Tuesday, May 20, 2008

Angry Manager, Managing Angry

Look at what happened back in 1993:



Well, now all you need to do is multiply this by about 15 and convert it to 2008 standards. You see, Rick Churches, my manager (who is a bit high-strung), went completely over-the-top nuts last night in the clubhouse. I haven't seen any video of it yet anywhere - it happened right before the press came down after last night's game - but maybe one of the guys here caught it on his cell phone and will upload it in the near future. Anyway, it was nothing like this:



First of all, when Rick went nuts, it didn't take place in the shower. He was sort of half in his office and half out. And he wasn't really yelling at the team. He was just sort of yelling overall at the state of the world. I turned away when he began to bring world affairs into his rant for fear he'd make eye contact with me and I'd start to laugh. I wouldn't have been laughing at him. Well, yes, I would have been laughing at him. And that's just something a player shouldn't do to his manager, especially when his manager is going on a tirade.

It started somewhere in the 8th inning when Rick got thrown out of the game for arguing balls and strikes. You can't do that with umpires. While the majority of umpires are good men who are doing a professional job, some are terrible. Some have giant egos, larger than the egos of people like me, and you can't get past those egos for a second. Rick argued with an umpire's ego and got tossed. We were soundly trounced in a one-game rainout makeup, 10-2, our two runs scoring in the first inning. I think Rick was more upset that we were no-hit the rest of the night. Take away our first three batters and they pitched a perfect game against us.

Nobody likes to be beaten like that. Especially a manager. So Rick went nuts. Kookoo. Over the rainbow. Crackers.

Oh, I wish I had video for you. The papers had a few sentences about it in today's editions, but since Rick was done early, it's all hearsay. None of us (or is it we?) players would be directly quoted as to the full content of his anger. Even here, I'm not going to give you every last detail. Not today. I want to see what the team does in response. Or what Rick does before I spill all the beans and get lambasted for it from everyone I know. So, I'll just confirm that Rick was engaged in fury last evening and we deserved every word he said.

Nearly every word. I'm not completely bald just yet.

Monday, May 19, 2008

Call To The Bullpen

As we've known all along, I'm new to this bullpen thing. I think I've pitched in relief less than 10 times in my career, and that includes the 2000 Series Championship when I came out and pitched the last 3 innings of Game 7 on 0 days of rest (let me just add how I won Game 6 and pitched 7.2 innings - ahh, the glories of a youthful arm). You see baseball from a different perspective in the outfield, behind a big fence. You're not as close, like if you're watching from the dugout. And the TV isn't as good as in the clubhouse, should you slip back there during a game for a beverage or a bathroom break. It's all different, but that doesn't make it bad.

Billy Weston has been this team's closer for 3 years (this being his fourth). I know saves aren't as big a deal to loads of people because most come after only 1 inning of work, but the fact that Billy has averaged 39 saves over his time here still says something about how well he's pitched his 1 inning per game. Nobody expected him to get hurt two weeks ago, especially him. He owned this bullpen due to his dominance. From what I'm hearing, he won't be back for up to four months.

Billy had a a bunch of superstitions whenever the call came for him to start warming up. First, if he was sitting, he had to get off of his butt and take a first step with his left foot (not his right). He had to carry his glove in both hands and make it to the bullpen mound (not the rubber) within 8 steps. In some stadiums, where the mound is farther away from where the relief pitchers sit (like Arizona and Pittsburgh), Billy had to take 8 very large steps. When he tweaked his hamstring in 2006, it was a result of one very large step, some damp ground and a slip. He had to brush his left foot over the entire topping of the bullpen pitching rubber and then take three long, deep, cleansing breaths before asking, in Spanish, for the bullpen catcher to throw him the ball. "Pelota," he'd say. He'd throw 11 pitches minimum and pronounce himself ready. He wouldn't throw any more than 21 pitches for fear of gassing himself too early. And the bullpen catcher had to yell out numbers as soon as Billy got to 8. Just the catcher could do it. Anyone else and he'd get thrown off.

Then there was his music. His theme song was/is "Eruption" by Van Halen. It had to be begin being played, in his home stadium (this goes all the way back to 1997), the moment his right foot (not his left) touched the outfield warning track (definitely before either of his feet touched the outfield grass). He had to make it to the infield by a certain point in the song, skipping over the edge of the grass that separates infield dirt from the outfield, then make it to the mound by another particular point of the song.

I could go on. It involves shaking hands after a save, the way he disrobed after a game on the road vs. at home, the length of time in the shower, etc. It gets a little much.

So when I got back up to the bigs and started spending my time in the bullpen, I was a shock to the inhabitants of this space. I'm not a real superstition guy. I have certain quirks, like what I will and won't eat before a game and what time I need to get to bed the night before, but my ways aren't as colorful as Billy's.

The music, now that's apparently a big deal. Fans really want to get pumped up when their closer comes onto the field. That means the team is ahead and merely 3 outs from victory. The last season and 1/6th (because we're 1/6th of the way through this year), there have been few opportunities for a closer to come out because we haven't won too many games. But that seems to be changing since my call up from the rehab assignment. In the 9 games that we've played since I've been back, I've pitched 6 times. Considering we were 12 and 23 back then and are now 20 and 24, we've made some good progress. We were 11 games back and now we're 7. 7 games from first with 5/6ths of the season to go is not too big a mountain to climb. Especially when you're closer (that's me) is 6 for 6 in save opportunities and hasn't given up a run yet. Especially when your closer has struck out 8 batters in 6 innings. Especially when your closer runs in from the outfield to"Working For A Living" by Huey Lewis & The News.




Huey Lewis & The News? They're supposed to pump the crowd up?

Well, I don't know. I was asked what song did I want and this one popped into my head. I always liked the band and liked this version of the song. It kind of pumps me up. It's upbeat and fun and I like how the harmonica solo leads into a cool guitar solo. So, is it the coolest song for a closer to come in with? Is it "Hells Bells" or "Eruption?? Nope. It's Huey. I like it. It's what I want to hear when that call comes for me to head out and pitch the bottom of the 9th.

And as long as the song finishes between the time I release my 7th warmup pitch and when the catcher catches it, less than a second later, I'm happy. But don't end it early or late. That'll screw up my whole day.

Friday, May 16, 2008

Jimmy Scott's High & Tight

It's launched! "But," you say, "what is Jimmy Scott's High & Tight? Is it a Broadway show? Ooh, I love Broadway. Is there singing and dancing?"

No, it's not a Broadway show, thus, there is no singing and dancing.

"Is it a diner? I love to eat. Do you serve both steaks and chops?"

No.

"Then which is it? Steaks or chops?"

It's not a diner.

"Is it a set of designer underpants? You're almost 40 Jimmy. You're at the stage in a man's life when the pants are either lifted above the stomach or below. Is it a set of designer underpants?"

No, but I like that idea. May I steal it?

"Jimmy," you say with gusto, "I'm stuck. What else can a famous formerly 'greatest pitcher of his generation' do that would be called Jimmy Scott's High & Tight?"

I'll tell you.

Go here: http://www.jimmyscottshighandtight.com/

That's it! It's a website.

"A website?"

Yes.

"What on earth is a great baseball player who is definitely starting to go bald doing with a website?"

Stuff. I'm doing stuff. This blog? It's gonna go up there. The podcast interviews? They're gonna go up there. Video interviews? I'm gonna do some of them and put them up there. Oh, you'll feel joy learning more about my family, my team, our management. There is a Forum section where you can write nasty things about me. There is a poll up with more to come so you can act all American and vote. There are links. You'll see pictures. The list is not endless. It ends there.

"What will it cost me?"

Nothing. I'm a multi-multi-multi-millionaire. What am I gonna do with your money? Spend it on more underpants?

"Lord, I hope not."

That makes 3.2 million of us.

"What do I need to do?"

Go there, young man. Go to http://www.jimmyscottshighandtight.com/. Participate. Comment on blogs. Join the Jimmy Scott Fan Club. Click on the Syndicate button and let the daily website changes come to you. The site is like a ground ball. You need to set yourself into proper position to field it cleanly.

"I don't understand that last metaphor."

Neither do I.

"Are you still gonna blog here?"

Yeah. Still gonna blog, but probably more often. I want to have contests and give things away. I want you to become more involved in my life.

"Will we have sex?"

Nope. Vanessa would be mad.

"Will you have me over for dinner?"

Chances of that are extremely remote. What's in it for me?

"I'll go to your website."

Okay. Deal.

"Will you serve steaks or chops?"

Ha ha. You're funny. Enjoy the website. Enjoy your weekend. Root for me. I'm rooting for you.

Thursday, May 15, 2008

Media Protection

I love baseball pundits. These are generally men somewhere in their 40s who like to talk and be heard. Much like politicos who you see and hear in all of the roundtable shows that cover Obama and Hillary and Bush the whatever and McCain, these guys like to be guests and they like to be hosts and they like to have their views heard over everyone else's. It's their job to be confident, pompous, arrogant. It's their job to be part of the landscape. They share the spotlight with the players and they love it.

You can tell I'm a little down on them right now. Sure, there are great, great guys who cover baseball, both locally and nationally. There are guys who really know their stuff. Some of them even still play semi-pro ball in their free time. But in my experience, those guys are few and far between. To be in the 21st century sports media, you need to be a certain type of person. You need to be aggressive. You need to be creative. (How is it possible to make someone read your column if you're writing about a last place team that's been in last place for a decade?) You need to be able to make relationships with front office people. You need to get scoops.

I have to see the media every day. There's radio, TV, internet, and print. In New York, we have loads of papers: the Bergen Record, the Star Ledger, the Daily Record, the Journal News, Newsday, the NY Post, the NY Daily News, the NY Sun, the NY Times, the Wall Street Journal (sometimes). We have our team website, the National Baseball League website, CBS Sportsline, Fox Online, ESPN.com, and a bunch more I can't think of. On TV, we have ESPN, our own network, NYS, plus national and local networks: FOX, TBS, WCBS, WNBC, WABC, the CW, My9, NY-1, News 12 NJ and more. There's national print too. Sports Illustrated, The Sporting News. So right there, I've added up 29 different organizations from this paragraph, and that doesn't include the AP, Baseball America, Yahoo! Sports and the 75-100 members of the Japanese media here to watch Kai Goto. This means, before and after every game, a whole lot of people get the opportunity to see me naked. Even worse, they also want to talk to me.

I've been good. I've kept my promise. I haven't spoken on the record to the media since January. I'm so great.

That doesn't mean they haven't quoted me, or quoted others quoting me. You've seen me quoted without my knowledge. Such is the life of a sports superstar. Or a guy like me.

My goal in writing this blog has been for the media to take my quotes from here. They do occasionally. I've read stories in various publications that are based upon the stuff I put here. That's good. It means my plan has worked at times.

But it's backfired more often than not.

I mentioned above the characteristics of a successful 21st century sports media person. I also mentioned how they need scoops. In this particular case, they get angry with me because I've had a couple of scoops they didn't have (it helps to be the only person on the scene willing to write about whatever is happening at the time, like all of my woes with the front office). They're even more upset because they're seeing that I'm now interviewing players and uploading the interviews, unedited, here in this space. I put up my first podcast two days ago. The crowd of media instantly went Hisssssssss. Very upset that I'm stepping a little bit more on their turf. One guy even said, and this sounds straight out of a black & white 1940s film, "Leave the reporting to us."

It's funny. Did this guy, a print person, say that to the Internet crowd 10 years ago when that revolution started? Did he say that about Chris Rock when Chris reported from the Republican convention in 1996? Does he say it about The Daily Show?

C'mon, man. Lighten up. When I quipped something back to him, you know what he said in return? Here it is: "You don't see me on the mound throwing fastballs." No, I don't. And he doesn't see me making a living from writing a blog. Yet, I'm treading on his water. I'm wearing the pants in his baseball family.

He's insecure. And he's not the only one. There are others who are literally afraid that I'm going to start a revolution; that every athlete is going to start doing this, taking organized journalism out of the equation.

That's not going to happen. Most athletes don't want to write their names on a bad contract, much less attach them to something like this. In fact most athletes can't write at all. Sure, we have name power. But power of the pen? Not for the vast majority of us. Other guys blog. It's fun sometimes. But it becomes a hassle too. Once you start, you either have to keep going or quit. I don't want to quit because:

a) I'd be embarrassed
b) I don't want to hear all the world say, "I told you so."
c) All of the above

There was an interesting exchange a few weeks ago between Deadspin's Will Leitch and author Buzz Bissinger. Go here to see it: http://deadspin.com/385770/bissinger-vs-leitch

Bissinger hates bloggers. He thinks they're bad and will bring down journalism.

I'm here today to tell you that is not my goal. I don't want to take away jobs. I don't want to hurt people's feelings. I don't want to outscoop the scoopers. I just want to be heard. Just like the guys who would like me to be silenced.

I won't be silenced, only because you can't make me. But don't worry. If you ever need a story, you can come right here and see what I wrote that day. Maybe you can steal some ideas from me.

Wednesday, May 14, 2008

The Dr. Mike Marshall Podcast

To make it easy to find, I thought I'd give Dr. Marshall his own special entry. To listen to the interview I did with him, click below.


The Dr. Mike Marshall Interview

They're Calling Me Barbara

I don't like it. The "they", taken from the Latin root from the title above, "they're", is composed of my teammates and a handful of media folk who line my big league clubhouse with their fancy pants and designer shoes (the media guys don't wear either, just regular pants and sneakers). It seems the interview I posted yesterday with Dr. Mike Marshall added more to the negative feeling about me. Here were some comments and from whence they were derived:

NEWSPAPER GUY (NPG)

NPG: Hey, Jimmy, I listened to your Mike Marshall interview.
Me: Doctor.
NPG: Well, yeah. Dr. Mike Marshall.
Me: It's what he is.
NPG: Anyway, I think -
Me: No, there's no "anyway" here. He's a doctor. He's got a PhD. What's so bad about that?
NPG: Nothin.
Me: Do you have a PhD?
NPG: No.
Me: Neither do I. That makes us both idiots.
NPG: May I quote you, Barbara?
Me: No. And don't call me Barbara.

OUTFIELDER (OF)

OF: (rattailing my naked buttocks)
Me: Ouch. What is this, summer camp?
OF: Why don't you quit your pitching job and take a gig with ESPN?
Me: It doesn't pay as well.
OF: Really, Barbara?
Me: Who's Barbara?
OF: You. You're a little Barbara Walters.
Me: I'm probably taller than her.
OF: Still -
Me: And heavier.
OF: You and -
Me: But she probably has more hair. Even though she's pretty old now.
OF: Why don't you get her on your show?
Me: Why don't you?
OF: Nice comeback. Where'd you think that one up, summer camp?

He rat tailed me again on the tush just as I turned away.

MANAGER (RICK CHURCHES)

Rick: Jimmy take a seat.

(I should state that we were in his office when this exchange occured.)

Me: (sitting without a wisecrack)
Rick: What's this about you wanting to retire?
Me: I don't want to retire.
Rick: You're going to be forced into it if you don't lay off the computer stuff and start spending some time on pitching.
Me: How much time a day can I throw a ball?
Rick: It's more than throwing. It's watching video. It's studying the other team.
Me: All right, let's say that takes up 3 hours of my day.
Rick: It's getting into top physical shape.
Me: Add another 2 hours
Rick: You don't work out 2 hours a day.
Me: Yes I do. You just can't see my raging abs. My clothes are big.
Rick: I'm saying your focus should be here, on this team and on this game.
Me: I'm saying that if you take the 5 hours a day of prep work for this gig we call baseball, and then -
Rick: There's the game itself too. Add in another 3 hours.
Me: 4 if it's Interleague. My point is, you take 6 hours out of 24 and that leaves... Umm...
Rick: 18 hours.
Me: Good! That's a lot of hours of nothingness. I can blog then and interview people and talk about what I'm going to do when I retire.
Rick: Do you want to retire?
Me: No.
Rick: Then put your focus on the game. You won't have to anytime soon if you pay more attention to baseball.
Me: We're starting to run in circles.
Rick: At least you'd be working out, Barbara.

POTENTIAL PODCAST INTERVIEW CANDIDATE (PPC)

PPC: No, don't interview me.
Me: Why?
PPC: I don't want to do interviews with the media. Why would I want to do one with a ballplayer.
Me: It could be fun.
PPC: Who do you think you are, Barbara Walters?
Me: No.
PPC: I'll pass.

I'm a trailblazer, a pioneer. I am an icon. I will be the man, many years from now, who historians will look back upon and say, "This was one semi-balding man who became a giant in his field, a greater giant than all of the others combined. He took risks. He followed his heart. We erect this statue of him in his honor. We're sorry he couldn't be here today. He had a prior engagement interviewing Barbara Walters for his groundbreaking podcast show."

Finally, let me add one more exchange between me and my jealous/envious closet admirers.

"RED" SCOTT (NYS GAME ANNOUNCER AND, ALSO, MY DAD)

Red: What's this about you interviewing people?
Me: I'm interviewing people.
Red: I heard.
Me: Good.
Red: Why?
Me: Put down the microphone.
Red: Hmm?
Me: I'll talk to you off the record.
Red: We are off the record.
Me: So put down the microphone then.
Red: It's off. Don't you trust me.
Me: No.
Red: What kind of man can't trust his own father?
Me: The kind of man whose father is untrustworthy.
Red: You think you're better than me?
Me: No. Wait, let me rephrase. Yes, I do.
Red: You're not. You're just like me.
Me: I'm not like you at all. Why do you always try to lump in my extracurricular activities with the way you've treated your family since the day the earth cooled off from its origins as a flaming fireball.
Red: Speaking of flaming fireballs, they're calling you Barbara. Did you know that?
Me: Yes.
Red: It bugs you, doesn't it?
Me: Put the microphone down.
Red: Call you mother. She'd like to talk to you. Give me 5 minutes to prepare.
Me: You're not taping my call with Mom. That's illegal.
Red: Oh. Good day.
Me: Good day.

And he walked away, the man who never retired from baseball. The man who, at 72, I fear I will turn into one day. Yes, I must figure out my life before I'm his age, hanging around guys 50 years younger than me and watching them rattail each other. That's just sick.

Tuesday, May 13, 2008

Figuring Out My Life

I got home after Saturday's game a little upset. I'd just blown my first save of the season (but gotten my first win - only 12 to 300! - wait, I'm not supposed to be excited about personal goals. Never mind.) and Vanessa was home waiting for me. I grumbled a little to her about something trivial and she told me off. I won't reprint her words here because they're private (actually, I forgot most everything she said, but the "privacy" thing makes us sound private). The gist of it all was this: Jimmy (that's me) is going to not be playing baseball for the rest of his life. The assumption is that Jimmy (me again) will one day retire and have to fill up the days of his life with...something.

Vanessa: You better find out what that is.
Me: We can go on a second honeymoon.
Vanessa: If living with you during retirement is like this, you can go on a second honeymoon with your second wife.

Well, no husband wants to hear that, especially from his first wife. So I said something dumb back to get the last word in ("Maybe I will," I believe was the phrase.). She said something back, not so dumb, and got the last word in anyway (truly forgot what that was due to my not getting the last word and not fulfilling my momentary goal).

I moped around the house for a while, doing a lot of nothing. I do that when I get home after afternoon games. My nights can be filled with the following:

1. Moping around and being bored
2. Watching cartoons
3. Bothering Vanessa or my kids with queries like, "What are you doing?" and "Want any help?" To which I receive the response, "You should get a hobby."

I thought this blog was my hobby, but it only takes 35-45 minutes a day. If I subtract 45 minutes from 24 hours, there's still at least...um...lots of time left in the day to do stuff. My problem is I have no "stuff" to do. And that upsets my lovely wife, making her threaten me with a divorce to be named later.

Then it hit me: Ask somebody what to do! It's thrilling to come up with an idea on your own. But who to ask? I had a shrink - team supplied - who's not talking to me. I have a wife, but she's not the one who'll give me answers I need since she's biased against me. My kids' guidance counselor at school? Good idea, but she's a lady and would probably not be very impressed with the balding that's beginning on my scalp.

Then it hit me: Ask former ballplayers! They're retired! They must have all the time in the world to talk to me about what they're doing with the rest of their lives since they're currently living in the "rest of their lives" time period.

Thus, I reached out to Mike Marshall first, former Cy Young Award winner (1974) while with Los Angeles. He holds all sorts of records for relief pitchers, like most pitching appearances in a season (106) and most relief innings (208).

But there's more.

He's Dr. Mike Marshall to you and me. I saw him on HBO Real Sports a couple of weeks ago with Bryant Gumble, talking about his efforts to eliminate injuries to pitchers. Coming off a 2007 season in which I threw two pitches before getting injured and missing the rest of the year, I suddenly wished Vanessa had yelled at me in 2006.

I'm no doctor. Far from it. (Vanessa won't even call me Dr. Love when I ask during those "private" times.) Maybe Dr. Marshall could help me. Maybe he could give me some advice. It was worth reaching out to him.

I went to his website, http://www.drmikemarshall.com/, and sent him an email. He responded and agreed to speak to me. So we did. And I recorded it. Unwilling to turn this into some Linda Tripp/Monica Lewinsky thing, I told the good doctor I was recording our conversation. He said fine, as long as I posted it on my blog. I said fine, as long as - Well, I had no counter to his proposal, so I'm posting our conversation here.


The Dr. Mike Marshall Interview







Give a good hard listen. You finally get to hear my voice after my not talking to the media for so long. And, in the background, you'll hear some interesting music.

More important, you'll hear what Dr. Marshall has to say about pitching and baseball. His website http://www.drmikemarshall.com/ has loads of free information young kids may find interesting. Maybe old kids will find it interesting too. You can even send him emails on your own with questions. There's a free book, some video, all sorts of neat stuff. You'll love it. And you'll love him (but not in "that" way).

As for me, I'm going to start doing more of these legal recordings. I've called more people and am going to speak with other former big leaguers, like Tommy John (nice, since I had his surgery last year), Richie Hebner, Rick Minor, Dave Baldwin and more. I'm even going to speak with a sports psychology consultant to see if I can get my head on straight.

Thus, I will no longer just be an incredible pitcher who fans adore, I will become a man who my wife adores and who my two adolescent kiddies tolerate. It's gonna be great!

Monday, May 12, 2008

Good To Be Home

On Friday night, I slept in my own bed for the first time in 6 weeks. Terrible experience. I was up half the night because of a pillow that was too firm, then I tried sleeping without a pillow, like I did until I was 10 years old (Jewish kids have a bar mitzvah when they reach manhood, my mom gave me my first pillow). That threw my neck out of whack, so I angered Vanessa by waking her up (a sharp toenail to her right calf did the trick) and stealing her pillow when she went to the bathroom. No good. So I just layed there (or is it laid?) and stared at the dark ceiling. By 3AM, I was exhausted and must've fallen asleep around 3:30 (still AM). I awoke at 11:15 (thoroughly AM) to the sound of men outside cutting down a tree. Lots of men with chainsaws and loud voices. I felt crappy, covered my head with both my lousy hard-as-a-rock pillow and Vanessa's no-good pillow, and pretended the sawing was an air conditioner. After suffocating for about 3 minutes, I got up, sweating like a pig.

It was good to be home.

Alyssa and Grace were already out somewhere and Vanessa had to run some errands, so I was left with 10 minutes on my own before having to get ready for my drive to the ballpark for a 4:15 (that's PM) game. The time broke up like this:

1 minute: Find where the cereal is and choose a variety.
1 minute: Pour the cereal into a bowl, then pour some milk onto the cereal while first making sure both cereal and milk have not past their self-imposed expiration dates.
22 seconds: Rush to get a spoon so I can eat the milk-empowered cereal before it gets soggy.
38 seconds: Pick up the 9 spoons I dropped on the floor, spilled in my haste to begin eating the cereal before it gets soggy.
3 minutes: Eat the rapidly drooping cereal, which is not only losing its solid shape but also its flavor.
39 seconds: Realize I have no beverage.
11 seconds: Wait for a waiter, remember I'm home, then get out of my chair.
1 minute: Find a cup, discard it due to something "crusty" on the inside that's probably just part of the cup but still freaks me out, then refer to our collection of glasses (non-prescription - ha ha!) before...
10 seconds: Heading into the dining room.
1 minute: Find a very expensive wine glass, carefully remove it from the breakfront, then try to secure the breakfront doors shut without toppling the damn piece of useless, but very expensive, furniture.
10 seconds: Head into the kitchen.
50 seconds: Lament the travesty of soggy cereal.

My 10 minutes were up and I arose to get dressed while choking on a bit of nut from my Honey Nut Cheerios breakfast.

I only tripped once while taking the stairs to my bedroom and was able to properly break my fall by landing on my surgically repaired right elbow. Don't worry, the only pain was in the bone, not the UCL. I was a little stiff after that, but soldiered on. I had a game to catch! (Actually, I'd pitch, but you know what I mean.)

I showered and washed my hair, remembering halfway through that I had showered and washed my hair the night before in the locker room (we lost 5 - 1). With lather running down my face, I elected to continue the process I'd begun. What was my other option? Turn off the water at that moment and drive with soap in my eyes? You have to get up pretty early in the morning to get one past me!

By 11:53, I was in my bright yellow Hummer, ready to go. But I couldn't leave. There was a gigantic truck in my driveway, blocking my path. It had a gigantic wood chipper in tow and what looked like half a California Redwood being fed into it by 7 men wearing blue jeans and T-shirts telling me to go screw myself.

In the old days, I would have just driven on the lawn to get to the street. (I do have a Hummer after all. The theory is I can drive anywhere I want.) But we fenced in our property at the end of the winter, so my lawn jockeying would have been for naught. There was nowhere to go but back.

I got out of the Hummer and asked the guys to move the truck. They couldn't hear me because the chipper was loud and I didn't yell. They had earplugs on too. I think they knew what I wanted, because one of the guys lifted a finger with the international "One more minute" sign. After 15, they moved their truck.

Now I was late.

I rushed through town to get to route 24, which would take me to 78 and then the NJ Turnpike. Traffic. Everywhere. As far as the eye could see.

But I'm flexible. I took shortcuts, did an end-around. I even back-tracked a bit.

I hit more traffic. I looked as far as my eye could see. More traffic. Everywhere.

I swore quite a bit and switched on the radio. At 8 minutes after the hour, I heard cause for all of the traffic: Lots of cars on the road.

Needless to say, it took me three hours to drive what normally takes 55 minutes. I arrived at the stadium just about an hour before game time.

Rick: Where the hell have you been?

Rick Churches, my manager, and I haven't gotten along as famously as we'd both probably like.

Me: My car.
Rick: Why weren't you here?
Me: Traffic.
Rick: You shouldn't live so far away.
Me: That statement took me 14 years to figure out.

He's a busy man before games. He left me alone to get changed and tell 9 different reporters I wasn't speaking to them. I had to tell Ted Feldman, our PR guy, that I wouldn't go on TV for a quick interview with FOX (we were the regional game of the week). I had to tell Ted that three times, actually, because he asked me three times. Sorry, I said as he began his fourth plea. Tell them to read my blog.

Long story short, we won the game. I pitched a 1-2-3-4-5 9th, giving up 2 hits but no runs and notching my first save ever. EVER. This is my 20th season and just now I got my first save. The fans cheered wildly, which was nice. I've always gotten along well with the fans. We're good at co-existing.

After the game, I ignored the media and showered for the 3rd time in less than 24 hours. If anything, I had a clean day.

Driving home was smooth sailing. I listened to callers complain about how our team stinks and I'm "finished" and "done" and not "the answer" to our underachieving ways. I hate the fans sometimes. It helps balance out our co-existence.

By 10 PM, I was back in bed, back where this story started, staring at the black ceiling with my head resting on a rock hard pillow. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. Screw it. At least it was my pillow. At least we won the game. Maybe tomorrow I'd ask Vanessa why my favorite tree had been cut down today. Or not. I'd have to see if she'd make my breakfast first.

Friday, May 9, 2008

The State of Things That Are

I have harbored this idea, ever since starting my rehab assignment, that when I was called back up to the big club, I'd be the savior, astride a white horse and spreading good will and innocent laughter. I pictured myself riding bareback and sprinkling sparkly fairy dust over my fellow teammates, bringing them joy and, of course, victories. I dreamed my flowing robes would be touched by catchers and outfielders and short shortstops, each man becoming awash with relaxation. Meanwhile, my smile permeates any negativity. My glistening white teeth shine through the darkness of past losses. My hands are the hands that make the team whole. I am their messiah. Kiss my naked feet and glow with me.

Real life swatted these images out of my mind like a human's palm crashing down on a slow summer fly.

For various reasons (read yesterday's post), I missed Wednesday's game in LA. I did make the team flight back to NY, but it was a very cold and bitter trip for me. First, there were some grumblings because I never even went to the stadium once I landed (actually, it was my plane that landed) in LA. The game had ended upon touchdown (we lost 9 to 1) and for me to spend an hour driving to a quiet clubhouse simply to turn around again and drive back to the airport sounded ludicrous to me.

"Not when you play on a team," said Rick Churches, my fiery manager who's especially fiery when it comes to your truly. "You should've been here. We could've used you."

I told him my story and then iterated that the team was losing 6 to 0 in the 4th inning. If I'm their closer, they wouldn't have used me in the game. Plus, I'd pitched the night before. Why use me two days in a row if you don't need me and I'm coming off a major injury?

Don't question your manager. Not a good thing. Here's why:

Rick: You telling me how to manage my team?
Me: No.
Rick: Don't.
Me: I didn't.
Rick: Sounded like it.
Me: (wiggling in my shoes - no bare feet were kissed)

By this time, I was getting a little self-conscious because we were not on the team plane. We were in the airport near a Starbucks (I'd just ordered a grande skim hot chocolate with whip.). I could sense a few eyes (one person had a patch on, like a bad pirate) peering toward us.

Rick: We could've used you tonight.
Me: Mmm.
Rick: What?
Me: What?
Rick: I don't want to hear your "mmm" crap. Just tell me what you're thinking and don't patronize me.
Me: You said, "Tonight." It was a day game.
Rick: What difference does it make?
Me: None. It makes no difference. Do I have whipped cream on my lip?

He didn't answer. (I found out moments later, in the bathroom, that I did. How embarrassing.)

"Last call for flight 1803 to New York."

I swore because I was in the bathroom and not getting onto the plane. I got my stuff together and rushed to the gate. I couldn't find my ticket and the airline guy wouldn't let me on (even though it was a charter flight and I'm famous beyond famous). They had to call John Brock, the team's traveling secretary, off the plane to come and sort out my status as a member of the team. After 10 minutes, I was leading (John didn't want me to follow for fear he'd turn around and I'd be gone) him down the ramp and into the plane.

There was no white horse between my legs. My robes were non-existent. None of my teammates, some I've known for years, some I met for the first time in spring training, were looking at me as the savior. I had no sparkly fairy dust to sprinkle upon their heads. However, I did knock the back of big J.D. Bryant's head with my carry on. "Ouch!" he said.

"Sorry."

First Class. That's where I sit on the plane. It's in my contract. Yes, the whole team had the plane to them/ourselves. But there aren't 25 First Class seats on an airplane. The richest guys, the most successful guys, the guys with the most unscrupulous agents - they're the ones who get the First Class seats on every road trip. I've won 287 games, am making about $16 million this year, and have Jack Perry as my super agent. Yeah, I get First Class.

That doesn't always make it right. I couldn't help but feel as if I didn't belong. My 2007 season was lost: one game, one run, two pitches, an ERA of infinity. This season at Nashville? Here were my final stats:

G IP W L SO BB ERA SV
19 17.2 0 2 14 9 5.75 6

My numbers with the Hounds look pretty hideous, but let me point out that in my last 6 games with them, I didn't give up an earned run in 6 innings and had 8 strikeouts in 6 innings. And the most important point is I felt no pain.

Still, coming up to the big squad with the horrible resume from Nashville didn't give me much confidence on that plane. Neither did my Starbucks run-in with Rick. Neither did the handful of glares I received from some of the guys who are upset that I'm doing this instead of keeping my mouth shut (or talking to the traditional media instead). Oh, and the fact that I missed the game and the team is in last place doesn't help them or me get along just yet. Here are the standings as of Friday morning:

TEAM W L PCT. GB

Florida 23 12 .657 --
Philadelphia 19 15 .556 3.5
Atlanta 18 16 .545 4.5
Washington 14 21 .400 9
New York 12 23 .343 11

So we're in last place and already, to put it kindly, buried. We're not hitting. We're not pitching. Our defense has been porous. And Rick is already on the hot seat, 35 games into his managerial career. Now you can understand why he was a little upset with me in the airport.

It didn't help us any further that I sat behind him on the plane.

Rick: Stop kicking my seat.
Me: I'm not.
Rick: Then what is?
Me: I don't know.
Rick: Then stop whatever you're doing.
Me: I'm not doing anything.
Rick: Maybe that's why you started the season in AAA instead of with us.
Me: I see no connection between my seat on this plane and my status with the team.
Rick: You have no status with this team.
Me: I thought you had groomed me to be your closer.
Rick: You'll be lucky if you get the 5th inning of a blowout.
Me: That's smart thinking. Let your freshest arm, your hottest pitcher ride the bench.
Rick: You telling me how to run my team?
Me: Nope.

And that was it. Don't worry. I'm his closer. I want to be. I will be. Yes, it took a while to overcome the fact that I wasn't going to be a starting pitcher this year, like I have been all my life. But my head is clear now. I can do this. I will do this. At least until Billy Weston, our real closer, comes back.

That's when I leaned over to Bobby Spencer, our pitching coach, and asked him when, by chance, they expected Billy back. "I don't know," Bobby said. "Maybe mid-July."

It's May 9th. That gives me two months to prove to Rick, the team - to myself - that I can be successful. This is a big two months for me. If I can't do it, I know I'll pretty much be done after this season. I'll be living home this time next year, probably cleaning out my closet after Vanessa tells me to move out because she can't stand living with me 365 days out of the year.

I have to be good this year. I can't retire yet. What would I do then?

Thursday, May 8, 2008

The First Class Cab Ride

After the call on Tuesday night that I was done with my rehab assignment in the minors and to report to LA for a Wednesday afternoon game, I did what I do best in situations like that. I went to bed. It was past 10PM west coast time. The hotel room had already been paid for. And did they actually expect me to take a midnight flight to LA, arrive in some hotel room at 3 AM and then be ready for a 1 PM game? Well, yes, they did expect that from me. But sometimes, sports fans, it's what we expect from ourselves that matters the most, especially when we're sleepy. I was sleepy on Tuesday evening, so I went to bed.

I was up early on Wednesday. You must give me credit for not sleeping late. By 7 AM, I was shaving my armpits and humming Streisand songs (both parts of the "You Don't Bring Me Flowers" duet). By 7:20 (also in the AM timeframe), I was sitting in the Days Inn lobby (there's no Ritz Carlton for AAA players, even fading superstars like me, since there's usually no Ritz Carlton in the little cities where AAA players play) signing autographs for the staff of 2 when my taxi arrived to take me (or is it bring me?) to the airport.

Now I don't know Tucson at all. It's hot and dry. There. That about imparts to you my knowledge of this city. Don't ask me for directions anywhere, which is what the cabbie did. "Which way should we go to the airport?" That was her question. I told her I didn't know. The best way. The right way. The fastest way. You're the cab driver. You're supposed to know. She had already pulled out of the parking lot and started driving, so I couldn't jump out and call for a different cab. Instead, I signed loudly and shut my mouth.

5 minutes passed. 10 minutes. 15 minutes. At some point, I realized no signs mentioned the airport and the Days Inn where I'd slept and shaved and hummed not too long before was two blocks away. "Um," I said in my strong man-voice, "you don't know where you're going, do you?"

It appears that the driver was a substitute for her dad who needed the morning to "sleep in" after a late night riding a mechanical bull. "His back is kinda stiff," the girl said. When I write "girl," I mean it. Maybe she was 17. Maybe not. I'd say she reminded me of my own daughters, only I wouldn't hand the keys to the family business over to them at 15, 16 or 17, mechanical bull or not. I told her she should pull over at a gas station and ask for directions. I had a 9:45 AM flight (arrival at 11:10; I'd get to the ballpark by noon) and now it was 7:45. Plenty of time to make it to the airport, but I didn't want to sit in a cab with the windows open, my hair blowing everywhere but the part of my head that's quickly going bald. She pulled into a Lukoil! (I added the ! - it just seems that there's one logo that could use a !, remember the band Wham!?) She asked directions. She listened intently. I did not. Not my job. I was busy licking the undersides of my fingers and flattening out my hair over my bared scalp. We pulled away.

5 minutes pass. 10 minutes. I don't wait for 15. "You still lost?" I asked. She slowly nodded, not being able to talk because she was, I just realized, crying her eyes out. "Sorry," I said. "I meant we."

I sat back and thought. Cell phone. I had one (only one, since I don't have a girlfriend, thus there is no need to hide any calls from my lovely wife, Vanessa, who doesn't go through my bags looking for "something suspicious" and doesn't scroll through the phone numbers programmed into my cell [since I don't expect myself to memorize any] looking for evidence that I called some "Gina" or "Lola" or "Marla" or some other groupie one-night-stand name that ends with an A). I'm completely lost. Let me review all the stuff before the ( and )...

Okay. Back on track.

I whip out my cell (phone, not the microscopic thing that contains nuclei and cytoplasm and protoplasm) and called my super agent, Jack Perry.

Me: I'm lost.
Jack: Never get into a taxi that doesn't have GPS.
Me: I did.
Jack: In the future, don't.
Me: Okay.

Thus, we were basically done. I edited out the part where he said I should have flown out the night before like I was supposed to.

I called Vanessa.

Me: (hitting a pre-programmed number, since I don't memorize phone numbers)
Person: Hello?
Me: You're not Vanessa.
Person: No.

The line went dead. There was no instant dial tone like in the movies. Just silence on the other end for a handful of seconds.

I rifled through my carry on bag and pulled out a cheat sheet I'd made (actually, a cheat sheet I'd had made for me) of phone numbers. You know, the In Case Of Emergency Call... kind of thing. There, in three letters, was the name that I knew could help.

Me: Hi.
Mom: Where are you?
Me: Arizona.
Mom: Why aren't you in Los Angeles?
Me: I was sleepy.
Mom: I was sleepy when I went into labor with you, but I didn't go to bed until after I'd pushed you out.
Me: This is different.
Mom: How is it different?
Me: I was sleepy.
Mom: Then I can't help you.

I edited out the part in which she said I should have just flown out the night before.

My phone rang shortly after that. Well, it didn't ring. That Chingy song my girls had programmed as a ringtone started playing. I knew enough not to tell the girl cab driver to turn off the radio, since the radio wasn't on. Even though, as I lifted the phone to my ear, I could sense her boogieing a wee bit to that infectious Chingy beat.

Me: Hello.
Vanessa: Jack called and said you were lost.
Me: Yes.
Vanessa: You told me you were going to fly out last night.
Me: No, I said the team wanted me to fly out last night.
Vanessa: I'm assuming you felt your plan was better.
Me: I was sleep-
Vanessa: Jimmy, be quiet and listen very carefully. Look at a street sign. I am sitting at a computer and will tell you where you are and where to go. Now look up.
Me: (listening to the sound of my pride deflating like a Party City barmitzvah balloon)

Successfully, because she's more awesome than me in every way (she told me I had to write that as payment), Vanessa directed us to the airport. When the girl asked for an extra $10 to subsidize the extra gas she had to burn to get me to the airport, I told her to have her dad write it off as a business expense since, for cab companies, gasoline is a business expense. The girl drove off and didn't say thank you. No, she didn't remind me of my kids at all (sarcasm).

I peeked at my watch. 8:25. I had time to make it to my flight and still even stop somewhere for a cup of orange juice. Maybe even an everything bagel, except hold the sesame, onion and those little tiny black seeds that get stuck in between your teeth. Everything was going to be fine.

My plane was clean and my luggage was stowed away. I sat in first class and closed my eyes. I was suddenly a little bit sleepy. When the captain gave made his announcement, I knew my day was not going to improve.

"Sorry folks, but due to some problems with the engine, we're going to have to de-board and get ya another one."

So much for my plans. So much for my making it to the ballpark by noon.

I sat in a chair, surrounded by people who kept wondering if I was who I am and if that's my real hair, and watched CNN. A cyclone somewhere I'd never heard of killed maybe 100,000. Hillary and Barack are fighting over who's going to lead our nation through another four years. This person killed that person and some company was going to lay off 1000 workers because of the financial crisis. Yeah, I was comparatively pretty well off. The worst thing that could happen to me is that I'd fly in very late, miss the game and miss the flight home with the team, creating a greater wedge between Rick Churches, my manager who prefers to not like me, and me, who I like very much.

Guess what happened?

Wednesday, May 7, 2008

Two Bad Calls And An Unexpected Pleasant One

It's weird how one little event can set off an avalanche of repercussions. We were losing last night in the top of the 9th, down 1-0. We'd had no hitting. In fact, we were being no-hit. One baserunner from a walk in the 5th. Other than that, zippo. Then, the little event occurred.

Nobody on base, one out. The Tucson pitcher, Daryl Ryan, who'd been nearly perfect, throws an inside slider to our 17 year old Rey Marcos. Rey jumps out of the way, getting pretty dirty, then gets right back into the box. Ryan does it again, knocking Rey down. 2 and 0 count. Now I know Rey pretty well by now, and he's got this competitive fire inside that's hard to duplicate. You either have it or you don't. He's got it. He dug in once more in the box. A third pitch, way inside, hits Rey on his right shin. (Daryl pitches from the right side, Rey bats from both.) After some gentle prodding from his teammates and the home Tucson crowd that had been becoming less gentle ever since the first brushback pitch, Rey took the advice of someone and charged the mound.

I don't want to take full credit. Partial is fine. A week or so ago I explained to Rey, who calls himself my prodigy son, that he's going to be a target this year, and for a number of years, because of his youth and incredible skill. Lots of guys, both on his team and all the other teams, are going to be jealous/envious of him. And he's going to have to fight back every time. Don't take it, I said. But don't dish it out unless you absolutely need to.

Rey didn't take it last night.

He reached Daryl Ryan in front of the mound and, since this is the minor leagues, they had a moment to really go at it before anyone attempted to break it up. When the dust, and there was a lot of it, settled, Daryl had to leave the game - his first no-hitter! - with an injury to his foot (from trying to kick Rey in the same shin he'd thrown at) and Rey was booted. No big deal for us. A pinch runner took over for Rey at first base. Me.

So Ryan made the first bad call of the night, to pitch inside one too many times to our fiery rookie and future mainstay of the New York infield. The second bad call was coming up.

I took my lead off of first (I'm neither a very fast or very smart baserunner, but manager Dusty Graves had utilized nearly every bench option due to two players having the flu, two being too sore to play, and the rest already being used.) and dove back on what I thought was a throw over by the new Tucson pitcher. Of course, he didn't throw over. He just stepped off the rubber to tie his shoe. I made a couple of thousand people laugh. Always lovely to be the butt of a good joke.

I took another lead. This guy's first pitch is wild. I take off for second and make it without a throw. It's not a stolen base (I've never had one) but I pretend it is by pulling the base oout of the ground and hoisting it up over my head. The crowd loves the move. Dusty is more than upset. We're trying to win the game and I'm fooling around. He yells something at me from the dugout, something that most newspapers wouldn't print, and an umpire tells me to settle down. I feel like I'm in kindergarten all over again.

The base back in its place, resting comfortably on the ground, I take my lead off of second. A pitch and ground ball to the right side send me with no throw over to third. Two outs. Still a no-hitter. We're still losing 1-0.

Third base coach Willie Fernandez, who you remember from his 40 HR season for us three years ago (and now 40 like me and out of the game for his second season due to two knees that will need to be replaced before he turns 50), pats me on the butt and calls me an idiot for lifting up 2nd base. He chatters to me about my lead. Don't be too conservative, he says. I take another step. C'mon, a little more, he says. I look at the bag, which is about six inches away, and realize a little more aggression won't hurt anybody. Two feet, three feet, four feet, five feet. Now I've got a decent, but still conservative lead.

The pitcher (I don't know all the guys down here at AAA) looks over and with the speed of some superhuman slips his right foot off the rubber and whips the ball over to the third baseman. I dive back and get my hand back under the tag. After a timeout for me to brush off my once sparkling gray road uniform and some unkind, unprintable words from Willie, I take my lead again.

Since I've hardly ever run the bases (my lifetime batting avg. is .141) and really haven't at all since September of 2006, I was a little rusty. But the pitcher in me got the wheels in my head churning. If I was protecting a one-run lead with two outs in the ninth and a not-so-good runner on third base, what would I do? I figured I'd concentrate on the batter and not the runner. At worst, the runner could score and tie the game. At best, the batter makes an out. Since between 7 and 8 times out of 10 a batter does make an out, the odds are nearly always on the pitcher's side (that's how I like to look at it, at least).

Thus, the pitcher does what I think he's going to do and starts to completely ignore me. My lead grows. Five feet. Six feet. He doesn't even look over. Seven feet. Eight feet. Willie tries to whisper as loud as possible that I'm getting into "stupid" territory and should stop. Nine feet. The guy goes into his windup, throws and...

The ball gets away from the catcher. I run. I run hard. The ball doesn't bounce away, nor does it roll very far. It kind of trickles away, not far, but far enough for me to make the play at home close. The pitcher races me to the plate. The catcher, realizing he's close enough to get me, ignores the pitcher (second time in seconds a pitcher had been ignored) and lunges for me just as I slide in, feet first. I completely miss the plate with my feet and feel the Thud! of a big leather catcher's glove slap my chest just as my left hand gets close enough to the plate to make it a photo finish. The umpire, in horrible position (which is why he's a minor league ump and not in a larger stadium with ten times as many people earning ten times the salary), calls me safe.

Our dugout goes wild. We've tied the game and still not gotten a hit. I slowly get up - had the wind knocked out of me from a 235 pound man slamming his glove onto my lungs - and am embraced by a bunch of very happy boys (most of them are still boys in AAA, especially when a 40 year old like me is telling the story).

Dusty gives me a bear hug and tells me I was out "by a country mile." I don't ask what the difference is between a country mile and an urban mile, but figure suburban sprawl has something to do with it. He tells me I'm a lucky man I didn't get hurt and orders me to drink some Gatorade and loosen up because I'm going to pitch the ninth.

So the umpire made the second bad call of the inning, the score is tied, and the game's karma is totally changed. We go on to suddenly knock the ball all over the place. By the end of the inning, we're winning 5-1 and the Tucson crowd is throwing things onto the field. Since it's Cactus Night at the stadium, hundreds of cacti are tossed. The game is delayed while the grounds crew, made up of teachers and off duty pharmacy clerks, tries to pick up the pointy plants. It takes a while because it hurts to get stuck with a cactus thorn. But they get it done, I come out for the bottom of the 9th and get three quick outs. Game over. Visiting Nashville Hounds win 5-1.

In the joyous clubhouse after the game, I got a phone call. It was Rick Churches, my NY manager who's been good to not speak to me since the end of spring training. He said plans have been changed. Our closer, Billy Weston, who's had finger problems on his pitching hand for almost a month, is being placed on the DL. I'm being called up and am to meet the team in Los Angeles, where the Vets are playing a 3-game series. I'm going to be the closer while Billy heals up.

Wow, is all I can think. I'm going to make it back. I'm going to make it back for real right away. No more waiting. I'm ready and the call, this one a good one, has been made.

I go into Dusty's visiting manager's office and tell him. He nods and said he'd just heard. He shakes my hand and asks me to wait for a second. I sit down while he leaves the office. Two minutes later, he calls my name. I go into the heart of the clubhouse to a standing ovation. The players, my teammates for the last 6 weeks, are applauding me. Then Dusty presents a gift. It's second base, the base I'd held up not too long before. I accept and hold it up high, smiling. My minor league career is over. I'm back to the bigs.

See you in LA!

Tuesday, May 6, 2008

Halloween In May

An early game yesterday (10:30 AM) marred by two things:

1. We lost 5-1. I did not pitch.
2. Halloween in May

We were a flat team yesterday. Teams do that sometimes. Everyone just picks a day, subconsciously, to have no energy and go through the motions. We did that yesterday. Dusty Graves, our manager, was furious by the 4th inning because of this. He was tossed by the 5th. We didn't even see him after the game until we got on the bus that took us to the airport for our flight to Tucson. He was already on the plane as we boarded. He said nothing, just stared straight ahead. That's about all a manager can do on days like that.

The other thing that brought us down was a Halloween in May promotion the team ran. It got fannies in the seats (about 6500 in attendance), but it also distracted the hell out of a bunch of the guys. First, there was this:




These two were sitting right behind home plate.





Then there was this kid:


He never sat, the whole game. Just kept running up and down the aisles, screaming, "I'm dead! I'm dead!" It got worse when he'd start screaming it in Spanish. "Soy muerto! Soy muerto!"

Rey Marcos, our 17 year old superstar in training and my trusty ward, was freaked out. He kept looking at me from out on the field at shortstop, like I could do something. When he'd come in, I'd tell him to relax. But since my Spanish is about as good as my cooking, I don't think I got through to him. As a result, he went 0 for 5 and made two errors, one leading to a 3-run fifth for Salt Lake.

Finally, there were these two young ladies:


If you weren't Rey Marcos, then your eyes were here. Lots of chatter in the dugout about the costumes these femmes elected to wear to a 10:30AM minor league baseball game. They also put on a pretty interesting show during the 7th inning stretch. We went down 1-2-3 (on 5 pitches) shortly thereafter. Maybe Dusty should have been focusing more on the goings-on off the field. Or maybe that was his problem too. Maybe he was just as bad as everyone else. It's tough to be 50, I assume. I'm only 40, so what do I know.

Since the Jimmy Scott Foundation now owns the Nashville Hounds, I'm thinking of aborting future Halloween in May promotions. Why let the fans have fun when there's a ballgame to be played? Or maybe we'll just have it at night and make it harder for the players to see. Or maybe we turn the promotion into Nun Day. We can make a new habit of it. Get it?

Monday, May 5, 2008

Terms of Endearment

"Just when I thought I was about to make a clean getaway..." Great line by Jack Nicholson at the end of Terms of Endearment, the only movie that made me cry in 1983 (it was E.T. in '82).



Jack had just paid a visit to Shirley MacLaine, whose daughter was dying. Jack and Shirley had had a little affair together earlier in the movie, and as she drops him off at the airport, she tells him she loves him. Jack continues on, poised to walk into the terminal, when she shouts out to him, asking if he heard her. It's then that Jack says, "Just when I thought I was about to make a clean getaway." Remember his answer? Scroll to the bottom.

Thus, my story today begins with that line. Well, the line it really begins with is one of my final lines of Friday's post, in which I alluded to our front office personnel as "vermin." I don't actually know what vermin are. I just know they're probably yucky. My use of the term was not one anyone could consider endearing.

I didn't think much of my use of that word. It was hidden inside a paragraph and it just flowed out of me. That's what I told my wife, Vanessa.

Me: Like water from a river.
Vanessa: Like stupidity from an idiot.
Me: I like my simile better.
Vanessa: Do you ever think before you do these things? Or do you just hope nobody notices?

You see, Vanessa read my post. She doesn't usually read them, claiming not to have "the time." Somebody in the front office read my post, because that somebody told others in the front office. Of course, the media caught hold at some point during this process, which spread to newspapers, television, the internet... I can't think of any other media. Billboards. No, nobody's going to reprint portions of my blog posts on a billboard yet. They'd need my permission. But I digress. Lots of people ended up reading my comment about the front office being composed of "vermin." Vanessa eventually became one of the "lots of people" and her frustration with me was proof.

I didn't answer her questions, by the way. Still in search of the perfect psychiatrist/psychologist mix, I don't feel I can answer anything deep without consulting with someone who'll give me the right answer to repeat to people like my wife.

So, of course, I'm not speaking to the media, which makes my line blow up even more. And more questions are raised: Do I think all people in the front office are vermin? Even the interns? Even the people from the cleaning service who empty trash cans after 8PM? Or was there one or two specific folks I considered vermin? Either way, didn't I owe an apology to the entire front office, including interns and cleaning service people?

To me, it was clear, if you read the entire post, which most people probably didn't, that I was not calling interns, cleaning people, assistants, assistants to assistants, or the DHL guy, vermin. Those are fine people who don't need to be offended because they should know I was not referring to them. Still, I'll be a big man and apologize to them, their families, their ancestors and their descendants. The front office people who make the front office run are not vermin. They're very nice people with fancy haircuts and nice shoes.

It is clear I was referring to our General Manager, Alvin Kirby, who's been called a lot worse than "vermin" by a lot worse people than me (or is it I?). Alvin is a big boy who can handle a rogue player like me call him a name. Sticks and stones, right? The line it was a little quip I embedded into a much larger post that might have stung a little, from Alvin's perspective, but he's got much bigger problems, such as the sexual assault lawsuit, his pending divorce, the fact that the Vets are 14 and 16. I mean, if he hadn't tried to screw around with my super agent, Jack, and me a week ago, none of this would have ever happened. Needless to say, I apologize to Alvin for the public mockery of his title. He is a respectable man who has overcome a lot, especially racism, to become the first black GM of the Veterans and one of only two black GMs in baseball over the past 6 years. He should be proud of himself. I write that not to patronize, but to point out a point. I'd be damn proud if that were me.

However, the firestorm was in full swing by Saturday night. We blew away Salt Lake at home and were feeling good after winning two games in a row. I pitched an inning, gave up a hit but struck out two. Nice effort, if I do say so myself (and I say it a lot lately). After the game, I showered and walked back to my trailer in the parking lot with Andy, my personal trainer turned security liaison. Guess who's waiting there?

Alvin: Hi, Jimmy. Am I vermin?
Me: Not literally.
Alvin: I'm upset with you.
Me: I guess I can tell, since the team is in Phoenix, your office is in New York, it's Saturday night and you're standing in a Nashville parking lot with somebody who insulted you.
Alvin: Everything's a joke to you, isn't it? Wait, don't answer.
Me: Not answering.
Alvin: May I see this famous trailer of yours?

I bid Andy a good night but told him to stick close in case he hears me scream in terror. Then he could run away.

Alvin followed me inside. He commented on my accommodations, but I couldn't tell if he was insulting me or not. What do you think "small like your pea brain" means? Then he got right down to it. He flew into Nashville that day, a planned trip, to see me pitch and check out some of the team's AAA prospects. He thought I pitched well, better than the reports he'd been getting. I told him I'd been pitching better than the reports he'd been getting for a while. That's why he shouldn't have negotiated to have me play in Nashville for two more weeks. He told me I was $1 million richer because of those negotiations. I agreed and told him I would have settled for $250,000. He smiled. "I would have paid $2 million." I made a mental note to fire my super agent.

Alvin: You've got to stop making controversy with your blog.
Me: You've got to stop doing controversial things to me with the power of your position.
Alvin: I could release you in a heartbeat. Then you'd have nothing to look forward to this year, no seeing your wife and kids after home games, no rapport with the fans who've supported you for 14 years.
Me: It's not good to make decisions like that purely on emotion.
Alvin: Which is why you should think before releasing your stuff.
Me: I see you've been speaking to Vanessa.

We argued a little bit more, but it wasn't really too intense. He knew he was right and I knew he was right. I also knew that I'd probably make the same mistake again.

Alvin: Why can't you learn from your mistakes?
Me: I can as a baseball player. Hit a grand slam off of me and I'll know to throw high and tight to you for now on. But as a human, I am merely mortal.
Alvin: Most people know, eventually, that if they hurt others with their words that they shouldn't do it anymore.
Me: Okay. I won't bring up how you've tried to screw me and my contract twice in the last six months.
Alvin: Good. I won't bring up how you didn't rehab for the first six months after your injury.
Me: I was depressed.
Alvin: I was angry.
Me: As an aside, I'm not going to kiss you when we get to the make-up stage.

Alvin smiled at that. He really has had a rough go of it personally since February, and I assume since before then. Like me, he's made mistakes and probably said some inappropriate things in her non-baseball life. And like me, he just wants to put that behind him and win a world championship this year. If he doesn't, this is probably his last as our GM. And if I don't pitch well, it's probably my last year as a player. Vanessa won't like that. She thinks the controversies I'm going through this year are a direct result of my fear of the future. If I'm driving her crazy now, what's our life going to be like when I'm home every day for the rest of my life?

Alvin Kirby left around midnight. He was going to fly to Phoenix first thing Sunday morning. I had a game Sunday afternoon (we won again, I pitched another shutout inning). Today, Monday, we have another one of those 10:30 AM games. Weird timing. But today is also Halloween Day at Pepsi Field. Show up in a costume and get a free hot dog, courtesy of Ballpark Franks. Looking forward to seeing you at the ballpark today.

Oh, I found out what vermin are: Animals or insects, like cockroaches or rats, that are annoying and destructive.

No wonder nobody considered that a term of endearment.

Jack Nicholson's answer: "I love you too, kid."


Friday, May 2, 2008

The Sound Of Silence

Sorry for the blog blackout this week. Very sensitive negotiations were going on that just concluded last evening. For my career over the past year, this has proven to be a typical negotiation. But instead of jawing about it, or writing about it here, I used some decent judgement and kept a lid on my thoughts until all was through. Had I lifted a finger toward my keyboard, you know I would have been unstoppable. That's not good when you're negotiating with management.

Let me start from the beginning of this particular saga. I had an agreement with the team that I would be called up from Nashville on May 1st. No ifs, ands or buts. On May 1, I am in New York with the Veterans. My super agent, Jack Perry, received an email - not a phone call, an email - from GM Alvin Kirby last Friday, April 25th. The team, looking for more consistency from me, wanted me to stay with the Nashville club for an extra two to three weeks. Jack, a reasonable man, did not forward the email to me on account of my most likely making it public seconds later. Instead, Jack called Alvin and ripped into him for wanting to break an agreement and not being professional enough to call Jack about it. Apparently, someone hung up on someone, because the story didn't end there.

I received a call from Jack on Saturday (not an email) and was filled in on the new development. I called QVC and had my new luggage order put on hold while I sat on my hands and waited. Well, I didn't sit on my hands because I pitched Saturday night. My head, which as you know has not been as clear as it should be for someone being paid many millions of dollars for throwing a piece of dead cow at someone holding a dead tree, clouded over even further as I took the ball on the mound in the 9th inning. Before I walked off the mound 39 pitches later, our 2-run lead had somehow turned into a loss by three runs (in other words, I gave up five runs). Thank goodness we were in Omaha. I could pretend the cheers for the three run home run by what's his name rehabbing for K.C. were for me and not what's his name rehabbing for K.C.

I got back to my hotel room and starting posting a furious post in this space about how the team is screwing with my head and has been ever since this winter, when they offered me an extra buyout so I wouldn't opt into my contract; how I've been, in my head, demoted to relief pitcher, picked on by the front office, and languished in the minor leagues for a month with a (finally) healthy arm. And now I'm told the team wants to extend my stay in AAA by two to three more weeks.

Vanessa, my rock, my steady influence, my counselor, the one who will only enable me if what I'm trying to do is good for the greater good of society, our family, and me (not always in that order), told me to immediately delete the post. Do not upload it, no matter what. After arguing about it for ten minutes, I acquiesced to her wishes and threw my laptop out a second story hotel window in Omaha (just because I was mature enough to listen to her doesn't mean I was mature enough to like the decision).

We had a day game on Sunday. I didn't pitch because I'd thrown too many pitches on Saturday. So I sat, grumbling and mumbling and stewing, in the dugout. My Nashville Hounds manager, Dusty Graves, tried to cheer me up by letting me manage the 8th and 9th innings. Under my direction, the team blew a 2-0 lead and turned it into a 3-2 loss. By the time we'd made it onto the bus to the airport, I was no longer the only man over the age of 40 who was grumbling and mumbling and stewing.

I hit rock bottom on Monday. Back "home" in Nashville, I was booed by the 5000+ fans who came to see me pitch on what was supposed to be my final three games with the Hounds. We were losing 9-0 in the top of the 9th when I only needed to throw five pitches to get us to the bottom of the inning. The cheers I heard after that effortless half inning were sarcastic. I've been so inconsistent, the lack of pain I've felt (a good thing) has been outweighed by the fact that some nights I'm great and some I'm awful. Down by 9 runs, the fans are thinking, what pressure is there for a guy to throw a meaningless 1-2-3 inning? Answer: On this night, all the pressure in the world. Because...

By this point, Jack had gotten the Players Association involved. Legally (not in the real world, but in the baseball world), the team had to call me up on May 1. I've been down here on a minor league rehab assignment. The maximum number of days a player can play under those terms in the minor leagues is thirty. 28 days were complete and the team didn't want to call me up. Because of issues on the big league roster, they didn't want to cut another player because they had to call me up. They wanted two more weeks to "evaluate" the team (at that point, the Vets were 11 and 14) before making decisions. Their pitch to the PA was that I was still injured. I physically couldn't play in New York. My 1-2-3, 5-pitch inning on Monday kind of proved the flaw in their thinking.

But I stayed quiet. I was furious - still am - but didn't say anything to Dusty or you or any teammates. "Let Jack deal with this," I said.

I shouldn't have sent the email to Alvin Kirby. You don't tell yourself you're going to let your super agent fix a situation and then go behind his back and email your GM about what a jerk he's acting like. But I did it. Alvin, this time acting professional, didn't respond to me. He went to Jack. Called him. Apparently, they went at it pretty good. Just like Vanessa and me when I told her about what I'd done. (I would reprint the email here, but cooler heads have convinced me to delete it from the hard drive of my (then) new computer, which was found the following day in a dumpster behind the stadium hotel in a condition the police would later state as "mangled beyond recognition.")

Tuesday comes. Nothing. No news. I hate that. Just when you need to hear something - anything - you hear nothing. I think in this case, Jack and Alvin purposely kept me in the dark as punishment for the email. While that would be unprofessional, I wouldn't put it past either man. Because when you hear no news, you become paranoid. By Tuesday night, I was more paranoid than a serial killer at a detectives convention.

Wednesday drops by. It's now April 30. Do I stay or do I go? We have a very weird 10:30 AM game time. Stadium still sold out. I pitch the 9th inning, us down 3-2, and get out of a man on third, no outs jam by striking out three consecutive Mountain Men (on 11 pitches). Standing ovation as I leave the mound (this ovation for real; no sarcasm). Yes, they all believe I'm done in Nashville, my beyond-the-bleachers, Pepsi Field parking lot trailer home to be auctioned off with the proceeds going to a local food bank. They love that I was here and are probably happy that I'll be gone (just because the team has been horrible this April). I don't know whether to smile or cry. Where will I be on Thursday?

I found out an hour later (while taking a taxi to a Best Buy to get myself a new laptop). Finally. A deal was made. After the game, I was removed from the DL, called up, and placed back on the DL. While the Vets had to make a corresponding roster move for the thirty seconds that I was up on the team - a move they hadn't wanted to make - they got their ultimate wish for me to stay in AAA for 15 more days.

What did I get? The Players Association approved my receiving a "special bonus" for my troubles, a bonus of $1 million. Jack, my super agent, never budged from that ridiculous sum of money. All along, the team wanted to pay me nothing extra. So I went from two weeks at my base pay to two weeks for $1 million. I can't cry over the deal. After all, it's a million dollars.

Thus, I began my official final two weeks for AAA Nashville by pitching a second day in a row Thursday night, my Hounds down 5-0 already, and mowing down the Mountain Men in order. My head has cleared somewhat. My wallet has bulged quite a bit (don't get all upset, after taxes and commissions, I'm donating the full amount to the same Nashville food bank that's receiving the proceeds from the auctioning off of my trailer). I know for sure now that with my health and this final 15 (now 14 and not the 21 the team was insisting on) days with the Hounds, I'll be that much better for the Vets. I can feel it.

As per my relationship with the NY front office? It stinks. But you know what? That's why I have a super agent. Let Jack deal with the vermin who run the Vets. I'm a player. The clock is ticking down to my first appearance in a year with NY. I think you're going to be happy to see me. Lord knows, I'll be happy to see you.