Charlie And The Baseball Factory

Joan Delaney and the NY Veterans franchise do not own the Nashville Hounds. Their relationship is one of affiliation. The Vets signed a deal to have the Hounds be their AAA minor league affiliate through 2010. At that point, both parties may sign a new deal with each other or move along to greener pastures.

The owner of the Hounds is billionaire Charles Walker, CEO of 3D Corp., which manages the wealth of investors and the assets of a slew of other companies. "Charlie" is 77 years old and considered by Forbes to be the richest man in the world.

The richest man in the world knocked on the door of my trailer this morning.

It was early for most people, around 7:15 AM. I'd been playing National Baseball League 2008 on my X-Box (Some people listen to NPR first thing, or the Morning Zoo. I play X-Box.) when I heard the knock. My first inclination was to ignore it. Since I've parked this trailer in the parking lot of the Hounds' Pepsi Field, I've had an incredible number of visitors. I don't mind. Without Vanessa or the girls and with my homesickness, these visitations help keep my mind busy. I don't let anyone inside, however, just in case (plus, I'm a pig). I set up some lawn chairs and sit and talk. Nashville "folk" have good manners and seem to know when it's time to go, so stalkers have not been a problem so far. But a couple times, I'll admit, I've let the knocks go unheeded. Sometimes I just need a break. I think I'm a loner deep down too, something I don't realize until I'm alone, which hasn't been often since my injury one year ago yesterday (Yes, somebody brought over a cake to celebrate. Chocolate.). When I heard this morning's knock, I considered the early hour and my X-Box abilities. The knock came a second time and I felt it was one that should be answered.

There was Charlie. I can call him Charlie because that's what he asked me to call him. He can call me whatever he wants because he's a billionaire and, quite frankly, those people can do whatever they want. He called me Jimmy.

The door of my trailer faces Pepsi Field. I like that view better than of the parking lot, which is just a big slab of blacktop. Charlie and I sat in two lawn chairs and began to chat. He was drinking a cup of Dunkin' Donuts coffee. I declined his offer since I don't drink coffee and try to watch my caffeine intake (besides four small pieces of that chocolate cake yesterday). We looked out at the $128 million stadium he'd had built two years before.

Charlie - You like it?
Me - Yes.
Charlie - You want it?
Me - To have?
Charlie - I'm selling all of my worldly possessions.

This was immediately strange. Charlie looked like a 77 year old businessman, dressed in a very nice, but not overpriced, dark blue suit and red tie with swirly baseballs on it. His shoes were very shiny and looked overpriced, but I don't know shoes well and didn't think asking would be appropriate. His hair, what's left of it, was gray and combed; his teeth close to white. No, he didn't seem crazy and he didn't appear to be a Maharishi dressed for a costume party.

Me - Why are you selling everything? And what makes you think I can afford this baseball stadium?
Charlie - I've got pancreatic cancer. They gave me between two and six months to live. I don't want to die owning anything except the clothes on my back.

I was immediately shaken up. He looked as healthy as one can look who's 77 with only a little bit of gray hair. And I hadn't heard about his cancer. He told me only a handful of people knew. And he said he knew the world would find out after he came to me.

Charlie - You're getting a scoop.
Me - I'm not really happy about it.
Charlie - Neither am I.

He knew I was only going to be on his Hounds for a month at the most. I'm the most well known "Hound" he'd ever had play for him. Because he's owned the team for 40 years (The Vets have been an affiliate for two), he thought this last month would be the most special of his tenure with the club.

Charlie - The Hounds were my first big investment.
Me - What did you pay?
Charlie - $16,000. They're worth about $16 million today.
Me - I'm no math major, but you've at least doubled your investment.
Charlie - I think I've tripled it.

I laughed. Imagine the richest man in the world sitting on one of your lawn chairs, sipping coffee and shooting the breeze with you, unannounced, at 25 minutes after 7 in the morning. It was pretty cool.

He told me he has trusts and investments and properties worth something like $62 billion. "It fluctuates from time to time," he said. My next question was based upon me, since in my world, everything must revolve around me.

Me - Why are you giving me this scoop?
Charlie - I'm giving you my team.
Me - (jaw dropping open, thousands of thoughts running through my head, most cancelling each other out except the small craving for chocolate cake)
Charlie - I'm giving it to your charity. You can sell it or run it. It's up to you.
Me - (physically pushing my jaw closed and swallowing)
Charlie - How much money have you and your wife raised in your career?
Me - (after some stammering) Around $21 million.
Charlie - Where does it go?
Me - A handful of places, but mostly for cancer, autism and Alzheimer's research. We started allocating proceeds to Lyme disease research two years ago after Vanessa got it.
Charlie - What's the biggest single donation you've ever received?
Me - Adidas gave us $1 million after we won the Series in 2000.
Charlie - I'm going to at least triple it.

I'm no math whiz, but giving the Jimmy & Vanessa Scott Foundation a minor league baseball team worth at least $16 million is practically quadrupling the biggest donation we'd ever received.

Me - What do we do with it?
Charlie - Keep it. That's my recommendation. Just you playing here for a month has increased the value of it by about a million dollars. It's a brand new stadium. You've got some good people running the organization. Keep it for five years and I can almost guarantee you'll sell it for $35 million.
Me - Pretty cool.
Charlie - I know.
Me - What happens now? Do we get into your glass elevator and fly into the sky. "Look Grandpa, I can see my trailer!"

Charlie Walker has one of the greatest laughs I'll ever remember. Even knowing he's going to be dead before the summer ends, before his Hounds complete their season, he still laughed loud and strong.

He stood up, finished his coffee and handed me a folder full of papers. "This is the key to the car," he said metaphorically. I suggested he mail them to Vanessa. Knowing me, I'd spill chocolate cake crumbs all over them. Then we shook hands. "It's your team now, Jimmy." He looked at me, a deep, longing type of look. I could sense, just for that moment, a bit of remorse. Not because he didn't like me or was unhappy with his actions - I could tell he'd planned this out and thought this through completely - but because he wished he had his youth again. He wished he could have a catch with his dad again. He wished he could hold his sons one more time (they died together in a plane crash in the 1970s). He wished it all wasn't going to end in two to five months.

Then it hit me. Tomorrow's opening day.

Me - Charlie. It's my team? I own it?
Charlie - Your foundation owns it, but you're listed as Chairman, which means you run it.
Me - Then I can make decisions for it.
Charlie - Certainly.
Me - I want you to throw out the first pitch.

He smiled. I know he's not a sentimental guy; could tell just by sitting with him for twenty minutes. You don't become a billionaire 62 times over by crying every time you make a deal. He nodded and got into his limo. "Sure thing, Jimmy." And then they drove away.

Tomorrow's opening day for my Nashville Hounds. Charlie Walker is throwing out the first pitch. I'll catch it. This will be Charlie's last pitch. I'm happy to say I met the man. He's made me feel like a better one.