tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-32476722418841142732024-02-22T16:10:29.391-05:00High & Tight With Jimmy ScottDavid Philphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03148557086767659583noreply@blogger.comBlogger132125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3247672241884114273.post-15048420214783240122008-07-18T15:40:00.001-04:002008-07-18T15:42:58.006-04:00I've MovedThis blog is now dead. It's inactive. I refuse to come back to it.<br /><br />Or I might if, just for the heck of it, I feel like it. Otherwise, I've got my full website up now. It's called Jimmy Scott's High & Tight. You can go there here:<br /><br /><a href="http://www.jimmyscottshighandtight.com/">www.jimmyscottshighandtight.com</a><br /><br />It's amazing. Lots of audio clips. Working on the video. You're gonna love it.<br /><br /><br /><script src="http://feeds.feedburner.com/JimmyScottsMedia?format=sigpro" type="text/javascript" ></script><noscript><p>Subscribe to RSS headline updates from: <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/JimmyScottsMedia"></a><br/>Powered by FeedBurner</p> </noscript><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a name="a2a_dd" onmouseover="a2a_show_dropdown(this)" onmouseout="a2a_onMouseOut_delay()" href="http://www.addtoany.com/?linkname=High%20%26%20Tight&linkurl=http%3A//jimmyscottshighandtight.blogspot.com/&type=page"><b>Add to any service</b></a><script type="text/javascript">a2a_linkname="High & Tight";a2a_linkurl="http://jimmyscottshighandtight.blogspot.com/";</script><script type="text/javascript" src="http://www.addtoany.com/js.dropdown.js?type=page"></script></div>David Philphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03148557086767659583noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3247672241884114273.post-87204777216317562062008-05-20T06:05:00.003-04:002008-05-20T06:25:46.200-04:00Angry Manager, Managing AngryLook at what happened back in 1993:<br /><br /><object height="355" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/kamDqL-AGzI&hl=en"><param name="wmode" value="transparent"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/kamDqL-AGzI&hl=en" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" width="425" height="355"></embed></object><br /><br />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:<br /><br /><object height="355" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/pLMl0CLIDLg&hl=en"><param name="wmode" value="transparent"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/pLMl0CLIDLg&hl=en" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" width="425" height="355"></embed></object><br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Nobody likes to be beaten like that. Especially a manager. So Rick went nuts. Kookoo. Over the rainbow. Crackers. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />Nearly every word. I'm not completely bald just yet.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a name="a2a_dd" onmouseover="a2a_show_dropdown(this)" onmouseout="a2a_onMouseOut_delay()" href="http://www.addtoany.com/?linkname=High%20%26%20Tight&linkurl=http%3A//jimmyscottshighandtight.blogspot.com/&type=page"><b>Add to any service</b></a><script type="text/javascript">a2a_linkname="High & Tight";a2a_linkurl="http://jimmyscottshighandtight.blogspot.com/";</script><script type="text/javascript" src="http://www.addtoany.com/js.dropdown.js?type=page"></script></div>David Philphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03148557086767659583noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3247672241884114273.post-36351191435011821132008-05-19T05:38:00.002-04:002008-05-19T06:18:43.071-04:00Call To The BullpenAs 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br /><br /><object height="355" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/9N2CANatVYQ&hl=en"><param name="wmode" value="transparent"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/9N2CANatVYQ&hl=en" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" width="425" height="355"></embed></object><br /><br />Huey Lewis & The News? They're supposed to pump the crowd up?<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a name="a2a_dd" onmouseover="a2a_show_dropdown(this)" onmouseout="a2a_onMouseOut_delay()" href="http://www.addtoany.com/?linkname=High%20%26%20Tight&linkurl=http%3A//jimmyscottshighandtight.blogspot.com/&type=page"><b>Add to any service</b></a><script type="text/javascript">a2a_linkname="High & Tight";a2a_linkurl="http://jimmyscottshighandtight.blogspot.com/";</script><script type="text/javascript" src="http://www.addtoany.com/js.dropdown.js?type=page"></script></div>David Philphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03148557086767659583noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3247672241884114273.post-39380994056607495892008-05-16T05:48:00.004-04:002008-05-16T06:09:10.215-04:00Jimmy Scott's High & TightIt'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?"<br /><br />No, it's not a Broadway show, thus, there is no singing and dancing.<br /><br />"Is it a diner? I love to eat. Do you serve both steaks and chops?"<br /><br />No.<br /><br />"Then which is it? Steaks or chops?"<br /><br />It's not a diner.<br /><br />"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?"<br /><br />No, but I like that idea. May I steal it?<br /><br />"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?"<br /><br />I'll tell you.<br /><br />Go here: <a href="http://www.jimmyscottshighandtight.com/">http://www.jimmyscottshighandtight.com/</a><br /><br />That's it! It's a website.<br /><br />"A website?"<br /><br />Yes.<br /><br />"What on earth is a great baseball player who is definitely starting to go bald doing with a website?"<br /><br />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.<br /><br />"What will it cost me?"<br /><br />Nothing. I'm a multi-multi-multi-millionaire. What am I gonna do with your money? Spend it on more underpants?<br /><br />"Lord, I hope not."<br /><br />That makes 3.2 million of us.<br /><br />"What do I need to do?"<br /><br />Go there, young man. Go to <a href="http://www.jimmyscottshighandtight.com/">http://www.jimmyscottshighandtight.com/</a>. 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.<br /><br />"I don't understand that last metaphor."<br /><br />Neither do I.<br /><br />"Are you still gonna blog here?"<br /><br />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.<br /><br />"Will we have sex?"<br /><br />Nope. Vanessa would be mad.<br /><br />"Will you have me over for dinner?"<br /><br />Chances of that are extremely remote. What's in it for me?<br /><br />"I'll go to your website."<br /><br />Okay. Deal.<br /><br />"Will you serve steaks or chops?"<br /><br />Ha ha. You're funny. Enjoy the website. Enjoy your weekend. Root for me. I'm rooting for you.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a name="a2a_dd" onmouseover="a2a_show_dropdown(this)" onmouseout="a2a_onMouseOut_delay()" href="http://www.addtoany.com/?linkname=High%20%26%20Tight&linkurl=http%3A//jimmyscottshighandtight.blogspot.com/&type=page"><b>Add to any service</b></a><script type="text/javascript">a2a_linkname="High & Tight";a2a_linkurl="http://jimmyscottshighandtight.blogspot.com/";</script><script type="text/javascript" src="http://www.addtoany.com/js.dropdown.js?type=page"></script></div>David Philphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03148557086767659583noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3247672241884114273.post-84471689202547262212008-05-15T06:19:00.004-04:002008-05-15T07:20:09.807-04:00Media ProtectionI 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />But it's backfired more often than not.<br /><br />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."<br /><br />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?<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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:<br /><br />a) I'd be embarrassed<br />b) I don't want to hear all the world say, "I told you so."<br />c) All of the above<br /><br />There was an interesting exchange a few weeks ago between Deadspin's Will Leitch and author Buzz Bissinger. Go here to see it: <a href="http://deadspin.com/385770/bissinger-vs-leitch">http://deadspin.com/385770/bissinger-vs-leitch</a><br /><br />Bissinger hates bloggers. He thinks they're bad and will bring down journalism.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a name="a2a_dd" onmouseover="a2a_show_dropdown(this)" onmouseout="a2a_onMouseOut_delay()" href="http://www.addtoany.com/?linkname=High%20%26%20Tight&linkurl=http%3A//jimmyscottshighandtight.blogspot.com/&type=page"><b>Add to any service</b></a><script type="text/javascript">a2a_linkname="High & Tight";a2a_linkurl="http://jimmyscottshighandtight.blogspot.com/";</script><script type="text/javascript" src="http://www.addtoany.com/js.dropdown.js?type=page"></script></div>David Philphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03148557086767659583noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3247672241884114273.post-30700162937261051652008-05-14T11:31:00.006-04:002008-05-14T11:37:32.740-04:00The Dr. Mike Marshall PodcastTo 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.<br /><br /><div class="podcast"><br />The Dr. Mike Marshall Interview<br /><script language="JavaScript" src="http://ourmedia.org/players/1pixelout/audio-player.js"></script><br /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://channels.ourmedia.org/players/1pixelout/player.swf" id="audioplayer1" height="24" width="260"><param name="movie" value="http://channels.ourmedia.org/players/1pixelout/player.swf"/><param name="FlashVars" value="playerID=1&soundFile=http://www.archive.org/download/DavidPhilpJimmyScott_sHigh_Tight_Dr.MikeMarshallInterview/Dr.MikeMarshall05.12.08.mp3"/><param name="quality" value="high"/><param name="menu" value="false"/><param name="wmode" value="transparent"/></object></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a name="a2a_dd" onmouseover="a2a_show_dropdown(this)" onmouseout="a2a_onMouseOut_delay()" href="http://www.addtoany.com/?linkname=High%20%26%20Tight&linkurl=http%3A//jimmyscottshighandtight.blogspot.com/&type=page"><b>Add to any service</b></a><script type="text/javascript">a2a_linkname="High & Tight";a2a_linkurl="http://jimmyscottshighandtight.blogspot.com/";</script><script type="text/javascript" src="http://www.addtoany.com/js.dropdown.js?type=page"></script></div>David Philphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03148557086767659583noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3247672241884114273.post-69462058430321640812008-05-14T06:31:00.009-04:002008-05-14T10:06:33.037-04:00They're Calling Me Barbara<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1YpR9RmnGlg3QpumGrAIwIhLPO-9jUgCipEbl_uEpBX910JHhL4A_TPsnlndLSews4pWNqreRrcG6PxgVNT0dqYieGoRP7Ofc_UUTHrgk32NXPzWAspQx0I0l6ja45YdZsMbGCJzst8Q/s1600-h/Barbara+%232.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5200189332214774194" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg1YpR9RmnGlg3QpumGrAIwIhLPO-9jUgCipEbl_uEpBX910JHhL4A_TPsnlndLSews4pWNqreRrcG6PxgVNT0dqYieGoRP7Ofc_UUTHrgk32NXPzWAspQx0I0l6ja45YdZsMbGCJzst8Q/s320/Barbara+%232.bmp" border="0" /></a> 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:<br /><br /><div><strong>NEWSPAPER GUY (NPG)</strong></div><div><strong></strong></div><br /><div>NPG: Hey, Jimmy, I listened to your Mike Marshall interview.</div><div>Me: Doctor.</div><div>NPG: Well, yeah. Dr. Mike Marshall.</div><div>Me: It's what he is.</div><div>NPG: Anyway, I think -</div><div>Me: No, there's no "anyway" here. He's a doctor. He's got a PhD. What's so bad about that?</div><div>NPG: Nothin.</div><div>Me: Do you have a PhD?</div><div>NPG: No.</div><div>Me: Neither do I. That makes us both idiots.</div><div>NPG: May I quote you, Barbara?</div><div>Me: No. And don't call me Barbara.</div><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoI7r49Zwdb4aThrqShskMK4mtZy22F718-DanuOANjp3V55Bqnp7caAJcGrP5NPLx-l0zRZJCEOlEZTVRzLUXQ0QM9cWuqtCpB6e4zmUBsjBkQEDEppWYSpJx3BYmS0Iz60PvNSYFP18/s1600-h/Barbara+%233.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5200189430999022018" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 97px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 159px" height="208" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoI7r49Zwdb4aThrqShskMK4mtZy22F718-DanuOANjp3V55Bqnp7caAJcGrP5NPLx-l0zRZJCEOlEZTVRzLUXQ0QM9cWuqtCpB6e4zmUBsjBkQEDEppWYSpJx3BYmS0Iz60PvNSYFP18/s320/Barbara+%233.jpg" width="122" border="0" /></a><strong>OUTFIELDER (OF)</strong><br /><br /><div><strong></strong></div><div>OF: (rattailing my naked buttocks)</div><div>Me: Ouch. What is this, summer camp?</div><div>OF: Why don't you quit your pitching job and take a gig with ESPN?</div><div>Me: It doesn't pay as well.</div><div>OF: Really, Barbara?</div><div>Me: Who's Barbara?</div><div>OF: You. You're a little Barbara Walters.</div><div>Me: I'm probably taller than her.</div><div>OF: Still -</div><div>Me: And heavier.</div><div>OF: You and -</div><div>Me: But she probably has more hair. Even though she's pretty old now.</div><div>OF: Why don't you get her on your show?</div><div>Me: Why don't you?</div><div>OF: Nice comeback. Where'd you think that one up, summer camp?</div><div></div><br /><div>He rat tailed me again on the tush just as I turned away.</div><br /><div></div><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0DevkOXVPbwRvpimlX2DpC4nC7LZe8ykLPyzG3jfN6UOWcsz4SgjpVcsAFmF9yWPUQ9tfunnMT3k7siGg4tTVKTbiQVgZKttyFE4bswUlXQiI3LTyx1-6zN9yzpxrOW1aMEDkbdJmfAc/s1600-h/Barbara+%234.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5200189508308433362" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0DevkOXVPbwRvpimlX2DpC4nC7LZe8ykLPyzG3jfN6UOWcsz4SgjpVcsAFmF9yWPUQ9tfunnMT3k7siGg4tTVKTbiQVgZKttyFE4bswUlXQiI3LTyx1-6zN9yzpxrOW1aMEDkbdJmfAc/s320/Barbara+%234.bmp" border="0" /></a><strong>MANAGER (RICK CHURCHES)</strong><br /><br /><div><strong></strong></div><div>Rick: Jimmy take a seat.</div><br /><div>(I should state that we were in his office when this exchange occured.)</div><br /><div>Me: (sitting without a wisecrack)</div><div>Rick: What's this about you wanting to retire?</div><div>Me: I don't want to retire.</div><div>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.</div><div>Me: How much time a day can I throw a ball?</div><div>Rick: It's more than throwing. It's watching video. It's studying the other team. </div><div>Me: All right, let's say that takes up 3 hours of my day.</div><div>Rick: It's getting into top physical shape.</div><div>Me: Add another 2 hours</div><div>Rick: You don't work out 2 hours a day.</div><div>Me: Yes I do. You just can't see my raging abs. My clothes are big.</div><div>Rick: I'm saying your focus should be here, on this team and on this game.</div><div>Me: I'm saying that if you take the 5 hours a day of prep work for this gig we call baseball, and then -</div><div>Rick: There's the game itself too. Add in another 3 hours.</div><div>Me: 4 if it's Interleague. My point is, you take 6 hours out of 24 and that leaves... Umm...</div><div>Rick: 18 hours.</div><div>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.</div><div>Rick: Do you want to retire?</div><div>Me: No.</div><div>Rick: Then put your focus on the game. You won't have to anytime soon if you pay more attention to baseball.</div><div>Me: We're starting to run in circles.</div><div>Rick: At least you'd be working out, Barbara.</div><br /><div></div><div><strong>POTENTIAL PODCAST INTERVIEW CANDIDATE (PPC)</strong></div><br /><div>PPC: No, don't interview me.</div><div>Me: Why?</div><div>PPC: I don't want to do interviews with the media. Why would I want to do one with a ballplayer.</div><div>Me: It could be fun.</div><div>PPC: Who do you think you are, Barbara Walters?</div><div>Me: No.</div><div>PPC: I'll pass.</div><div></div><br /><div>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."</div><br /><div></div><div>Finally, let me add one more exchange between me and my jealous/envious closet admirers.</div><br /><div></div><div><strong><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHSBbjvJf3Q4kqOk5KjqUwI_FA7O2nZLWBP9wkj2T0vxdzNZaf6lxU9qodTWMatYQfbKQ2Hax5kjoXFmiik-811avhcf5BAva7xXxe2G-5j2AKBjc_0xGT7njEV6R_9r2pbKcptn0zJPU/s1600-h/Barbara.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5200191157575875058" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 85px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" height="208" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjHSBbjvJf3Q4kqOk5KjqUwI_FA7O2nZLWBP9wkj2T0vxdzNZaf6lxU9qodTWMatYQfbKQ2Hax5kjoXFmiik-811avhcf5BAva7xXxe2G-5j2AKBjc_0xGT7njEV6R_9r2pbKcptn0zJPU/s320/Barbara.bmp" width="85" border="0" /></a>"RED" SCOTT (NYS GAME ANNOUNCER AND, ALSO, MY DAD)</strong></div><div></div><br /><div>Red: What's this about you interviewing people?</div><div>Me: I'm interviewing people.</div><div>Red: I heard.</div><div>Me: Good.</div><div>Red: Why?</div><div>Me: Put down the microphone.</div><div>Red: Hmm?</div><div>Me: I'll talk to you off the record.</div><div>Red: We are off the record.</div><div>Me: So put down the microphone then.</div><div>Red: It's off. Don't you trust me.</div><div>Me: No.</div><div>Red: What kind of man can't trust his own father?</div><div>Me: The kind of man whose father is untrustworthy.</div><div>Red: You think you're better than me?</div><div>Me: No. Wait, let me rephrase. Yes, I do.</div><div>Red: You're not. You're just like me.</div><div>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.</div><div>Red: Speaking of flaming fireballs, they're calling you Barbara. Did you know that?</div><div>Me: Yes.</div><div>Red: It bugs you, doesn't it?</div><div>Me: Put the microphone down.</div><div>Red: Call you mother. She'd like to talk to you. Give me 5 minutes to prepare.</div><div>Me: You're not taping my call with Mom. That's illegal.</div><div>Red: Oh. Good day.</div><div>Me: Good day.</div><br /><div>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.</div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a name="a2a_dd" onmouseover="a2a_show_dropdown(this)" onmouseout="a2a_onMouseOut_delay()" href="http://www.addtoany.com/?linkname=High%20%26%20Tight&linkurl=http%3A//jimmyscottshighandtight.blogspot.com/&type=page"><b>Add to any service</b></a><script type="text/javascript">a2a_linkname="High & Tight";a2a_linkurl="http://jimmyscottshighandtight.blogspot.com/";</script><script type="text/javascript" src="http://www.addtoany.com/js.dropdown.js?type=page"></script></div>David Philphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03148557086767659583noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3247672241884114273.post-58973492195476675452008-05-13T06:31:00.008-04:002008-05-13T07:27:48.387-04:00Figuring Out My LifeI 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.<br /><br />Vanessa: You better find out what that is.<br />Me: We can go on a second honeymoon.<br />Vanessa: If living with you during retirement is like this, you can go on a second honeymoon with your second wife.<br /><br />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).<br /><br />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:<br /><br />1. Moping around and being bored<br />2. Watching cartoons<br />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."<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Thus, I reached out to Mike Marshall first, former <a href="http://www.drmikemarshall.com/ProfessionalBaseballCredentials.html">Cy Young Award winner </a>(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).<br /><br />But there's more.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />I went to his website, <a href="http://www.drmikemarshall.com/">http://www.drmikemarshall.com/</a>, 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.<br /><br /><div class="podcast"><br /> The Dr. Mike Marshall Interview<br /><script language="JavaScript" src="http://ourmedia.org/players/1pixelout/audio-player.js"></script><br /><object type="application/x-shockwave-flash" data="http://channels.ourmedia.org/players/1pixelout/player.swf" id="audioplayer1" height="24" width="260"><param name="movie" value="http://channels.ourmedia.org/players/1pixelout/player.swf"/><param name="FlashVars" value="playerID=1&soundFile=http://www.archive.org/download/DavidPhilpJimmyScott_sHigh_Tight_Dr.MikeMarshallInterview/Dr.MikeMarshall05.12.08.mp3"/><param name="quality" value="high"/><param name="menu" value="false"/><param name="wmode" value="transparent"/></object><br /></div><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />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.<br /><br />More important, you'll hear what Dr. Marshall has to say about pitching and baseball. His website <a href="http://www.drmikemarshall.com/">http://www.drmikemarshall.com/</a> 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 <a href="http://www.drmikemarshall.com/FreeCoachingBaseballPitchersBook.html">free book</a>, some <a href="http://www.drmikemarshall.com/BaseballPitchingInstructionalVideo.html">video</a>, all sorts of neat stuff. You'll love it. And you'll love him (but not in "that" way).<br /><br />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 <a href="http://www.tommyjohn.net/">Tommy John </a>(nice, since I had his surgery last year), <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Richie_Hebner">Richie Hebner</a>, Rick Minor, <a href="http://www.snakejazz.com/">Dave Baldwin </a>and more. I'm even going to speak with a sports psychology consultant to see if I can get my head on straight.<br /><br />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!<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a name="a2a_dd" onmouseover="a2a_show_dropdown(this)" onmouseout="a2a_onMouseOut_delay()" href="http://www.addtoany.com/?linkname=High%20%26%20Tight&linkurl=http%3A//jimmyscottshighandtight.blogspot.com/&type=page"><b>Add to any service</b></a><script type="text/javascript">a2a_linkname="High & Tight";a2a_linkurl="http://jimmyscottshighandtight.blogspot.com/";</script><script type="text/javascript" src="http://www.addtoany.com/js.dropdown.js?type=page"></script></div>David Philphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03148557086767659583noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3247672241884114273.post-60784912384186130822008-05-12T06:17:00.004-04:002008-05-12T07:11:13.270-04:00Good To Be HomeOn 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.<br /><br />It was good to be home.<br /><br />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:<br /><br />1 minute: Find where the cereal is and choose a variety.<br />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.<br />22 seconds: Rush to get a spoon so I can eat the milk-empowered cereal before it gets soggy.<br />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.<br />3 minutes: Eat the rapidly drooping cereal, which is not only losing its solid shape but also its flavor.<br />39 seconds: Realize I have no beverage.<br />11 seconds: Wait for a waiter, remember I'm home, then get out of my chair.<br />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...<br />10 seconds: Heading into the dining room.<br />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.<br />10 seconds: Head into the kitchen.<br />50 seconds: Lament the travesty of soggy cereal.<br /><br />My 10 minutes were up and I arose to get dressed while choking on a bit of nut from my Honey Nut Cheerios breakfast.<br /><br />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.)<br /><br />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!<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Now I was late.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />But I'm flexible. I took shortcuts, did an end-around. I even back-tracked a bit.<br /><br />I hit more traffic. I looked as far as my eye could see. More traffic. Everywhere.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Rick: Where the hell have you been?<br /><br />Rick Churches, my manager, and I haven't gotten along as famously as we'd both probably like.<br /><br />Me: My car.<br />Rick: Why weren't you here?<br />Me: Traffic.<br />Rick: You shouldn't live so far away.<br />Me: That statement took me 14 years to figure out. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a name="a2a_dd" onmouseover="a2a_show_dropdown(this)" onmouseout="a2a_onMouseOut_delay()" href="http://www.addtoany.com/?linkname=High%20%26%20Tight&linkurl=http%3A//jimmyscottshighandtight.blogspot.com/&type=page"><b>Add to any service</b></a><script type="text/javascript">a2a_linkname="High & Tight";a2a_linkurl="http://jimmyscottshighandtight.blogspot.com/";</script><script type="text/javascript" src="http://www.addtoany.com/js.dropdown.js?type=page"></script></div>David Philphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03148557086767659583noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3247672241884114273.post-75184546316437093692008-05-09T06:22:00.006-04:002008-05-09T07:23:50.362-04:00The State of Things That AreI 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.<br /><br />Real life swatted these images out of my mind like a human's palm crashing down on a slow summer fly. <br /><br />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.<br /><br />"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."<br /><br />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?<br /><br />Don't question your manager. Not a good thing. Here's why:<br /><br />Rick: You telling me how to manage my team?<br />Me: No.<br />Rick: Don't.<br />Me: I didn't.<br />Rick: Sounded like it.<br />Me: (wiggling in my shoes - no bare feet were kissed)<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Rick: We could've used you tonight.<br />Me: Mmm.<br />Rick: What?<br />Me: What?<br />Rick: I don't want to hear your "mmm" crap. Just tell me what you're thinking and don't patronize me.<br />Me: You said, "Tonight." It was a day game.<br />Rick: What difference does it make?<br />Me: None. It makes no difference. Do I have whipped cream on my lip?<br /><br />He didn't answer. (I found out moments later, in the bathroom, that I did. How embarrassing.)<br /><br />"Last call for flight 1803 to New York."<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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. <br /><br />"Sorry."<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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:<br /><br />G IP W L SO BB ERA SV<br />19 17.2 0 2 14 9 5.75 6<br /><br />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. <br /><br />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:<br /><br />TEAM W L PCT. GB<br /><br />Florida 23 12 .657 --<br />Philadelphia 19 15 .556 3.5<br />Atlanta 18 16 .545 4.5<br />Washington 14 21 .400 9<br /><strong>New York 12 23 .343 11</strong><br /><br />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.<br /><br />It didn't help us any further that I sat behind him on the plane.<br /><br />Rick: Stop kicking my seat.<br />Me: I'm not.<br />Rick: Then what is?<br />Me: I don't know.<br />Rick: Then stop whatever you're doing.<br />Me: I'm not doing anything.<br />Rick: Maybe that's why you started the season in AAA instead of with us.<br />Me: I see no connection between my seat on this plane and my status with the team.<br />Rick: You have no status with this team.<br />Me: I thought you had groomed me to be your closer.<br />Rick: You'll be lucky if you get the 5th inning of a blowout.<br />Me: That's smart thinking. Let your freshest arm, your hottest pitcher ride the bench.<br />Rick: You telling me how to run my team?<br />Me: Nope.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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."<br /><br />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.<br /><br />I have to be good this year. I can't retire yet. What would I do then?<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a name="a2a_dd" onmouseover="a2a_show_dropdown(this)" onmouseout="a2a_onMouseOut_delay()" href="http://www.addtoany.com/?linkname=High%20%26%20Tight&linkurl=http%3A//jimmyscottshighandtight.blogspot.com/&type=page"><b>Add to any service</b></a><script type="text/javascript">a2a_linkname="High & Tight";a2a_linkurl="http://jimmyscottshighandtight.blogspot.com/";</script><script type="text/javascript" src="http://www.addtoany.com/js.dropdown.js?type=page"></script></div>David Philphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03148557086767659583noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3247672241884114273.post-12446196426203931172008-05-08T05:56:00.007-04:002008-05-08T06:57:16.263-04:00The First Class Cab RideAfter 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.<br /><br />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 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">timeframe</span>), 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.<br /><br />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 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">cabbie</span> 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.<br /><br />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?"<br /><br />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 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">Lukoil</span>! (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.<br /><br />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."<br /><br />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 )...<br /><br />Okay. Back on track.<br /><br />I whip out my cell (phone, not the microscopic thing that contains nuclei and cytoplasm and protoplasm) and called my super agent, Jack Perry.<br /><br />Me: I'm lost.<br />Jack: Never get into a taxi that doesn't have GPS.<br />Me: I did.<br />Jack: In the future, don't.<br />Me: Okay.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />I called Vanessa.<br /><br />Me: (hitting a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">pre</span>-programmed number, since I don't memorize phone numbers)<br />Person: Hello?<br />Me: You're not Vanessa.<br />Person: No.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Me: Hi.<br />Mom: Where are you?<br />Me: Arizona.<br />Mom: Why aren't you in Los Angeles?<br />Me: I was sleepy.<br />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.<br />Me: This is different.<br />Mom: How is it different?<br />Me: I was sleepy.<br />Mom: Then I can't help you.<br /><br />I edited out the part in which she said I should have just flown out the night before.<br /><br />My phone rang shortly after that. Well, it didn't ring. That <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">Chingy</span> song my girls had programmed as a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">ringtone</span> 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 <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">boogieing</span> a wee bit to that infectious <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">Chingy</span> beat.<br /><br />Me: Hello.<br />Vanessa: Jack called and said you were lost.<br />Me: Yes.<br />Vanessa: You told me you were going to fly out last night.<br />Me: No, I said the team wanted me to fly out last night.<br />Vanessa: I'm assuming you felt your plan was better.<br />Me: I was sleep-<br />Vanessa: Jimmy, be quiet and listen very carefully. Look at a <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">street sign</span>. I am sitting at a computer and will tell you where you are and where to go. Now look up.<br />Me: (listening to the sound of my pride deflating like a Party City <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">barmitzvah</span> balloon)<br /><br />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).<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />"Sorry folks, but due to some problems with the engine, we're going to have to <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">de-board</span> and get ya another one."<br /><br />So much for my plans. So much for my making it to the ballpark by noon.<br /><br />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 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Barack</span> are fighting over who's going to lead our nation through <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_12">another</span> 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 <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_13">comparatively</span> 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.<br /><br />Guess what happened?<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a name="a2a_dd" onmouseover="a2a_show_dropdown(this)" onmouseout="a2a_onMouseOut_delay()" href="http://www.addtoany.com/?linkname=High%20%26%20Tight&linkurl=http%3A//jimmyscottshighandtight.blogspot.com/&type=page"><b>Add to any service</b></a><script type="text/javascript">a2a_linkname="High & Tight";a2a_linkurl="http://jimmyscottshighandtight.blogspot.com/";</script><script type="text/javascript" src="http://www.addtoany.com/js.dropdown.js?type=page"></script></div>David Philphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03148557086767659583noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3247672241884114273.post-59276709823692743372008-05-07T06:10:00.004-04:002008-05-07T07:13:40.419-04:00Two Bad Calls And An Unexpected Pleasant OneIt'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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Rey didn't take it last night.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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).<br /><br />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...<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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).<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />See you in LA!<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a name="a2a_dd" onmouseover="a2a_show_dropdown(this)" onmouseout="a2a_onMouseOut_delay()" href="http://www.addtoany.com/?linkname=High%20%26%20Tight&linkurl=http%3A//jimmyscottshighandtight.blogspot.com/&type=page"><b>Add to any service</b></a><script type="text/javascript">a2a_linkname="High & Tight";a2a_linkurl="http://jimmyscottshighandtight.blogspot.com/";</script><script type="text/javascript" src="http://www.addtoany.com/js.dropdown.js?type=page"></script></div>David Philphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03148557086767659583noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3247672241884114273.post-80205716611801811762008-05-06T06:19:00.009-04:002008-05-06T07:17:52.502-04:00Halloween In MayAn early game yesterday (10:30 AM) marred by two things:<br /><br />1. We lost 5-1. I did not pitch.<br />2. Halloween in May<br /><br />We were a flat team yesterday. Teams do that sometimes. Everyone just picks a day, <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">subconsciously</span>, to have no energy and go through the motions. We did that yesterday. Dusty Graves, our manager, was furious by the 4<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">th</span> inning because of this. He was tossed by the 5<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">th</span>. 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.<br /><br />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:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOItjF2EJgKhIWD9CbnDnywFakmO1rsopVBS392_t7JhiUIM9HFiCuRPts0JOnd6nf09udti4yHSUHTjmE5JD_czjFeF_xZHUyDVN-xQJCtVE_bGuraQFIJ1jpnYzuCSlpRN2FjWOkwkg/s1600-h/scary+halloween.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5197213546598143842" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 161px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 146px" height="91" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOItjF2EJgKhIWD9CbnDnywFakmO1rsopVBS392_t7JhiUIM9HFiCuRPts0JOnd6nf09udti4yHSUHTjmE5JD_czjFeF_xZHUyDVN-xQJCtVE_bGuraQFIJ1jpnYzuCSlpRN2FjWOkwkg/s320/scary+halloween.jpg" width="94" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />These two were sitting right behind home plate.<br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Then there was this kid:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZvf79Ljp2s6hQMfmuXbqjsMybAzCc5FVOYTcx1VQT1LVMmSCN8WwBONSaTrZZqlb3RSS4-TAzDMRUqHIYOvGB5BTZZAPdhYakoiNEfte0KcNOGapRN9SEKa8PrdqS37NQoikJjaHbU50/s1600-h/Halloween+II.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5197216991161915250" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZvf79Ljp2s6hQMfmuXbqjsMybAzCc5FVOYTcx1VQT1LVMmSCN8WwBONSaTrZZqlb3RSS4-TAzDMRUqHIYOvGB5BTZZAPdhYakoiNEfte0KcNOGapRN9SEKa8PrdqS37NQoikJjaHbU50/s320/Halloween+II.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />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 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">muerto</span>! Soy <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">muerto</span>!"<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Finally, there were these two young ladies:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpBEXzF0uAfIP0csyrmwanhBbpX_v-f3Ytn7In30DElkBa1ef6Cfs0qeXaoBvXyM3GFpeTlJissTnhWcF2rnumRrs5q6MSBqUxajFKgl9ZuG6Vpsbds0LdV9S1BDapKsxnjpn77oIT7MU/s1600-h/Halloween+sexy.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5197221986208880530" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjpBEXzF0uAfIP0csyrmwanhBbpX_v-f3Ytn7In30DElkBa1ef6Cfs0qeXaoBvXyM3GFpeTlJissTnhWcF2rnumRrs5q6MSBqUxajFKgl9ZuG6Vpsbds0LdV9S1BDapKsxnjpn77oIT7MU/s320/Halloween+sexy.jpg" border="0" /></a><br />If you weren't Rey Marcos, then your eyes were here. Lots of chatter in the dugout about the costumes these <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">femmes</span> elected to wear to a 10:30AM minor league baseball game. They also put on a pretty interesting show during the 7<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">th</span> 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.<br /><br />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?<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a name="a2a_dd" onmouseover="a2a_show_dropdown(this)" onmouseout="a2a_onMouseOut_delay()" href="http://www.addtoany.com/?linkname=High%20%26%20Tight&linkurl=http%3A//jimmyscottshighandtight.blogspot.com/&type=page"><b>Add to any service</b></a><script type="text/javascript">a2a_linkname="High & Tight";a2a_linkurl="http://jimmyscottshighandtight.blogspot.com/";</script><script type="text/javascript" src="http://www.addtoany.com/js.dropdown.js?type=page"></script></div>David Philphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03148557086767659583noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3247672241884114273.post-91658951768640159572008-05-05T06:08:00.003-04:002008-05-05T07:17:18.534-04:00Terms of Endearment"Just when I thought I was about to make a clean getaway..." Great line by Jack Nicholson at the end of <em>Terms of Endearment</em>, the only movie that made me cry in 1983 (it was <em>E.T.</em> in '82).<br /><br /><object height="355" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/WLr79l5dppY&hl=en"><param name="wmode" value="transparent"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/WLr79l5dppY&hl=en" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" width="425" height="355"></embed></object><br /><br />Jack had just paid a visit to Shirley <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">MacLaine</span>, 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Me: Like water from a river.<br />Vanessa: Like stupidity from an idiot.<br />Me: I like my simile better.<br />Vanessa: Do you ever think before you do these things? Or do you just hope nobody notices?<br /><br />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 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">internet</span>... I can't think of any other media. Billboards. No, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">nobody's</span> 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />So, of course, I'm not speaking to the media, which makes my line blow up even more. And more <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">questions</span> 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?<br /><br />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 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">DHL</span> 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 <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">descendants</span>. The front office people who make the front office run are not vermin. They're very nice people with fancy haircuts and nice shoes.<br /><br />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 <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">GMs</span> 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.<br /><br />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 <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">liaison</span>. Guess who's waiting there?<br /><br />Alvin: Hi, Jimmy. Am I vermin?<br />Me: Not literally.<br />Alvin: I'm upset with you.<br />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.<br />Alvin: <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">Everything's</span> a joke to you, isn't it? Wait, don't answer.<br />Me: Not answering.<br />Alvin: May I see this famous trailer of yours?<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Alvin followed me inside. He commented on my <span class="blsp-spelling-corrected" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">accommodations</span>, 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.<br /><br />Alvin: You've got to stop making controversy with your blog.<br />Me: You've got to stop doing controversial things to me with the power of your position.<br />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.<br />Me: It's not good to make decisions like that purely on emotion.<br />Alvin: Which is why you should think before releasing your stuff.<br />Me: I see you've been speaking to Vanessa.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Alvin: Why can't you learn from your mistakes?<br />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.<br />Alvin: Most people know, eventually, that if they hurt others with their words that they shouldn't do it anymore.<br />Me: Okay. I won't bring up how you've tried to screw me and my contract twice in the last six months.<br />Alvin: Good. I won't bring up how you didn't rehab for the first six months after your injury.<br />Me: I was depressed.<br />Alvin: I was angry.<br />Me: As an aside, I'm not going to kiss you when we get to the make-up stage.<br /><br />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?<br /><br />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.<br /><br />Oh, I found out what vermin are: Animals or insects, like cockroaches or rats, that are annoying and destructive.<br /><br />No wonder nobody considered that a term of endearment.<br /><br />Jack Nicholson's answer: "I love you too, kid."<br /><br /><br /><object height="355" width="425"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/8Jc_ol8NjgM&hl=en"><param name="wmode" value="transparent"><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/8Jc_ol8NjgM&hl=en" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" width="425" height="355"></embed></object><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a name="a2a_dd" onmouseover="a2a_show_dropdown(this)" onmouseout="a2a_onMouseOut_delay()" href="http://www.addtoany.com/?linkname=High%20%26%20Tight&linkurl=http%3A//jimmyscottshighandtight.blogspot.com/&type=page"><b>Add to any service</b></a><script type="text/javascript">a2a_linkname="High & Tight";a2a_linkurl="http://jimmyscottshighandtight.blogspot.com/";</script><script type="text/javascript" src="http://www.addtoany.com/js.dropdown.js?type=page"></script></div>David Philphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03148557086767659583noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3247672241884114273.post-10314230384927738202008-05-02T06:02:00.004-04:002008-05-02T07:06:39.428-04:00The Sound Of SilenceSorry 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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).<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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...<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.")<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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?<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 <strong><em>nothing</em></strong> extra. So I went from two weeks at my base pay to two weeks for <em><strong>$1 million</strong></em>. I can't cry over the deal. After all, it's a million dollars.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a name="a2a_dd" onmouseover="a2a_show_dropdown(this)" onmouseout="a2a_onMouseOut_delay()" href="http://www.addtoany.com/?linkname=High%20%26%20Tight&linkurl=http%3A//jimmyscottshighandtight.blogspot.com/&type=page"><b>Add to any service</b></a><script type="text/javascript">a2a_linkname="High & Tight";a2a_linkurl="http://jimmyscottshighandtight.blogspot.com/";</script><script type="text/javascript" src="http://www.addtoany.com/js.dropdown.js?type=page"></script></div>David Philphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03148557086767659583noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3247672241884114273.post-44874153541357284972008-04-25T05:57:00.006-04:002008-04-25T06:52:57.450-04:00If I Never Got Hurt Last Year...It's done. There's nothing I can do about it. These are the two phrases I tell myself every morning that I wake up not with my team in New York but with a minor league franchise based out of Nashville. I got hurt a year ago. My surgery was 385 days ago. Physically, I'm fine. Mentally, I just can't get over myself. I've been a starting pitcher since Little League. Heck, in 1980 I threw my first no-hitter, all 6 innings of it (I hit a home run too). Relief pitchers can't throw no-hitters. Relief pitchers put out fires other people started, usually starting pitchers (like I used to be). Relief pitchers wait, warm up, sit down, warm up, sit down, get angry with their manager, then shower and never get in the game. Relief pitchers get frustrated and have to have incredible egos and incredible self-confidence. If I never got hurt last year, I wouldn't have to think about this. But I did get hurt. And now I'm a relief pitcher. There's nothing I can do about it.<br /><br />I'm not a control freak, or never was before. But I think I'm becoming one. Is that possible? To change later in life from a colorful, flexible fellow to a colorful control freak? I guess so. It's happening to me. Just like that injury. It is what it is, as someone recently said.<br /><br />I don't like to sulk. It generally doesn't get me anywhere. I spent about 180 of the last 385 days sulking and all it did was get me fat and help me notice the bald spot growing on my forehead. Valuable lesson learned. If I'd never gotten hurt last year, I'd never know sulking was bad.<br /><br />Relief pitchers can't sulk. They have to be ready every day to play, kind of like outfielders, only more in charge than outfielders, who just stand around waiting for something to happen to them. Relief pitchers make things happen. Pitchers make things happen. I've always been a pitcher. Always tried to make things happen - good things. Maybe I've always been a control freak and didn't know it.<br /><br />Imagine if you spent your whole life doing something, then something happens and you can't do that thing anymore. Like breathing. Imagine if you could breathe your whole life, then you suddenly can't. It stinks. Horrible metaphor, but that's how I felt while sulking. I couldn't breathe. I thank my lucky stars, I thank God, Yahweh, Buddha, Reagan - I thank who or whatever it is/was that taught me to breathe again. Now I'm breathing one inning a day, one day at a time. I'm used to 7 innings every fifth day. So if I can get around the possibility that I could conceivably pitch 7 innings in a week (one per day - stay with me), I'm therefore pitching just as much as I ever did before. I'm just spreading it out.<br /><br />It's like if you put a big hamburger on your plate. You want to eat it. And there's a lot of it. Now put that same hamburger, cut up, onto 25 plates. It's not as effective, in terms of presentation to one's hunger palette, as one big burger on one plate. I used to eat one big burger every fifth day. Now I'm eating White Castle every day.<br /><br />There's more. If I never got hurt last year, I wouldn't have spent as much time with my family last year as I did. Which makes this time, right now, even harder. You get used to things. I was used to a life on the road before the injury. Then I got used to life at home. Yes I was sulking, but I was doing it in the presence of my wife and daughters. They hated me for it, but that's their problem. Now, I'm healthy and on the road again (17 of the first 24 days of the Hounds' season are on the road - and my family isn't even staying with me in my Nashville trailer). And I'm missing my three girls (I threw my wife in there as a "girl" to make her feel better after my previous "that's their problem" statement regarding my sulking at home earlier in this paragraph. Oh, I could have deleted the statement and never had to throw in the "girl" line as an apology gift to my wife, but I didn't so sue me.) Bottom line: If I never got hurt, I never would have known how important my family is to me.<br /><br />There are other things that have happened that may not have occurred. If I never got hurt last year...<br /><ul><li>I never would have had the off season contract dispute with the team.</li><li>The Vets wouldn't have had to fire Larry Picketts and hire Rick Churches to manage.</li><li>I never would have gotten into heated arguments, many times publicly, with Rick Churches because he wouldn't be my manager, laid back Larry Picketts would be.</li><li>Rick Churches would still be in the NYS (our regional sports network) broadcast booth, not managing, and my father, "Red" Scott, would still be anywhere but New York broadcasting games.</li></ul><p>If I never got hurt last year...</p><ul><li>I'd already have my 300 wins. Now, as a reliever, it may take me 3 seasons to win 13 more games. Do I want to play that much longer? More important, does anybody else want me to play that much longer?</li><li>I never would have started this blog.</li><li>I'd still be talking to the media.</li><li>I never would have "grown" and "matured" and would be my old, happy, ignorant, lovable self.</li><li>I wouldn't be in as good a shape as I'm in right now.</li><li>I wouldn't be playing in the minor leagues, on rehab assignment. I'd be in New York on a starting assignment.</li></ul><p>If I never got hurt last year...</p><ul><li>My Nashville Hounds would probably have a better record than 4 and 16.</li><li>I probably would not be a de facto owner of my Nashville Hounds, thanks to billionaire Charlie Walker.</li><li>I never would have met Andy, my personal trainer who also serves as my security "detail" in Nashville. (He's very big. Don't mess with him.)</li><li>I never would have been sued by the team psychologist (not psychiatrist - there's a difference), Dr. Henry Cohegans, for breaking the terms of our confidentiality agreement because I wouldn't be blogging or even going to him because I never got hurt.</li></ul><p>If I never got hurt last year...</p><ul><li>I never would have had public run-ins with my father, "Red" Scott, NYS broadcaster who's mad at me for not talking to the media (him) on the record but blogging instead.</li><li>I never would have been as fulfilled as I am right now with my life.</li><li>I never would have been turned into a relief pitcher.</li></ul><p>You know what? It happened. It just did. And there's nothing I can do about it except move on. No more sulking. No more regrets. I got hurt last year and now I'm better. I can't wait to prove myself again in New York.</p><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a name="a2a_dd" onmouseover="a2a_show_dropdown(this)" onmouseout="a2a_onMouseOut_delay()" href="http://www.addtoany.com/?linkname=High%20%26%20Tight&linkurl=http%3A//jimmyscottshighandtight.blogspot.com/&type=page"><b>Add to any service</b></a><script type="text/javascript">a2a_linkname="High & Tight";a2a_linkurl="http://jimmyscottshighandtight.blogspot.com/";</script><script type="text/javascript" src="http://www.addtoany.com/js.dropdown.js?type=page"></script></div>David Philphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03148557086767659583noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3247672241884114273.post-29593191838790941962008-04-24T05:54:00.009-04:002008-04-24T07:04:02.025-04:00Selling Spit On eBayI was told it had to happen, but I just don't think about these things. I'm busy getting my work in, making my right arm not fall off at the elbow. I'm busy traveling with this minor league team, my Nashville Hounds, wondering how much longer I'll have to play in AAA. I'm busy staring into a mirror and looking at the upper right part of my head, where the hair used to be but is slowly deteriorating into something horrifying to me that the scientific community calls "male pattern baldness." My father, the dreaded "Red" Scott, is not bald. And I heard my mother's father, whom we'll call Grandpa and is the one my biology teacher in high school said mattered the most when it comes to the condition of my follicles, still had hair in his forties (he died at 50, so we'll never know how his hair would have developed or regressed). So I stare at the mirror, finger the growing presence of flesh, and watch the final dismantling of my youth, almost like the Russians taking down some nukes aimed at small towns in Iowa, towns that just, by chance, happened to have nukes aimed at Russia. These are the things I think - some say worry - about. Not the presence of my DNA up for sale, by someone else, on <a href="http://www.ebay.com/">eBay</a>.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLr7snHXUUmM2anU-iyzfMcg86nPuUFAODZ1SBt_B1p5bBBvcbJuZ6nIdXG0f6XmHBwNrjlOyvTdDWhbUVizVRlLSPTZx03qEliVOdprtRanpV5vv3DQYR8amdX3s7_dpBN2iMdxlonuU/s1600-h/eBay+logo.png"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5192764939732031314" style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; CURSOR: hand" height="82" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLr7snHXUUmM2anU-iyzfMcg86nPuUFAODZ1SBt_B1p5bBBvcbJuZ6nIdXG0f6XmHBwNrjlOyvTdDWhbUVizVRlLSPTZx03qEliVOdprtRanpV5vv3DQYR8amdX3s7_dpBN2iMdxlonuU/s320/eBay+logo.png" width="172" border="0" /></a>During the Hounds' last homestand in Nashville, a week ago, I had the pleasure of drinking from a bottle of water, <a href="http://www.polandspring.com/">Poland Spring</a>, I believe, on my walk from the stadium clubhouse to my trailer in the Pepsi Field parking lot. Feeling hydrated, I was looking for a garbage can to dump the bottle and small amount of remaining liquid. That's when a stranger, whom we'll call Grandpa - just kidding; this was a woman who, from the look of her, enjoyed her Southern cooking - saw me, asked for an autograph (I obliged with my adopted Southern hospitality) and said she'd throw out my bottle for me. I didn't think twice as I handed her my bottle and thanked her.<br /><br />Flash forward to yesterday (Wednesday). Here we are in Omaha, about to play the Cats, when, in response to the PA guy, about 3000 fans suddenly throw their bottles of water onto the field. While batboys and team employees scurry about, picking up the plastic containers, Hounds manager Dusty Graves comes over to me, pats me on the back, and tells me I'm now officially "green." I have no idea what he's talking about.<br /><br />An Omaha Cats employee - could've been a marketing person, could've been an intern, could've been their GM (one minor league employee typically performs the tasks of 5 of their big league counterparts) - comes to our dugout and asks Dusty if it would be okay for me to join him (the employee, a very tall one - skinny too) on the field to mention something about Earth Day and recycling. Dusty laughs and shrugs. "Fine with me," he said. The employee comes over, shakes my hand, and asks me to follow him. I do, happy to have heard the subject matter Dusty had just agreed I would speak about.<br /><br />There's a loud ovation. "Spit King" flashes on the board. I'm oblivious. The employee asks me to turn. Then I figure it out. eBay and Poland Spring have jointly sponsored the evening's game because of me, because of the bottle of water I let a fan throw out for me. There on the scoreboard is a scanned photo of the bottle. It's part of an eBay website page. It's up for auction. The most recent bid was for $467.55. All for a piece of plastic holding a half-ounce of my backwash. There were 16 hours and 33 minutes left before bidding would close.<br /><a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/3/37/Poland_Spring_logo.PNG"><img style="FLOAT: left; MARGIN: 0px 10px 10px 0px; WIDTH: 89px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 119px" height="201" alt="" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/en/3/37/Poland_Spring_logo.PNG" border="0" /></a><br /><br />I turn back and am told the ballpark is sold out. There weren't 3000 fans there (3000 bottles were thrown, but not every fan elected to throw their bottle), there were nearly 8000 fans. All there for Earth Day's "Spit King" festival, sponsored by eBay and Poland Spring.<br /><br />I spoke into a microphone set up at home plate. "Baseball been berry, berry good to me." The older Saturday Night Live crowd, the ones who remember Chico Escuela, the former fake ballplayer played by Garrett Morris, laugh. That's about 150 people. Meaning my remark basically brought silence to the crowd. That's a real confidence booster.<br /><br />I continued. "You know, Omaha, recycling is good, right?" Some hand claps. A whistle, probably aimed at a hot groupie or another man who had more hair. "I think Omaha should always recycle, especially on Earth Day. Right?"<br /><br />Were they as bored as I was, I wondered. I was happy for the preparation time I'd been given. "Omaha, I've always loved you, as you are part of the Earth, Mother Earth, my Mother Earth, the planet that raised me from a wee pup."<br /><br />A few more whistles. Some more clapping. Then, it hit me. There was one reason alone why I'd been forced into this situation. But it was nothing a little supply & demand economics couldn't cure. "Omaha, Nebraska, I have an idea. After the game, let's line up and I'll drink a little bit from your bottles of water. Then we can all go on eBay and make some money. Huh? What chu think 'bout dat, Omaha!"<br /><br />I had them going. "Why should one kook make all the money when 8000 of you should have the same opportunity? Am I right, Omaha? Nebraska? Tell me I'm wrong and I'll just slip into something more comfortable and go to bed."<br /><br />Now the cheers were there, supporting me, letting me be the dufus I've always had the ability to be. "So sell your Poland Spring bottles on eBay. Those left over, recycle them. Let's save our Mother Earth. Because she been berry berry good to us!"<br /><br />Those 8000 fans had the power and fury of at least 8250. They were that loud.<br /><br />Then what happened? Well, I spent 4 hours after the game sipping from water bottles. By 2Am, I was done. When I woke up this morning - extremely tired; being a dufus always comes back to haunt me - I went on eBay and saw not one, but 679 bottles of water featuring my DNA backwash up for bidding. The original bottle? Almost at $500, but no longer climbing at the speed of sound. I considered my idea a success. The large, crazy (yet probably very smart) Southern lady wasn't going to get the amount of money she thought she'd get from me, I had some new friends in Omaha, and Mother Earth could relax for one last day. Who knew that my spit could change the world?<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a name="a2a_dd" onmouseover="a2a_show_dropdown(this)" onmouseout="a2a_onMouseOut_delay()" href="http://www.addtoany.com/?linkname=High%20%26%20Tight&linkurl=http%3A//jimmyscottshighandtight.blogspot.com/&type=page"><b>Add to any service</b></a><script type="text/javascript">a2a_linkname="High & Tight";a2a_linkurl="http://jimmyscottshighandtight.blogspot.com/";</script><script type="text/javascript" src="http://www.addtoany.com/js.dropdown.js?type=page"></script></div>David Philphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03148557086767659583noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3247672241884114273.post-57331345654838374822008-04-23T06:17:00.004-04:002008-04-23T06:57:44.805-04:00When Going Public BackfiresThe little spat my father, Vets announcer "Red" Scott, and I have had over the past few days grew larger last night. We beat Albuquerque in the afternoon and I pitched a 1-2-3 ninth inning, probably my best outing since the return of my healthy arm. The game ended around 3:45 and we were on plane flying to Omaha by 7:00 (what were 11-hour bus rides in AAA as recently as the 1990s are now 3-hour plane flights). I got to my lousy hotel room (what were lousy hotel rooms as recently as the 1990s are still lousy, only 10 years older) by 11:30 and, as I turned on my laptop, got a text message on my cell phone: "Jimmy, I'm going to kill you."<br /><br />Now before you start thinking this is going to turn into a horror movie (I guess the demented serial killer with the manual miter saw would be waiting for me inside the box spring of my bed), you should know who wrote the text. No, not a fan who lost a bet on me (I have received death threats in the past, seriously, from guys who stood to owe lots of money to bookies if I pitched well on a particular night). My father wrote the text. And he isn't really going to kill me. He's just mad.<br /><br />Because...<br /><br />He said some dumb, untrue things about me on a couple of NYS broadcasts. I posted some true, but possibly dumb, things about him here. The media has printed and said plenty more, which he liked at first, since he's part of the media and I refuse to speak to them. His "brothers" were going to stand beside him. That's what he thought. Because I don't speak to the media, he thought the media would automatically side with him in this dispute, whether he was right or not. Only, he's starting to get skewered just as badly as me. He's starting to look as bad as me (even though I'm definitely going bald - I can just tell - and he's still got a full head of hair). The media have turned their backs to him.<br /><br />So that has angered him. But it isn't the sole reason for the horror-inducing text message. There's more.<br /><br />There were two voicemails on my cellphone that I didn't mention earlier. Both were from my super agent, Jack Perry. The first:<br /><br />Jack: Jimmy, call me.<br /><br />The second:<br /><br />Jack: Call me now.<br /><br />Jack's a no-nonsense kind of guy. If he needs you to call him right away, he's most likely got a very good reason for you to do so. I decided to eat before speaking to him.<br /><br />Around midnight, just as I was stuffing my mouth with a piece of toast smothered in grape jelly (the kitchen in this dive of a hotel only makes breakfast for room service starting at 11PM in the evening), my phone went off. My girls stole my phone for a little bit last week and put on a bunch of ringtones. Now, if I receive a call, some hideous Hip Hop song bleats out of the phone's tiny speaker, reminding me of when the 19 year old guys come up to bat in these incredibly (compared to as recently as the 1990s) nice AAA ballparks. Thus, I had a piece of toast (rye) halfway down my throat when I hit Talk, instantly ridding the room, my ears, and the serial killer in my box spring of the hideous Hip Hop song.<br /><br />Me: (unintelligible choking sound)<br />Jack: You didn't call me.<br />Me: (more choking)<br />Jack: Swallow, please.<br /><br />I guess you can now tell Jack has heard me answer the phone with a neck full of food before.<br /><br />Me: (after swallowing, taking a drink, the liquid going down the wrong tube, coughing and then clearing my throat, then having another drink and clearing my throat again) What?<br />Jack: You didn't call me.<br />Me: Yet. I hadn't called you yet.<br />Jack: Don't get all tense with me.<br />Me: You're funny when you make jokes about the English language.<br />Jack: Huh?<br /><br />Great agent - a super agent. Terrible sense of humor. Just ask one of his three ex-wives.<br /><br />Jack: Got a call from Mrs. Delaney tonight. She owns your team.<br />Me: I have heard of the woman.<br />Jack: She wants you and your father to make nice immediately or he's going to be suspended or fired.<br />Me: But nothing will happen to me?<br />Jack: You'll feel really guilty.<br /><br />So it was now up to me. Either man up and speak with the father I wasn't speaking to so we could end our public squabble, or keep up the public squabble and see him removed from office in disgrace, eventually led away from a Chevy Caprice in handcuffs, a dark raincoat draped over his embarrassed head (that is less bald than mine even though it's 33 years older than mine).<br /><br />It was 2 AM on the East Coast. I couldn't call Vanessa for her thoughts. She was busy asleep, probably dreaming of men with hair. I couldn't call my shrink since I don't have one anymore as a result of his lawsuit against me for breaking the terms of our confidentiality agreement. There was only one person I could call.<br /><br />The phone rang. I heard a real ringing sound, not the latest hit by Chingy. The "Hello" was spoken clearly, the voice deep and respected.<br /><br />"Dad," I said, "it's me. I'm sorry."<br /><br />Public squabble over.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a name="a2a_dd" onmouseover="a2a_show_dropdown(this)" onmouseout="a2a_onMouseOut_delay()" href="http://www.addtoany.com/?linkname=High%20%26%20Tight&linkurl=http%3A//jimmyscottshighandtight.blogspot.com/&type=page"><b>Add to any service</b></a><script type="text/javascript">a2a_linkname="High & Tight";a2a_linkurl="http://jimmyscottshighandtight.blogspot.com/";</script><script type="text/javascript" src="http://www.addtoany.com/js.dropdown.js?type=page"></script></div>David Philphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03148557086767659583noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3247672241884114273.post-81752951188238992972008-04-22T16:00:00.003-04:002008-04-22T16:49:43.696-04:00"Red" ScottThere is nothing scarier than the fury of a parent. Even if the son is 40 years old, an angry father in his early-70s can still be like seeing the shark for the first time in Jaws. <br /><br />I received a phone call this morning about my dad, "Red" Scott. "Red" is now announcing for the NY Veterans, parent club of the AAA Nashville Hounds, which I'm currently rehabbing with. In typical "Red" fashion, he threw me under a bus in last night's telecast from Chicago. Our problem stems from some misinformation "Red" gave to me in spring training, then a lie he spewed about me to reporters over the weekend. He likes to use his access to me, his son, as a way of drawing attention to himself. (Hey, I credit him for doing this and not Munchausen by Proxy.)<br /><br />I called him out in my post yesterday, after protecting him for a month, for giving me the embarrassing misinformation in spring training, which I blogged about and which subsequently became a big deal due to my inaccuracies. By all turns furious with my "outrageous behavior," (his words last night), "Red" spoke on the air last night about me as if I was the devil himself. Here's part of what he said:<br /><br />Red: That Jimmy... He's a piece of work. Maybe if he worked a little harder he'd be in Chicago tonight with the team instead of languishing away with his computer in Nashville.<br /><br />If I had been in the booth with him, here's what I would have said:<br /><br />Me: Shut up.<br /><br />Our conversation would have continued like this:<br /><br />Red: No, Jimmy. You've never worked as hard as I did at baseball.<br />Me: Maybe because I had talent.<br />Red: And where did you get it?<br />Me: Mom.<br />Red: Not true. Your mother can't even hold a hot dog right side up.<br />Me: I thought hot dogs were based on the horizontal principal of -<br />Red: My point is you are who you are and you are where you are today because of me.<br />Me: I'm not really in this booth with you. This is a fantasy.<br />Red: You can't even fantasize right. If I were you fantasizing right now, I'd be in Angelina Jolie's bed, not in a booth.<br />Me: I'm not tired.<br />Red: Wisenheimer.<br />Me: How can I be who I am if I'm nice and don't use people.<br />Red: All you do is use people. You're a big league ballplayer. It's in the job description. You blow your nose and somebody picks it up for you.<br />Me: The tissue, you mean.<br />Red: Huh?<br />Me: Paraphrasing, you said my nose, if blown, would end up on the -<br />Red: Why don't you just play baseball? Quit with the blogging. Quit with drawing attention to yourself. Play the game.<br />Me: Said the man who draws attention to himself like Michelangelo.<br />Red: I do it for you.<br />Me: You embarrassed me in front of the whole world.<br />Red: Did not.<br />Me: Did too.<br />Red: You deserved it.<br />Me: You know in court, your last phrase would mean you admitted to embarrassing me.<br />Red: So what?<br />Me: More admission of guilt.<br />Red: I'm going to the bathroom.<br />Me: Lotta good this fantasy did for me today.<br />Red: Yeah.<br /><br />He's an upsetting man. You can't win with him. But in this case, he thinks he's got the last word. I added up how many people were exposed to his "last words" last night:<br /><br />NYS Telecast: 350,000 viewers<br />Print Media Coverage: 1.4 million<br />Web Media Coverage: 6.75 million<br />YouTube: 679 hits (as of 4:35 EST today)<br /><br />I average 647,000 hits on this blog daily. Add that to all of the numbers above, then subtract 679, and I'm ahead. If he was a better man, he'd pledge $1 to charity for every viewer on NYS who hears his reaction to this post tomorrow (the game is in progress in Chicago, so he won't get this in before it ends - burn on him). He's not a better man, nor is he rich, so the charities can keep their wallets closed. You won't see a dime from the guy.<br /><br />Still, Mom always said to be better than Dad in everything - baseball, marriage, life in general. Hmm. Maybe that's where I got "it" from. <br /><br />Let's revisit my broadcast booth fantasy:<br /><br />Red - My point, again, is you are who you are today because of me.<br />Me - You forgot one thing - Mom. Well, she's not a thing. She's a person. But what I'm trying to say is I got everything from her. She made me better than you. You only served as a benchmark for me to achieve my greatness.<br />Red - (sitting in thought, scratching is gray hair that was never, ever red) See. I was a benchmark. Without me, you're nothing.<br />Me - I'm going to the bathroom.<br />Red - Lotta good this fantasy revisit did for you.<br />Me - Yeah.<br /><br />Bottom line - I love you Mom. Dad, I love you too. I can't stand you, but I love you. Say what you want on the air. Try to ruin my blogdom (instead of kingdom, which he thinks I want by blogging). Try to make me in your image by talking to the press and doing all the things every other baseball player since Jesus (I hear He had an awesome splitter) has done. Try not to let me be an individual. I don't care. I am who I am. It has nothing to do with you. And it probably never will.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a name="a2a_dd" onmouseover="a2a_show_dropdown(this)" onmouseout="a2a_onMouseOut_delay()" href="http://www.addtoany.com/?linkname=High%20%26%20Tight&linkurl=http%3A//jimmyscottshighandtight.blogspot.com/&type=page"><b>Add to any service</b></a><script type="text/javascript">a2a_linkname="High & Tight";a2a_linkurl="http://jimmyscottshighandtight.blogspot.com/";</script><script type="text/javascript" src="http://www.addtoany.com/js.dropdown.js?type=page"></script></div>David Philphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03148557086767659583noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3247672241884114273.post-73145866411036165532008-04-21T12:35:00.003-04:002008-04-21T14:37:21.499-04:00My Broiling Self-Inflicted AngerLet me restate for the record (or CD, or mp3 if we're going to stay current and I'm going to feel "cool" amongst the younger crowd), I am not speaking to the press. The "press" in my case is defined as:<br /><br />1. Print media<br />2. Online media<br />3. Television media<br />4. Radio media<br />5. Telepathic media<br /><br />"Media" is defined as the stuff you read, watch, see, hear or sense, respectively.<br /><br />In other words, if you're in the media and you want a quote from Jimmy Scott (that's me), you need to come here.<br /><br />You know where you don't go? You don't go to my father, "Red" Scott, currently a TV analyst for the Vets' network, <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_0">NYS</span> (New York Sports). He's not my spokesman. Yes, he's the male reason for my birth, but since an incident in spring training, we haven't spoken.<br /><br />The incident? I've purposely not alluded to it over the last month out of respect for the elder Scott's new position at <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_1">NYS</span>. I didn't want him to get off to a bad start, even though he did something to me in March that made me look foolish for a news cycle and <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_2">bloggers</span> in general look irresponsible for two to three news cycles. It also showed this man's true colors, which are self-promotion first, family second.<br /><br />Back in March, "Red" told me that management was going to appoint Felipe Castro as team captain. I wrote about it, questioning the thinking on management's part while trying to support the decision, as Felipe is a great teammate who's currently going through the hell of wondering about the fate of his kidnapped mother in Venezuela every day. <br /><br />For my comments, I was broiled under a hot, fiery furnace. I was criticized as someone looking to promote one's self. Hey, I never denied the fact that a scoop would be cool. I thought I had a scoop because I trusted the then unidentified source. Instead, I was lied to and caused unnecessary friction within my clubhouse for a short time.<br /><br />Fast forward to today. Headlines in the NY Post and Daily News (just a note in <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_3">Newsday</span>) and North Jersey's Bergen Record state how my injury last year was self-inflicted. In a nutshell, the report states I caused the <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_4">UCL</span> in my pitching elbow to snap and ruin my 2007 season 2 pitches in on my own. Little did they realize my season was ruined 1 pitch in when Lyman Gaye hit it for a Home Run (that I believe is still traveling).<br /><br />The source of this new story? "Red" Scott, my father. He says I told him in the spring that, because I was out of shape at the start of the season last year, and my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_5">overweightness</span> (that's not a word, is it?) added undue stress to my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_6">UCL</span>. Pop! Out for the year because I'm fat. He says I said this to him. Read the articles. He's quoting me.<br /><br />Of course, my mailbox fills up in seconds on my cellphone with calls from local and national media from the 5 categories above (which is weird; the telepathic media shouldn't have to call if I can read their minds). I deleted each voicemail. My email in box filled quickly. All deleted (including, accidentally, an email with a great offer from a Nashville porn shoppe selling the best in Southern pornography [note: if you're from Nashville, you don't spell shop with two P's and an e]). Being in Albuquerque for our series against Albuquerque Sunshine, I'm a half-step further out of the loop than had I been in New York. Thus, this all came rather quickly and was a complete surprise.<br /><br />So, I'm due a rebuttal and some other remarks.<br /><br /><strong>JIMMY'S OFFICIAL REBUTTAL</strong><br /><strong></strong><br />I didn't arrive into 2007 camp out of shape. I didn't hurt myself in the first game of the year last year. By no means was my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_7">UCL</span> damage "self-inflicted." It hurt too much to be something I'd do to myself.<br /><br />What I think happened here is I told my father in the off season, while I was going through some contract issues with the team, that I was out of shape then. In November. I was fat and going bald. The baldness couldn't be helped (I'm told). The fatness could. Once our contract issues were ironed out, I worked my <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_8">tuckuss</span> off to get to spring training in good shape. I wasn't perfect, but I was damn close. Currently, I'd say I'm in the best physical shape I've been in for years. (Mentally I'm a mess, but that's neither here or there nor somewhere less fun than the aforementioned two.)<br /><br />In essence, my father either misheard comments I made (that gives him an easy out) or he twisted them to make this story (I was going to describe the word "story" as "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_9">cockamamied</span>," but I don't know how to spell "<span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_10">cockamamied</span>." [spell check helped, never mind]). Either way, they are false, untrue, and not something I ever said.<br /><br /><strong>END REBUTTAL HERE</strong><br /><strong></strong><br />"Red" and I have had our missteps over the years, but this is the first time that he's thrown me under a bus so publicly. He hurt me last month and he hurt me this weekend. I guess I'll be due again in May.<br /><br />Nevertheless, I put in a call to my super agent, Jack Perry, who put in a call to ownership. "Red" is out of control and needs to put a damper on his mouth. I can't imagine a father doing somethings like these to his son, then again, it's happened to me twice now so I should get a little more creative quickly.<br /><br />What does my mother think? Good question. I asked and here was her official response (media, please don't bug her, she has a good right hook):<br /><br />Dear Jimmy,<br /><br />I'm sorry your father behaved irrationally again. Next time you're together, I'll let you give him his medication, as much of it as you like. <br /><br />Love you,<br />Mom<br /><br />I think that about sums it up. My plan is to overdose my father into pulling a <span class="blsp-spelling-error" id="SPELLING_ERROR_11">Jimi</span> Hendrix.<br /><br />So now you have all of the official statements:<br /><br />1. From my dad, which was false.<br />2. From my mom, which gave me permission to medicate my father against his will.<br />3. From me, who is angry but feeling better now.<br /><br />If you have any questions, don't call. I'll just delete your voicemail. That goes for you too, "Red." Don't dial the number. It won't work for you.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a name="a2a_dd" onmouseover="a2a_show_dropdown(this)" onmouseout="a2a_onMouseOut_delay()" href="http://www.addtoany.com/?linkname=High%20%26%20Tight&linkurl=http%3A//jimmyscottshighandtight.blogspot.com/&type=page"><b>Add to any service</b></a><script type="text/javascript">a2a_linkname="High & Tight";a2a_linkurl="http://jimmyscottshighandtight.blogspot.com/";</script><script type="text/javascript" src="http://www.addtoany.com/js.dropdown.js?type=page"></script></div>David Philphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03148557086767659583noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3247672241884114273.post-87700978832493831662008-04-18T06:09:00.003-04:002008-04-18T06:42:38.077-04:00The Home TeamSeems like none of us can read a schedule. Vanessa came to visit Wednesday and was going to stay until Sunday. Now she's going to fly home Saturday morning because my Nashville Hounds have to fly to Albuquerque after Friday night's game. You could blame me for this scheduling screwup, since I don't really look at the schedule until the last minute, at least down here. In fact, I was in the act of being blamed when something happened.<br /><br />We got a knock on the door of my trailer Thursday night after the game. It was about 11:30 and we were just about to go to bed (I like games that end in less than 3 hours, especially games in which I don't pitch). Andy, my personal trainer turned security "detail," has a special knock that he uses. I thought this was one of them. I say "thought" because I can never remember which special knock he's using. He tells me, I look him straight in the eye and tell him I'm listening, then space out thinking about chunky tomato sauce or something.<br /><br />So...uh, oh yeah. Thursday night. A knock. "Maybe it's Andy," I said to Vanessa. She tells me to look out the window. I tell her I don't need to. I know his knock (even though I was extremely unsure). Thus, I open the door and...it's our (Vanessa's and mine, not Andy's and mine) two daughters, Alyssa and Grace, standing outside, shivering. I look around and don't see Andy anywhere. So much for security.<br /><br />Hugs are exchanged. Squeals of delight spew out of Vanessa. I smile because I haven't seen my girls since March 30th, almost 3 weeks. We sit down and I grill them:<br /><br />Me: How did you get here?<br />Alyssa: Plane.<br />Me: I mean, who arranged this trip?<br />Grace: Me. There's this think called the Internet.<br />Me: I've heard of it. Free porn, right?<br />Vanessa: Jimmy!<br />Me: How did you pay for your tickets?<br />Alyssa: We didn't.<br />Grace: You did.<br /><br />Instantly, I'm lost. I did? Just as I had forgotten Vanessa was going to come by the day before, had I forgotten my two spawn were going to come by tonight? Surely, Vanessa would have told me, or reminded me.<br /><br />Me: Surely, Vanessa, you would have told me or reminded me they were going to visit.<br />Vanessa: Yes, I would have.<br />Me: But you didn't.<br />Vanessa: Correct.<br />Me: (wrinkling my brow, desperately trying to figure this out)<br />Alyssa: It's not math, Dad. Surprise.<br />Me: That doesn't answer my question. How did you pay for this trip?<br />Grace: Ever heard of credit cards?<br />Me: Yes. (but said like a dufus)<br /><br />Silence. Nobody finished Grace's thought. It just floated in the air above us. <br /><br />Grace: What are you looking at?<br />Me: (looking down) Huh?<br />Alyssa: You gave us credit cards for Christmas. We used them to pay for our flight.<br />Me: (nodding and happy that the world was no longer shaped like an octagon)<br />Vanessa: Your father is tired and just misses you.<br />Me: Missed. They're right here. The missing is over.<br /><br />We talked for a while. They're doing well back in their own school. I didn't like the fact that they flew by themselves from Newark to Nashville. But it was still good to be together, the whole family, the four of us, in my trailer built for two - maximum.<br /><br />Me: (yawning) So where are you staying tonight?<br />Vanessa/Alyssa/Grace: Here.<br /><br />"Here." Another word that floated in the air above us.<br /><br />Grace: What are you looking at?<br />Me: (looking down) Here? <br />Vanessa: Where else?<br />Me: Has anybody seen how small this trailer is? Do you know who I am? I'm Jimmy Scott. Baseball star? You expect me to -<br />Vanessa: You can sleep in Andy's trailer.<br /><br />Knock knock. "What?" I said it was me. "Who?" I said it was me. Baseball star? Andy opened his door. "You didn't use the knock." I apologized. He looked at my blanket, my toothbrush and toothpaste, the pajamas draped over my frame. "What? Did Vanessa kick you out?" I told him about my visitors. "And?" I told him about the suggested sleeping arrangements. "Fine."<br /><br />Andy is a big man. He's not fat. Personal trainers aren't allowed to be fat, just like defensive ends in football aren't allowed to be skinny. Andy is just a big-boned, huge African-American man. "You ever play football back in the day?" I asked. He said no. Got in the way of his violin lessons.<br /><br />His trailer, about as nice as mine, which isn't exactly paradise on wheels, shook with every step he took. He showed me a couch where I could sleep, then turned off the lights and began to sing. (Andy's a great blues singer.)<br /><br />Andy: Take me, woman, to that place -<br />Me: Andy, you're singing.<br />Andy: - where you want to be. Take me, woman to-<br />Me: It's going on 1AM. We should probably sleep.<br />Andy: -that place where we're going. Oh, oh oh, oh...<br />Me: Do you sing yourself to sleep every night?<br /><br />Silence. At least this night, he did.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a name="a2a_dd" onmouseover="a2a_show_dropdown(this)" onmouseout="a2a_onMouseOut_delay()" href="http://www.addtoany.com/?linkname=High%20%26%20Tight&linkurl=http%3A//jimmyscottshighandtight.blogspot.com/&type=page"><b>Add to any service</b></a><script type="text/javascript">a2a_linkname="High & Tight";a2a_linkurl="http://jimmyscottshighandtight.blogspot.com/";</script><script type="text/javascript" src="http://www.addtoany.com/js.dropdown.js?type=page"></script></div>David Philphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03148557086767659583noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3247672241884114273.post-13890401506253956312008-04-17T06:03:00.009-04:002008-04-17T06:54:04.378-04:00The Pleasant Surprise That I Should Have RememberedWe won yesterday! My Nashville Hounds are now 3 and 11, but still only 5.5 games out of first place. While I won't be here for any championship run in August, they're still my team. These are my guys. It's like "Survivor" down here. You're constantly competing with each other to be the next winner (who gets called up to New York), yet each time somebody leaves (occasionally one of us gets cut or demoted), it's sad. We don't cry on camera, gently wiping the tears from our eyes so we don't mess our makeup. But we do feel a loss. I felt that way when Felipe Castro was called up last week, and he was only here for just under half a dozen games. I'll feel that way when I head north for good. These are my Hounds, my boys. Every one is a winner.<br /><br />I sound like the host of some children's TV show. "Every one of you won today, whether you have a trophy or disgraced your family name. Good luck in life. You're going to need it."<br /><br />Not sure if you sense it, but I'm a little giddy today. Not due to my performance on Wednesday. To get some good work in, I pitched both the 8th and 9th. The 8th was great. 1-2-3 inning. I needed that. The 9th, not as good. Leadoff HR and two more hits before getting out of it. 2 innings, 3 hits, 1 run. That's not good enough yet. However, the 8th is what I'll remember. I felt good and pitched well. Remember the good, forget the bad, but try to learn from it too. Complicated.<br /><br />The giddiness - don't worry, I remember - was brought on by... Oh, I won't spoil it for you. But this will help you know why I'll remember the 8th more than the 9th.<br /><br />I was sitting in the bullpen beginning in the 6th inning and saw somebody familiar behind home plate. I squinted and thought, "Damn, she looks familiar." Then I shook my head and tried to forget about it by spitting pistachio shells all over the place.<br /><br />Just before the 8th, I was throwing warmup pitches when the familiar woman caught my eye again. I froze, just as my catcher, Einer Rosario, threw the ball back to me, hitting me square in the chest. I dropped to the ground, everyone - I mean EVERYONE - came running. But I never took my eye off the familiar woman. Because I finally realized she was my wife, Vanessa. And I was supposed to meet her before the game. Hell, I was supposed to arrange to have somebody pick her up at the airport.<br /><br />Um, I forgot.<br /><br />Now you know why I froze.<br /><br />My chest will be fine. There's a bruise. It's sore, but only when I breathe. "Serves you right," my lovely spouse said to me after the game as I gave her a tour of the stadium (took about 3 minutes). I just smiled (without breathing). It was so great to be surprised by my wife's visit, even though it technically wasn't a surprise since she told me she was coming. I mean, she gave me all of her flight information, including arrival time. This wasn't supposed to be a surprise.<br /><br />But I forgot, so, uh, SURPRISE!!<br /><br />When I said, "What a fantastic surprise," to her, she wasn't sure what I was talking about for almost a full second. Then she shook her head in that You May Be 40 But You Still Need A Nanny To Look After You kind of way.<br /><br />She came down because she had missed my birthday over the weekend and also wanted to see the trailer that I'm living in in the Pepsi Field parking lot. Not sure if you've seen it. Here you go:<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZQVWkX-KNAZhqfYrx7fephqOXiybQjLi1xLUY8532vBXwC5Hb0S_n5QsB5PVU2r9EnunCuMfbrO1QSHU-xbcRLHFCPu1icMWhr3tiNYkpZS7rJQCpMygAziretZFttOLHRCRLkW9nh3I/s1600-h/Rockwood+Ultra+Lite+trailer.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190160759124438786" style="WIDTH: 250px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 150px" height="162" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZQVWkX-KNAZhqfYrx7fephqOXiybQjLi1xLUY8532vBXwC5Hb0S_n5QsB5PVU2r9EnunCuMfbrO1QSHU-xbcRLHFCPu1icMWhr3tiNYkpZS7rJQCpMygAziretZFttOLHRCRLkW9nh3I/s320/Rockwood+Ultra+Lite+trailer.jpg" width="272" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />Vanessa slept here last night. Did I mention (yes) a while back that it had two sinks? It does. And let me tell you: Two sinks in a bathroom saves a marriage.<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHn3htH1Lw-FTWa_PSwoirh3jd8E9oiIAOAtWYwWYsVpW4lKfIBc-GrznBs90wO0xkeU08vzltv0r8YGe5OfqMv87OkAxe8xHipx-i_HALpiZiLVPyooxHaIxucY8uyQet2V1FkC4qlEQ/s1600-h/Rockwood+Trailer+-+2+sinks.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190161274520514322" style="WIDTH: 151px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 91px" height="115" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhHn3htH1Lw-FTWa_PSwoirh3jd8E9oiIAOAtWYwWYsVpW4lKfIBc-GrznBs90wO0xkeU08vzltv0r8YGe5OfqMv87OkAxe8xHipx-i_HALpiZiLVPyooxHaIxucY8uyQet2V1FkC4qlEQ/s200/Rockwood+Trailer+-+2+sinks.jpg" width="219" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br />Vanessa got to meet my protege, Rey Marcos, who is 17 but looks 16. She asked me, around 10:30 last night, if Rey was ever going to leave. I told her yes. Around 11:15, she asked me again. I understood this time and asked Rey to leave by 11:45, after Vanessa said she was going to bed. Unfortunately, my trailer only has one room. <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2ptFeQ7hCen6whmEFdGcTuD3uMhWgAvcltxW0m_Tv45ouwKo6quMhFcsR9rZE2_Tn9E-MgeDmjQ9N9w5x2lqmLYDJJ62ZMx2F5mXiwIaSEQTxch3mP7FcfZxm5IAQ9JNVGag3k46C7Ps/s1600-h/Rockwood+Trailer+-+bedroom.jpg"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5190162648910049058" style="FLOAT: right; MARGIN: 0px 0px 10px 10px; CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh2ptFeQ7hCen6whmEFdGcTuD3uMhWgAvcltxW0m_Tv45ouwKo6quMhFcsR9rZE2_Tn9E-MgeDmjQ9N9w5x2lqmLYDJJ62ZMx2F5mXiwIaSEQTxch3mP7FcfZxm5IAQ9JNVGag3k46C7Ps/s320/Rockwood+Trailer+-+bedroom.jpg" border="0" /></a><br /><br />So in order for my spousal equivalent to sleep, I had to help Rey leave through the throng of groupies outside wearing thongs.<br /><br />I assume he made it home to his hotel room since I didn't get a call from his parents (who call me if they haven't heard from him in more than 5 hours) or the police.<br /><br />I went to bed happy, still giddy about the surprise visit from my wife. She's flying back to Newark Airport on Sunday morning, which will give us some much needed time together and also give her a break from her stalker "friend" Connie, who is as bad as ever. More on Connie tomorrow.<br /><br />But today, I'm giddy all over. It's nice to be loved, even if you can't remember that you are sometimes.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a name="a2a_dd" onmouseover="a2a_show_dropdown(this)" onmouseout="a2a_onMouseOut_delay()" href="http://www.addtoany.com/?linkname=High%20%26%20Tight&linkurl=http%3A//jimmyscottshighandtight.blogspot.com/&type=page"><b>Add to any service</b></a><script type="text/javascript">a2a_linkname="High & Tight";a2a_linkurl="http://jimmyscottshighandtight.blogspot.com/";</script><script type="text/javascript" src="http://www.addtoany.com/js.dropdown.js?type=page"></script></div>David Philphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03148557086767659583noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3247672241884114273.post-46581611927779458122008-04-16T06:14:00.003-04:002008-04-16T06:51:40.917-04:00Throwing UpI am so sick. Not the doctor's note, all day TV watching, toilet-hugging, people feeling sorry for me, oh my God he's passed out on the floor call 9-11, somebody get a lone scientist to research and find a cure before it's too late kind of sick. No, I can breathe through my nose, eat a horse and sleep all night without getting up to pee once. My problem is I'm sick of me. Here, in my trailer overlooking the Pepsi Field parking lot (and my security agent Andy's trailer), after my protege, 17 year old wunderkind Rey Marcos has left to return to his hotel room - alone - so he doesn't catch a venereal disease from some Nashville Hounds groupie, I reflect on my stay here in Nashville and feel sick. <br /><br />I keep throwing up. That's my biggest problem. I keep throwing up.<br /><br />The ball, that is.<br /><br />The reason I'm here with the Hounds is to gain arm strength so I can pitch one inning a game 4 times a week. Oh, it would also be a help if, when I pitched, I could get batters out. My arm strength is good. I pitched three times last week and pitched Sunday and Tuesday so far this week. I'll pitch tonight, Wednesday, to satisfy the back-to-back days criteria, then pitch Friday or Saturday. There. I'm plenty strong. Take me back New York. I want to eat a horse and sleep in my own bed again.<br /><br />Only...<br /><br />I'm throwing up all the time. I stand on the mound, go into my windup (or motion, you choose your own word for it), and release the ball from my pitching hand. The ball should slither around in the air before landing at or below the knees of the batter.<br /><br />The ball is landing in the parking lot, denting my trailer.<br /><br />Because I keep throwing up.<br /><br />For a pitcher, the "release point" is hugely important. Where the ball leaves the fingers makes all the difference between its dropping low or rising high. My ball keeps rising. It rises twice lately: Once when I release it and a second time when the batter hits it to Kingdom Come.<br /><br />My record so far down here:<br /><br />Games: 6<br />Innings Pitched: 4.2<br />Strikeouts: 1<br />Walks: 4<br />Hits: 11<br />Home Runs Allowed: 5<br />ERA: 19.28<br />Saves: 1<br />Won/Loss: 0/3<br /><br />My ERA is actually 19.29 because the math equates to 19.2857142857. But I didn't want to round up after the .28. It's too depressing.<br /><br />My health is fine. Really. There is no pain. I feel good in the locker room before the game. I feel good on the field before the game. I feel good sitting in the bullpen during the game. I feel even better warming up during the game. I feel good jogging out to the mound. Physically, I mean. Mentally, I feel horrible jogging out to the mound because the whole time I'm getting booed. That's stinky, to get booed. Yes, it's the minors but, man, who wants to get booed? But the jog keeps me loose and I feel great on the mound throwing my last warmup pitches.<br /><br />As soon as the batter jumps into that box, I feel awful. I feel like throwing up (the puking kind here). Nerves, I tell myself. Just nerves. "You want it so badly, but just relax," a little voice says in my mind. I'm unsure whose voice it is, because mine is kind of high and whiny. This one is low and mature with a hint of debonair. I think it's George Clooney's voice. It's deep and sounds like the speaker has gray hair. Yeah, it's got to be Clooney. We've never met, but I hear he used to be a big fan. Of something. Probably not me. Because the voice doesn't relax me, I still want to throw up (the puking kind), and then I go into my motion (or windup, your choice) and let the ball leave my fingers.<br /><br />BAM!!!<br /><br />There it goes. Don't break a window in my trailer.<br /><br />Bobby Spencer is the New York pitching coach. He called me this morning and told me he's been watching film of me. "Everything's perfect," he said. "Your windup, or motion, depending upon how you want to describe it, is a-ok. Release point is fine. I think it's your arm slot that's giving you problems."<br /><br />Oh, it's my arm slot.<br /><br />An arm slot is the angle your arm flies through the air to help propel a baseball out of your fingers. He thinks my arm slot is too close to overhand. "You're at about 86 degrees," Bobby said. (He's a pure techno-geek.) "You want 77."<br /><br />So tonight - whoa, wait a minute. Our game today is at noon!!! Let me rephrase. Today, sometime between noon and 3:00, I will try for a 77 degree arm slot. Maybe that will keep me from throwing up (the baseball kind).<br /><br />Because if I don't fix this soon, I'm going to need to hug a toilet and throw up for real. This whole rehab process is starting to make me sick.<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a name="a2a_dd" onmouseover="a2a_show_dropdown(this)" onmouseout="a2a_onMouseOut_delay()" href="http://www.addtoany.com/?linkname=High%20%26%20Tight&linkurl=http%3A//jimmyscottshighandtight.blogspot.com/&type=page"><b>Add to any service</b></a><script type="text/javascript">a2a_linkname="High & Tight";a2a_linkurl="http://jimmyscottshighandtight.blogspot.com/";</script><script type="text/javascript" src="http://www.addtoany.com/js.dropdown.js?type=page"></script></div>David Philphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03148557086767659583noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3247672241884114273.post-15025964331765270832008-04-15T09:49:00.007-04:002008-04-15T10:57:31.118-04:00The Union ArmyIf you listen closely, you can hear the drum beats coming from both sides, union and management, as our <a href="http://mlbballplayers.mlb.com/pa/pdf/cba_english.pdf">Basic Agreement </a>comes to a close very soon. Too soon for fans. You know the story: management wants a salary cap, knows they'll never get it, so they don't ask for it anymore. But they have to ask for something. Thus, they speak of removing teams or arbitration or free agency. Maybe updating the drug policy again so the players don't get aspirin budgets anymore. Their strategy is this: The more they ask for, the better chance they'll get <em>something</em>. Anything, really, is what they want.<br /><br /><br />The game is going through a renaissance. Revenues are through the retractable roof. More fans came to games in 2007 than ever before, and the projection for 2008 is even better. TV revenues and ratings have grown. Money from the Internet is busting owners' pockets. Finally, the value of teams grows greater with each fan who passes through a metal detector on their way into stadiums. Yes, it's a great time to be an owner.<br /><br /><br />Yet, the union is wary of all this good news. We're like old farm animals, poked and prodded and screwed over so many times (not sure anymore if the farm animals reference is a good one anymore). There's got to be something coming, something not good (meaning bad).<br /><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi47JiHrUES8QT9AXZtD4_gR4hct1Izqzt3RCGmXghbDvtvvR5bgEVJl0dvX8qw0PZNdKHGmqzolRegQau_o_O57r3wY_LAvmUXk_9lY6DCoQI8GLCxSLx3NSPu9pi8U5ylHJoAaZxPzlc/s1600-h/pigs.bmp"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189476652438564594" style="WIDTH: 151px; CURSOR: hand; HEIGHT: 100px" height="140" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi47JiHrUES8QT9AXZtD4_gR4hct1Izqzt3RCGmXghbDvtvvR5bgEVJl0dvX8qw0PZNdKHGmqzolRegQau_o_O57r3wY_LAvmUXk_9lY6DCoQI8GLCxSLx3NSPu9pi8U5ylHJoAaZxPzlc/s320/pigs.bmp" width="170" border="0" /></a><br />Pigs<br /><br /><br />One, or you, could say that the union is just being paranoid. Maybe. But I don't think there will ever be complete trust between ownership and the union. I mentioned how we've been screwed so many times, right? It's like if a spouse cheats on another and gets caught. If the one who didn't cheat takes the cheater back, the marriage is still marred, scarred, and two steps closer to over than ever before. The trust can never completely return, no matter how long you (or one) stay together.<br /><br />In the ownership/union relationship, we'll be married forever. There's no option for divorce here. They've colluded, they've made cuts in people, salaries, they've supported us as we did performance enhancing drugs, then publicly scorned us for doing so. If this were a church, they'd spend most of their time in confession.<br /><br />Not that the players are exactly angels. We are the ones, after all, who actually took the performance enhancers. We are the ones who've gotten hurt so many times that certain owners have lost enough money to get out of the game entirely. A greater percentage of players have been arrested than owners. And it's not like we're exactly loyal to the people who pay us either. As soon as a guy can be a free agent, 8 times out of 10 he leaves for more money. We're not saints by any means.<br /><br />Still, we know to be prepared. Howard Phillips, our esteemed head of the union for the last 25 years, has sent to us a memo stating they're going to begin keeping a portion of every paycheck we receive in an escrow fund so that, in case of lockout or strike, we'll have money to live off of. You're thinking, probably out loud, how can millionaires be afraid of not having enough money for a few months? The answer is this: We're not smart. The owners are smart. Howard Phillips is smart. Players? Bowling balls are sharper than the majority of us. We're great at throwing and hitting baseballs, but we're terrible at money management. We're terrible at self-control. We're even worse at finding someone to control us or our money. Either we don't listen to a solid money pro and screw ourselves or we trust the wrong money pro and get screwed. In other words (heads up cat burglars), there are lots of pillow cases in the homes of big league ballplayers stuffed with wads of cash.<br /><br />My side on all this is a little more complicated. I am a player, obviously. Always have been. But since billionaire Charlie Walker gifted the Nashville Hounds, the Vets' AAA affiliate, to my charity, I'm technically an owner. Even more technically, I'm not an owner because the charity runs the team since I'm not allowed to play and also own a team, be it big league or minor league. However, let's put all technicalities aside. It's in my, and the charity's, best interests for the team revenues and value to rise in an inverse ratio to player salaries and costs. Thus, I'm on the player's side when it comes to the National Baseball League and the owners' side when it comes to the National Baseball Minor League. See what I mean? It's complicated.<br /><br />Lots of you would prefer that I keep these problems to myself and just play some friggin' baseball. The Veterans are playing under .500 ball and the Hounds are 2 and 7. I'm no good luck charm, certainly, at this point in the season. But this is how baseball works. It's a terrible, awful cliche that 8 out of 10 free agents like to say, but here I go: Baseball is a business.<br /><br />Thanks for letting me use my daily cliche. I feel liberated.<br /><br />Continuing...<br /><br />I'm a flag flying carrier of my union membership card. I flash it whenever I get into trouble. The union army has always been there to save my buttocks from whatever jam I got myself into. I want the army to know that I stand by them. My allegiance is to the union first, the game second - which is dumb because if there is no game, there's no point in a union. But, as I mentioned, whoever said ballplayers were smart?<br /><br />I can't imagine there will be a strike or a lockout this year. Which means there will probably be a strike or a lockout this year. I hope not. But you never know. That's why it's good to be prepared. My union is going to be prepared. What about yours?<div class="blogger-post-footer"><a name="a2a_dd" onmouseover="a2a_show_dropdown(this)" onmouseout="a2a_onMouseOut_delay()" href="http://www.addtoany.com/?linkname=High%20%26%20Tight&linkurl=http%3A//jimmyscottshighandtight.blogspot.com/&type=page"><b>Add to any service</b></a><script type="text/javascript">a2a_linkname="High & Tight";a2a_linkurl="http://jimmyscottshighandtight.blogspot.com/";</script><script type="text/javascript" src="http://www.addtoany.com/js.dropdown.js?type=page"></script></div>David Philphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03148557086767659583noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3247672241884114273.post-71552080244049947602008-04-14T06:16:00.008-04:002008-04-14T07:38:16.555-04:00My Protege<div><div>I'm not sure if I ever gave you my line about how stalking is really just an intense form of goal-setting. But I figured out a little more. Many times the goal-setting stalker is really an opportunity for the stalkee to develop your own personal protege. I've rarely had them on the big club. The older you get as a player, the more the press makes of the fact that this player or that player has been taken under some older veteran's wing. Maybe sometimes, but in general, there is not too much wing undertaking. </div><div><br /></div><div></div><div>A lot of younger players come up and either 1) Think their hot sh*t and don't want to listen to coaches, much less their teammates, or 2) Are so scared they don't want to ask too many questions for fear of rousing suspicion that maybe, just maybe, they don't belong in the big leagues.</div><div><br /></div><div></div><div>Meanwhile, most older veterans are desperate to hang onto their careers. The few who want to seriously go into coaching eventually realize that, to coach, you have to be able to speak with players other than the ones who look back at you in a mirror. But otherwise, the generations stick together in the clubhouse, just like the Spanish-speaking guys stick together and the religious right guys stick together.</div><div><br /></div><div></div><div>Down here in the minor leagues, it's not much different. The veterans down here on rehab assignments don't want to forge too many relationships because 1) They don't want to jinx themselves into thinking they'll be spending more time in the minors than they need, and 2) They're pissed off that they're in the minor leagues and can't get over themselves.</div><div><br /></div><div></div><div>Meanwhile, the young guys are usually too shy to walk up to the veteran guys down here for a cup of coffee and ask questions. It's just like high school. The career minor leaguers are the dorks, the geeks are the guys in the minors dying to make it all the way to the top and the most popular guys are the ones who are down for a week or two rehabbing a hamstring or rotator cuff.</div><div><br />Since we all knew I'd be down in Nashville for up to four weeks (it's already been two, but who's counting) and then, by weirdness and unfortunate illness, I ended up indirectly owning the Nashville Hounds, I've gotten more attention from the players on this team than most guys down here temporarily do. For example, Felipe Lopez was here for 6 days and 5 games. He was called up to New York after yesterday's game (we won and are now 2 and 9, not a good way to start the season). We all knew Felipe was going to be here for a week at most. He's a shy guy anyway, plus his mother still being held against her will somewhere in Venezuela made it hard for guys to go up to him and ask if they should stand in a batters box with their feet 18 inches apart or 19. </div><div><br />A number of players have spoken to me and tried to ask questions, but most kind of fade away out of fear that my Hall of Fame pedigree (you know how great I am, right?) will force me to appear surly and nasty. Then there's Rey Marcose.</div><div> </div><div>Rey Marcos is not the protege I expected to have stalk, I mean, follow me around constantly. For starters, he's not a pitcher. He a shortstop. Second, he's 17 years old. I turned 40 on Saturday (virtually unrecognized beyond a Happy Birthday wish on the scoreboard - I guess even the coaching staff didn't want to pull a prank on me, like leave 40 turds in my new underwear or something [disgusting, but you weren't there for my 30th]). Let me re-read. I got lost in all my () and []... Uh...okay. So, we're talking about Rey Marcos, the 17 year old wonderboy shortstop who's now my protege. Another weird thing about our relationship. He doesn't speak one word of English. Totally serious. The team has an academy and a whole bunch of systems set up so young Latino guys coming up through the minors can learn English and basic life skills, like not to spend all their money at McDonald's (that's true - some Latino American guys make it to America and only eat McDonald's for their first six months, thus they gain 15 pounds that sure as hell ain't muscle). Rey Marcos has passed through the system so fast, he hasn't had a chance to learn how to speak English. When he sits down with me, it's like I'm Robinson Crusoe and he's Friday. I'm stranded down here, he's my only friend, so it's up to me to teach him English. </div><div><br />There are more parallels to the Robinson Crusoe metaphor. Like how I made my home in the jungle, only the jungle in my sense is the parking lot of Pepsi Field, where the Hounds play. My trailer is like my treehouse, only there are only three steps from asphalt to entrance (I have a fear of heights, except when I'm on airplanes - go figure). Rey hangs out all the time, then leaves for his hotel room somewhere nearby. There are people we need to be afraid of, generally groupies who want to find their way into the trailer and are thwarted off by Andy, my personal trainer turned security guard who now has his own trailer right next to mine (the team made Andy pay $750 to park for the month, which, of course, I'm paying since I'm the one who asked Andy to provide security for me. And, of course, I'm not really paying the $750, since New York is paying it, knowing I needed security (and knowing they're saving $$$$ since I bought my own trailer and didn't rent a house or suite at the Hilton for the month on their dime). Thus, New York is, in effect, paying Nashville for Andy to park in the parking lot. And since I, in effect, own the Hounds, New York is, in effect, paying me. Here's how the structure of payment looks:</div><div><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN9JypqICvlO5RU3RQvd4x70-hSgVNeLwIJDl4IqYGCusMkLbl-JXU5COslRYypZ5-luB1qE0wLt02ZOIcSpqY0TNiz5Gf7BgINR67vQLATfg5RxpbhfSoUFrw3ML2Y9QpAjKd1obPLjI/s1600-h/Org+Chart.gif"><img id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5189056849450151650" style="CURSOR: hand" alt="" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhN9JypqICvlO5RU3RQvd4x70-hSgVNeLwIJDl4IqYGCusMkLbl-JXU5COslRYypZ5-luB1qE0wLt02ZOIcSpqY0TNiz5Gf7BgINR67vQLATfg5RxpbhfSoUFrw3ML2Y9QpAjKd1obPLjI/s320/Org+Chart.gif" border="0" /></a><br /></div><div></div><div><br />I got lost again using () and []. I didn't use any {} and refuse to use <>. One day, maybe I'll use a full blog of . But that's way in the future, probably when Rey Marcos is playing in New York full time.</div><div> </div><div>See how I got back on track? I'm a smarty pants.</div><div> </div><div>Jimmy Scott continues...</div><div> </div><div>Rey hangs with me and watches me eat. He watches me not talk to the press after games (some here think I'm a bad influence on him in that capacity). He watches me blog. No, his head doesn't rest on my shoulder as I type, but he's there, lurking, eyes always watching... Spooky, huh?</div><div> </div><div>But he's a good kid. I've heard him speak on the phone with his parents in the Dominican. They allegedly invited me down for dinner sometime. Funny how I've played with so many guys from other countries and never, ever been invited to their homes. Maybe it's because I never invited them to mine. I'll ask Vanessa tonight when we talk on the phone, after Rey has left and headed back through the throng of groupies to his room, alone, the way I explained in my broken Spanish he should sleep. Hey, at 17 I would have done anything to have groupies want a piece of me. But I was a junior in high school with zits on my face and a fastball that was just being found. I didn't date (any relationship I had with a girl lasted no more than 2 weeks before she/they broke up with me on account of them not liking me anymore and, possibly, never liking me in the first place). Rey could have a "date" every night if he wanted. I'm teaching him not to. I was a father at 24 (while married, I was still a little young). I don't want Rey, with his lack of English and American life skills, to be a father at 17.</div><div> </div><div>So now you know about my protege. He's hitting .419 with 2 HRs and 5 stolen bases. No errors. The plan is for him to play here and get called up in September. He'll probably be up sooner. So after I'm back in New York by May 1, I may have my protege with me before the summer is over. Maybe I'll have a chance to invite my first Dominican teammate over to my house for a nice dinner.<br /><br /></div><div></div></div><div class="blogger-post-footer"><a name="a2a_dd" onmouseover="a2a_show_dropdown(this)" onmouseout="a2a_onMouseOut_delay()" href="http://www.addtoany.com/?linkname=High%20%26%20Tight&linkurl=http%3A//jimmyscottshighandtight.blogspot.com/&type=page"><b>Add to any service</b></a><script type="text/javascript">a2a_linkname="High & Tight";a2a_linkurl="http://jimmyscottshighandtight.blogspot.com/";</script><script type="text/javascript" src="http://www.addtoany.com/js.dropdown.js?type=page"></script></div>David Philphttp://www.blogger.com/profile/03148557086767659583noreply@blogger.com0