Vanessa was right. It's not the first time.

Thus, I am being sued. I've never been sued before. I can take it off of my To Do list now.

How does it feel? Well, he's asking for a lot of money since he's saying I'm hurting his private practice and his professional status with the team, which will thus hurt his pocketbook as well. Terms won't be disclosed here, but I'm sure they'll leak out somewhere, like TMZ, since somebody will have nothing else to do. Let's just say he's looking for more than $100.

If you asked Vanessa how this experience feels, you'll get a much more emotional answer. She was quite emotional with me. That doesn't mean she cried. But her voice was raised a few decibels and aimed in my direction. Hey, she's a great kid and has been correct many times when it comes to what I say and how I express it. In this case... She's probably right again.

I asked my anonymous lawyer if we could counter sue. He asked what we would sue him for. I couldn't think of anything. He told me to let him do the lawyering. So that's what he's doing.

Remember when Bill Clinton was being sued all the time while president, and he set up a legal defense fund? I want me one of those. Maybe it should be run by a fan. You can call it The Jimmy Scott Legal Defense Fund. I like the sound of that when I speak it loud. Of course, I spoke it a little too loudly, which led to Vanessa marching into the room and using her decibel-grinding tone with me. So maybe we should hold off on The Jimmy Scott Legal Defense Fund. Then again, I can't control what a few fans do. Nudge, nudge, wink, wink.

Next steps? I want to call the doctor again. I've been "strongly advised to the fullest extent of the word 'strongly'" not to even mention his name to our cat. We don't have a cat, so I'm good there. I think I'll just let this issue fester in my brain for a bit before figuring out my next steps.

Vanessa, of course, would say there's nothing for me to figure. That's why we're paying the lawyer. To which I respond: That's why we need The Jimmy Scott Legal Defense Fund!

I've never slept on the couch in this marriage, but tonight may be the first time. How will it feel? You can bet I'll let you know after I'm through.

Wednesday, March 12, 2008

Connie

Can a person you know be a stalker? What if they do it in the wide open, right in front of you, by ringing your doorbell and invited themselves in? Is that still stalking? Or just aggressive friendship?

Vanessa has a "friend" from up the street who is the clingy (not the rapper) type. She moved in last fall and instantly became Vanessa's best friend. Not sure how it happened. She has a son who goes to Alyssa and Grace's high school, but he's apparently very quiet. I've never met him. She has a husband, whom I've also never met, who is literally a brain surgeon. His hours are wacky - why would anyone schedule a surgery for 9:00 at night? But he's apparently one of the top brain surgeons on the east coast. I take it Connie doesn't see him very much, nor does she have much to do with her 16 year old son. She doesn't have a full-time job. So, she latches onto Vanessa as often as possible.

I think Vanessa liked it at first. Who wouldn't? Here's a total stranger - allegedly the non-murdering kind - who thinks the world of you and wants to be around you because you're fun and intelligent and someone who commands respect. See, that's what's so great about Vanessa. She's a respectable woman. She has a certain self-confidence that I lack, and that's an attractive feature. I think Connie's attracted to that as well.

Once Connie's foot was in the door, she kept it there. She became Vanessa's BFF, which is difficult for Vanessa since she's so busy with the kids, charitable stuff, me and my career... She's always got something to do. We assume Connie has very little to do. So she's over at our house all the time. All the time. When Vanessa mentioned going on a quick vacation during the kids' winter break (we considered Italy since we're not Italian), Connie booked tickets for her family, first class, to Rome and found hotels, restaurants, hot spots. She put together the whole trip and booked it in hours. We didn't go to Italy because of some commitments I had. Connie never went either. Vanessa was upset. She had wanted the break.

When I proposed to the family that we all go to Florida for spring training, Vanessa, who I thought would fight me tooth and nail, said yes almost before I finished reading from my notes. She helped get the girls to see things my way (they're still pissed off they had to come down here for 6 weeks, but they'll survive). We've been down for almost a month and have had neighbor peace.

Until Sunday. We're renting a home in a gated community. If somebody is going to visit us, they need to clear it with a security guard. Believe me when I say we've turned down lots of visitors this year, mainly media members trying to get me to talk. The only way somebody is going to get to our house is if they live in the community or are police.

Then the doorbell rang.

It was about 8AM. On Sundays I don't get up until 8:30. The kids were asleep. Vanessa was in the shower. I peeked out the window. It wasn't the cops at our door. It was Connie, platter of breakfast danishes in her hands, looking up RIGHT AT ME. It was like she knew I was going to check her out before leaving my own bedroom. But she saw me. Eye contact. I was caught.

I stuck my head into the bathroom and told Vanessa. The water was shut off immediately, but then the movement stopped. After a few seconds, we heard the doorbell ring again. I asked Vanessa what we should do. She didn't say anything for a moment. Perhaps she was thinking of a quick getaway. But she'd be leaving her family behind. She's too good for that.

"Let her in," was all she said.

I left the bedroom, walked down the hallway and passed a sleepy-eyed Grace. "Mom's psycho friend is here." Grace closed her bedroom door fairly hard.

"Hi, Jimmy!"

Connie stood at the bottom of the steps, holding her danish platter.

"Don't tell me you went all the way to Denmark to get those," I said.

She laughed, told me I was "humorous in nature," and found our kitchen.

I don't own a bathrobe and never entertain guests dressed in the clothes I slept in. But it was Connie, and I was tired and had to leave at 9:30 for the ballpark. She got to see how a real semi-balding baseball player dresses when he sleeps. I met her in the kitchen and sat down. "Visiting?" I said.

Connie spoke of how she'd booked a room at a Marriott less than 500 yards away. She said she'd gotten into our community by sweet talking the guard with fresh pastries. But she had a scrape on her calf and a scuff mark on her shoe. She'd also been sweating recently. It wasn't that hot or humid yet. I would have bet a million bucks that she'd scaled the wall. I checked the danishes to make sure they weren't covered in dirt. If I hopped a ten foot wall carrying a platter of breakfast stuff, I'd spill more than my share of donuts (which I like much better than danishes).

She told me she was down alone for the weekend to "get a sense" of Florida living. Since it was Sunday, I asked if that meant she was flying home sometime that afternoon. "No, I'll be here until the week ends." Six days and counting.

After ten minutes of stimulating discussion (I have no recollection of the subject matter. The woman is to a brain what cigarette smoke is to a set of lungs.), Vanessa came into the kitchen, very well dressed.

"I'm late for church," she said to Connie, "but you're welcome to come."

Connie's eyes lit up. She was like a kid seeing the gifts under the tree on New Year's Day. "Of course!" she said.

Vanessa and I made quick eye contact. It was pained. You see, Vanessa hadn't been to church since we'd gotten down here. My bet is she'd just been upstairs trying to find one in the phone book before making her announcement. She was taking one for the team. A grenade was in the kitchen, and she was throwing her body on it. She was giving herself up for the safety of her family.

They were gone within minutes.

I sat there in the rented kitchen, took a bite out of a danish without looking, and gave a silent prayer for my wife, a good woman. A solid woman. Somebody who was about to have a fairly rotten day.

And then I spit something out of my mouth. Dirt. My danish was covered in dirt.

Tuesday, March 11, 2008

The Kids Are Alright

My relationship with my two daughters tends to rotate between time bomb explosiveness and potential death-spreading wildfire. It's rarely easy, like instant oatmeal. And usually, it's all my fault.

Case in point: I convinced Alyssa and Grace to come down with me to Florida, along with Vanessa, for this last spring training. My "pitch" to them was this would be my last spring training and I wanted us all to spend it together. I'd be home every day by 3:00 and we'd have oodles of family time. I also mentioned how I'd miss them, but this didn't make the headline in their craniums. Being away from home, being away from their friends - that was the headline they remembered. We're almost a month into spring training now. I've been home by 3:00 twice.

I take much of the blame. My rehab and workouts (and this) have taken up considerably more time than I had thought. Vanessa and I still have charitable events that we attend (like a clinic for the Boys & Girls Club this past Sunday morning). And sometimes I just find myself driving around, hitting the road to let off some steam. The pressure this spring training is more intense than I've felt in almost 20 years. Battling the in-house competition, battling my own insecurities, battling with Rick and Alvin, and battling with my girls - if life becomes a constant battle, you need to take a breather sometimes. And that sometimes sometimes takes place around 3:00, when I said I'd be home but instead am taking the on ramp to 95 South with Van Halen's "Panama" blasting from my rental car speakers.

We attempted to have a family dinner last night. Here's an excerpt:

Me: How was your day?

Nobody answers; the "nobody" meaning my two girls. I already knew Vanessa's day was less than tolerable.

Me: Two daughters, specifically Alyssa and Grace, my offspring, how was your day?
Alyssa: Fine.
Grace: You are a wise ass.

It's hard to swallow a large stalk of broccoli when your 15 year old daughter just called you a "wise ass."

Me: Where did you hear that word?
Grace: It's two words.
Alyssa: Pretty much everybody we know.
Grace: You're also a blowhard.
Alyssa: A big mouth.
Grace: Pompous and selfish.

It's hard not to choke on a cheddar cheese sauce chaser when your kids, with incredible conviction, just repeated the same insults you've been hearing about yourself for the past 15 years.

Vanessa: How was your day, dear?
Me: I really like this broccoli.

Vanessa's upset, but not with me. Her stalker "friend" Connie paid a surprise visit this afternoon and said she'd be staying at a Marriott about 500 yards away from the gated (thank God) community we're temporarily living in. How long will Connie be here? She didn't give Vanessa a specific date, but I think she'll be here as long as it takes. As long as it takes to do what? is the question churning through my wife's head. But that problem is for another day. Right now, I was dealing with a couple of teenage malcontents.

Me: The important thing is we're having a nice family dinner.

At this point, both girls left the table. Nobody asked to be excused. When I made this point, Vanessa told me I hadn't made that point in about 9 years. I lack in consistency at times, was her point.

I sprung into action by calling Dr. Henry Cohegans, our team psychologist. For years, I thought he was our team psychiatrist. But I've been wrong for years. He's a psychologist. There's a difference. I'll figure that out at some other time.

Let me remind you of the confidentiality agreement I signed with Dr. Cohegans over the winter. He was explicit in stating he wanted to be no part of this blog and he did not want to ever be quoted by me, either directly or paraphrased. By signing my agreement to this, I have honored the doctor's wishes.

I can, however, include my side of the conversations. Not once have I asked my readers to keep what they read confidential. That's really hard on the worldwide web.

Dr. Cohegans -
Me: Not so good. It's my girls.
Dr. Cohegans -
Me: Get them on the phone? There are two of them? Does that mean I have to pay for all three of us?
Dr. Cohegans -

The good doctor waited 10 very expensive minutes (paid for by the team, so I don't know why I become so obsessed with what he charges) while I pounded on bedroom doors and gently coaxed my two young loved ones to share a phone line with a stranger. They did this and made me leave the room.

Dr. Cohegans -
Alyssa - He promised us he'd be here and he never is.
Grace - He played golf two Sundays ago after telling us we had to be home for a special 'Sunday dinner.' He didn't get home until we'd already gone to bed.
Alyssa - He thinks his stupid blog is more important than us.
Me - I do not.
Dr. Cohegans -
Grace - Dad!
Alyssa - Hey!

I hung up, forgetting that eavesdropping is supposed to be done in secret from the ones you are eavesdropping on.

Half an hour later, the phone rang. It was Dr. Cohegans.

Me - They hate me.
Dr. Cohegans -
Me - Why do I say that? You heard what they said. And you didn't hear what they said at dinner.
Dr. Cohegans -
Me - What about respect for your elders?
Dr. Cohegans -
Me - Yes Rick and Alvin are older than me. What's that got to do with - Oh. I see.
Dr. Cohegans -
Me - No, I just wiped my eye. I'd been having trouble seeing out of it for a few minutes.
Dr. Cohegans -
Me - Because humor masks my true insecurities. I've used that word twice tonight and sound very intelligent.
Dr. Cohegans -
Me - Fine. Should I go apologize to them both now? I'd hug them but they'd run away and call me a molester.
Dr. Cohegans -
Me - Because humor masks their true insecurities.

I hung up and pounded on doors for 10 minutes. (Vanessa was out with Connie, trying to keep the woman away from a very private family issue. FYI - Keep this between us.) I eventually coaxed the girls out when I told them I was about to be arrested for disturbing the peace.

First thing I did was sit the two of them down and explain my situation. No, wait. I apologized first, then explained, which made me feel like I was justifying myself for being a jerk over the last few weeks. If I had explained first and then apologized, I would have been able to make it seem like I was apologizing as a favor to them, thus keeping me, the father-figure (and actual father) in power during this exchange.

But I apologized first, making me appear weak and vulnerable. I'm sure I was slouching too. Not attractive traits in a man. I was happy Vanessa was out with her stalker friend.

Grace - It's not fair that you kidnapped us and forced us down to Florida.
Me - But it's the sunshine state.
Alyssa - It rains every day at 4:00.
Me - Very humid here. Oh, and I prefer the word abduct to kidnap. Sounds like I was more organized.
Grace - Your friend Felipe wouldn't think that was very funny.

Grace was right. Felipe Castro's mother remains held in captivity while I try to justify to my daughters why I'm not spending enough time with them.

Me - Let's do this. Starting tomorrow, we make sure we do something together every day. Even if that means I have to make breakfast for you.
Alyssa - I only eat a yogurt.
Me - I'll pasteurize the dairy.
Grace - I skip breakfast.
Me - I'll force some bacon down your throat.

I think one of them smiled about this time. Which made me really smile. Kids are all the same. They just want to be loved. And even if they know they are, they want to hear it once in a while. Or be shown it. I know I need to do a better job with my kids. They're both terrific and smart and pretty like their mom. Maybe this was the beginning of a new relationship between them and me. Maybe this was a life-changing time for us all.

But first, I had to figure out how to tell them we were out of instant oatmeal.