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.