They're Calling Me Barbara

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

NEWSPAPER GUY (NPG)

NPG: Hey, Jimmy, I listened to your Mike Marshall interview.

Me: Doctor.

NPG: Well, yeah. Dr. Mike Marshall.

Me: It's what he is.

NPG: Anyway, I think -

Me: No, there's no "anyway" here. He's a doctor. He's got a PhD. What's so bad about that?

NPG: Nothin.

Me: Do you have a PhD?

NPG: No.

Me: Neither do I. That makes us both idiots.

NPG: May I quote you, Barbara?

Me: No. And don't call me Barbara.

OUTFIELDER (OF)

OF: (rattailing my naked buttocks)

Me: Ouch. What is this, summer camp?

OF: Why don't you quit your pitching job and take a gig with ESPN?

Me: It doesn't pay as well.

OF: Really, Barbara?

Me: Who's Barbara?

OF: You. You're a little Barbara Walters.

Me: I'm probably taller than her.

OF: Still -

Me: And heavier.

OF: You and -

Me: But she probably has more hair. Even though she's pretty old now.

OF: Why don't you get her on your show?

Me: Why don't you?

OF: Nice comeback. Where'd you think that one up, summer camp?

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

MANAGER (RICK CHURCHES)

Rick: Jimmy take a seat.

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

Me: (sitting without a wisecrack)

Rick: What's this about you wanting to retire?

Me: I don't want to retire.

Rick: You're going to be forced into it if you don't lay off the computer stuff and start spending some time on pitching.

Me: How much time a day can I throw a ball?

Rick: It's more than throwing. It's watching video. It's studying the other team.

Me: All right, let's say that takes up 3 hours of my day.

Rick: It's getting into top physical shape.

Me: Add another 2 hours

Rick: You don't work out 2 hours a day.

Me: Yes I do. You just can't see my raging abs. My clothes are big.

Rick: I'm saying your focus should be here, on this team and on this game.

Me: I'm saying that if you take the 5 hours a day of prep work for this gig we call baseball, and then -

Rick: There's the game itself too. Add in another 3 hours.

Me: 4 if it's Interleague. My point is, you take 6 hours out of 24 and that leaves... Umm...

Rick: 18 hours.

Me: Good! That's a lot of hours of nothingness. I can blog then and interview people and talk about what I'm going to do when I retire.

Rick: Do you want to retire?

Me: No.

Rick: Then put your focus on the game. You won't have to anytime soon if you pay more attention to baseball.

Me: We're starting to run in circles.

Rick: At least you'd be working out, Barbara.

POTENTIAL PODCAST INTERVIEW CANDIDATE (PPC)

PPC: No, don't interview me.

Me: Why?

PPC: I don't want to do interviews with the media. Why would I want to do one with a ballplayer.

Me: It could be fun.

PPC: Who do you think you are, Barbara Walters?

Me: No.

PPC: I'll pass.

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

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

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

Red: What's this about you interviewing people?

Me: I'm interviewing people.

Red: I heard.

Me: Good.

Red: Why?

Me: Put down the microphone.

Red: Hmm?

Me: I'll talk to you off the record.

Red: We are off the record.

Me: So put down the microphone then.

Red: It's off. Don't you trust me.

Me: No.

Red: What kind of man can't trust his own father?

Me: The kind of man whose father is untrustworthy.

Red: You think you're better than me?

Me: No. Wait, let me rephrase. Yes, I do.

Red: You're not. You're just like me.

Me: I'm not like you at all. Why do you always try to lump in my extracurricular activities with the way you've treated your family since the day the earth cooled off from its origins as a flaming fireball.

Red: Speaking of flaming fireballs, they're calling you Barbara. Did you know that?

Me: Yes.

Red: It bugs you, doesn't it?

Me: Put the microphone down.

Red: Call you mother. She'd like to talk to you. Give me 5 minutes to prepare.

Me: You're not taping my call with Mom. That's illegal.

Red: Oh. Good day.

Me: Good day.

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

When Going Public Backfires

The 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."

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.

Because...

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.

So that has angered him. But it isn't the sole reason for the horror-inducing text message. There's more.

There were two voicemails on my cellphone that I didn't mention earlier. Both were from my super agent, Jack Perry. The first:

Jack: Jimmy, call me.

The second:

Jack: Call me now.

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.

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.

Me: (unintelligible choking sound)
Jack: You didn't call me.
Me: (more choking)
Jack: Swallow, please.

I guess you can now tell Jack has heard me answer the phone with a neck full of food before.

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?
Jack: You didn't call me.
Me: Yet. I hadn't called you yet.
Jack: Don't get all tense with me.
Me: You're funny when you make jokes about the English language.
Jack: Huh?

Great agent - a super agent. Terrible sense of humor. Just ask one of his three ex-wives.

Jack: Got a call from Mrs. Delaney tonight. She owns your team.
Me: I have heard of the woman.
Jack: She wants you and your father to make nice immediately or he's going to be suspended or fired.
Me: But nothing will happen to me?
Jack: You'll feel really guilty.

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).

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.

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.

"Dad," I said, "it's me. I'm sorry."

Public squabble over.

"Red" Scott

There 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.

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.)

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:

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.

If I had been in the booth with him, here's what I would have said:

Me: Shut up.

Our conversation would have continued like this:

Red: No, Jimmy. You've never worked as hard as I did at baseball.
Me: Maybe because I had talent.
Red: And where did you get it?
Me: Mom.
Red: Not true. Your mother can't even hold a hot dog right side up.
Me: I thought hot dogs were based on the horizontal principal of -
Red: My point is you are who you are and you are where you are today because of me.
Me: I'm not really in this booth with you. This is a fantasy.
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.
Me: I'm not tired.
Red: Wisenheimer.
Me: How can I be who I am if I'm nice and don't use people.
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.
Me: The tissue, you mean.
Red: Huh?
Me: Paraphrasing, you said my nose, if blown, would end up on the -
Red: Why don't you just play baseball? Quit with the blogging. Quit with drawing attention to yourself. Play the game.
Me: Said the man who draws attention to himself like Michelangelo.
Red: I do it for you.
Me: You embarrassed me in front of the whole world.
Red: Did not.
Me: Did too.
Red: You deserved it.
Me: You know in court, your last phrase would mean you admitted to embarrassing me.
Red: So what?
Me: More admission of guilt.
Red: I'm going to the bathroom.
Me: Lotta good this fantasy did for me today.
Red: Yeah.

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:

NYS Telecast: 350,000 viewers
Print Media Coverage: 1.4 million
Web Media Coverage: 6.75 million
YouTube: 679 hits (as of 4:35 EST today)

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.

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.

Let's revisit my broadcast booth fantasy:

Red - My point, again, is you are who you are today because of me.
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.
Red - (sitting in thought, scratching is gray hair that was never, ever red) See. I was a benchmark. Without me, you're nothing.
Me - I'm going to the bathroom.
Red - Lotta good this fantasy revisit did for you.
Me - Yeah.

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.

My Broiling Self-Inflicted Anger

Let 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:

1. Print media
2. Online media
3. Television media
4. Radio media
5. Telepathic media

"Media" is defined as the stuff you read, watch, see, hear or sense, respectively.

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.

You know where you don't go? You don't go to my father, "Red" Scott, currently a TV analyst for the Vets' network, NYS (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.

The incident? I've purposely not alluded to it over the last month out of respect for the elder Scott's new position at NYS. 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 bloggers 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.

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.

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.

Fast forward to today. Headlines in the NY Post and Daily News (just a note in Newsday) and North Jersey's Bergen Record state how my injury last year was self-inflicted. In a nutshell, the report states I caused the UCL 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).

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 overweightness (that's not a word, is it?) added undue stress to my UCL. Pop! Out for the year because I'm fat. He says I said this to him. Read the articles. He's quoting me.

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.

So, I'm due a rebuttal and some other remarks.

JIMMY'S OFFICIAL REBUTTAL

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 UCL damage "self-inflicted." It hurt too much to be something I'd do to myself.

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 tuckuss 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.)

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 "cockamamied," but I don't know how to spell "cockamamied." [spell check helped, never mind]). Either way, they are false, untrue, and not something I ever said.

END REBUTTAL HERE

"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.

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.

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):

Dear Jimmy,

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.

Love you,
Mom

I think that about sums it up. My plan is to overdose my father into pulling a Jimi Hendrix.

So now you have all of the official statements:

1. From my dad, which was false.
2. From my mom, which gave me permission to medicate my father against his will.
3. From me, who is angry but feeling better now.

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.

Fathers & Sons

My dad, "Red" Scott, is already down here at camp. Since he's a broadcaster on the TV side, which means he won't have any games to broadcast for another two weeks, he doesn't need to be here. You're not going to see anyone from the networks who do games down here until maybe 2 days before their first one. Why? There's nothing to see right now. We're just doing drills, taking BP, throwing off a mound, running, running and running. Even the fans think it's boring. I'm serious. I signed an autograph for a kid yesterday, he's maybe 9 years old, and I asked if he had fun watching us. "I guess so," he said. "But why'd you did it for so long?"

You could say my dad's down here because this will be his first year on the team's network and he wants to make a good impression by knowing everything there is to know about our ballclub. If someone's timing is off, he'll know. If someone's lost a little something on his fastball, he'll know. If someone's quietly impressing the coaching staff, he'll know.

But he won't.

How do I know? First, he's my dad. He loves to say "Can of corn" for ground balls. That's his trademark line, "Can of corn." I read his book of the same name a few years ago. Yes, I was the one. Let's just say I'm glad I got my copy at 30% off retail. No, "Red" (quotation marks his) is down here for one thing - to break his son into talking on the record to the media. Who's his son? Me. Who's the media? Him.

There are a few reasons why "Red" took this job. New York is the top market (not the highest-paying, however, if you're a TV guy working for a regional sports network) for viewers. Ego is big with the men in my family. The more people who hear what we say (or in my case read), the better we feel about ourselves (and in my case the easier I can accept slowly, but surely, going bald). If we have something really great to say, like "I have an exclusive Jimmy Scott interview," then the viewership numbers grow in line with the ego, since Jimmy Scott (me) isn't speaking to the media. Of course, there's pride too. "Red" never played in New York. It's probably the one market he never had anything to do with as a player or broadcaster. Now he can take it off of his life's To Do list.

But pride is related to ego, and in my dad's case, they're both related to someone he's related to: me. Again, how do I know? I've been down here 6 days now. "Red" has been down here for 3. Who's been at my locker at the end of every workout with a microphone and camera crew? You guessed it. Who hasn't read the sign I hung from my locker ("No interviews today - especially any with "Red" Scott")? Who didn't listen to Ted Feldman, the team's overworked P.R. guy, and get the lowdown on my dealings with the press this season (which will be none; it's a short lowdown conversation)?

Athletes, especially famous ones who've won lots of championships, are heavily desired meal tickets. If you can get through to us, you're usually halfway there. I can't tell you how many "deals" people have offered me, deals that benefit the dealmaker much more than me. I can't tell you how much money I would have lost over the years if I'd listened. You always hear and see how the young, big, strong athletes have their posses with them, their hangers-on, their yes crowd. But you know who's worse than any high school pal who shows up on a famous athlete's doorstep after zero contact for 22 years? Family. I'm serious. There are more moms and dads out there who have ripped off their athlete sons and daughters than you can imagine. You don't think that because it's a job of a parent to help, not hinder. Just remember parents are people too. They make mistakes and they try to rape and pillage, just like the rest of us. Only I do it on a baseball diamond (when my elbow allows it). The bad parents do it in the comfort of the homes their rich and famous athlete offspring were guilted into buying for them.

"Red" hasn't gotten his scoop yet. But I did tell him to watch the Perez family very closely. Reggie Perez is competing against his son, Reggie Perez Jr., for an outfield job on the team. Reggie senior is 40 years old and, as you saw last August after he came over in the trade with Cincinnati, he can still hit. Reggie Jr. can hit, field, run, throw... Reggie Jr. will pretty much do anything his dad ever did and more.

I watch them stand near each other in the outfield, shagging balls in BP, and see a resemblance between "Red" and me in situations. "Red" was a pitcher who played for 11 teams in 8 seasons and won 49 games. I've played for 2 teams in 19 seasons and won 289 games.

There's a commonality in situations between the Perez family and the Scott family, only my dad was long retired by the time I got drafted. Reggie Sr. will have plenty of chances to play together in the same outfield with his son, which most people think will be pretty special. How special, I wonder, and to whom will this be special?

While "Red" loiters at my locker, I tell him to watch Reggie Sr. and Reggie Jr., then I remind him that my personal services contract with the team, which takes effect either next year or in 2010, means I will be sitting right next to him in the broadcast booth, chattering away about this guy's value to the team or some other guy's repeated mistakes. I ask "Red" to think about how he, now the broadcasting veteran of 20 years, will feel sitting next to his son, who has all the potential in the world but none of the experience. Will there be pride? Or will there be concern? There are only 25 spots on a team. The two Reggies, father and son, are together, yet competing against one another. "Red," I say, "do you think we'll be any different from them? There's your story. It's much more interesting than anything I have to say."

He scratches his full-haired head, looks at his camera man, and looks back at me. "Can you ask me that again, but this time with the mic turned on?"

Father and son. Don't take it at face value. You're probably wrong.

What I Did On My Winter Vacation

Today is my last day off before the start of spring training. The report date for pitchers and catchers is tomorrow. The family flies down to Orlando today around noon and then we take the drive to Fort Pierce. The girls are still furious that they're going to spend the next six weeks in Florida schools instead of at home, but them's the breaks when your dad loves you.

It's been one of the more eventful off seasons I can remember in which my team did not win a world championship. The last big one like this in a bad team year was after the 1994 season, when I was traded from Chicago to New York and then I signed that huge (at the time) 5 year, $30 million contract. While the money is gone, long ago spent on products to stop my premature balding, I'm still with New York, about to start my 14th spring training with the team.

I met with team psychiatrist Henry Cochegans yesterday to talk about this busy off season. It was our seventh meeting since December. Due to the nature of the non-disclosure agreement he forced me to sign (not at gunpoint; rather, he threatened to make me blame all my problems on myself instead of my parents), I cannot reveal anything he said during our meeting. I can, however, let you know what I said.

Dr. Cochegans:
Me: There's no thread that connects all the stuff that happened to me this off season.
Dr. Cochegans:
Me: Say that to my face.
Dr. Cochegans:
Me: I know, I was just kidding. But seriously, the only, uh, controversial stuff that happened was my contract dispute with the team, my occasional flareup with my brand new favorite manager Rick Churches...
Dr. Cochegans:
Me: Yes, I was being facetious. May I continue?
Dr. Cochegans:
Me: You're funny when you're sarcastic. But getting back to me, there wasn't much more controversy than what I just said. Oh, maybe the stuff that happened that made me not speak with the media anymore and just blog instead. And...Um... Also when the team fined me $500,000 for the content of those blogs. Oh! There was my bad, then good, then bad again rehabilitation from the elbow injury. Uh, I had a little tiff with teammate Corey Belle before his arrest. And our home was vandalized three times.
Dr. Cohegans:
Me: Nope. The bad people are still on the loose.
Dr. Cohegans:
Me: How do you think that makes me feel? I'm happy for them.
Dr. Cohegans:
Me: You're funny when you're sarcastic. Back to me, redux. I guess the last two issues from the off season were my dad, "Red" Scott coming back into my life to be one of the team's TV broadcasters and then, I guess, needing an arbitrator to settle another dispute I had with the team. I'm going to win that, by the way.
Dr. Cohegans:
Me: Whatever. Is there a conflict of interest here, since team management wants me gone, you work for the team, and I tell you all of my personal, most innermost thoughts?
Dr. Cohegans:

Quite frankly, I spaced out during the doctor's response. He went on and on about professional courtesy, patient/doctor privacy issues, etc. When I awoke, he asked me again if my off season issues had any common thread.

Me: Bitter, angry conflict with authority figures?

He rang a big bell with a large metal pipe, which made me think I was right. But then I remembered that was his way of telling patients their sessions are over.

Is there a common thread? Was I right? I don't know. It doesn't matter. Those conflicts happened. I can't take any of them back. If I could, I don't know if I'd want to. It would have been a pretty boring New Jersey off season if all I did was watch Scooby Doo reruns morning, noon, and night. No, this was the way to end it. My final off season, my final winter vacation. Starting next October, I'll probably be done for good. Then, every day will be a vacation.

I just hope it comes with a little less conflict.

The Boob Tube

Funny how something could be considered evil at one point in a life and, years later, be considered a Godsend. I'm talking about television. When I was a wee lad, my mother hated everything about it, from the steady cacophonous noise to the poor program selection to the killing fields of radiation spewing out into my eyeballs, resting 6 inches away.

Part of the problem, I know, was our TV was in black & white. Dad - "Red" - was traveling all the time, so he could watch color TVs in his hotel rooms. The family set was secondary to him. In fact, even when he was home he wasn't around us enough to watch the thing. He'd spend most of his time in another room in our apartment (usually mine) working on "plans" for some new business, idea or invention (more than once I had to push his sleeping body onto my floor so I could crawl under the covers of my bed and pray my mother didn't kill the man).

I don't think he realized our TV was black & white until he started one year - I think 1980 - unemployed. Playing career over for 2 years by then, he kicked around a St. Louis radio booth in 1979 filling in 4 to 5 times a week for the hard-drinking Harry Gallo and trying not to cough through the cigarette smoke of five-pack-a-day Rich Grodin. Not getting along well with either man, "Red" started the '80 season in our rented home in Medfield, MA. While Mom and I worried his lack of income would get us kicked out of the first house we'd lived in for 5 years, "Red" sat in his leather chair and watched Boston play opening day. I still remember his eyes fluttering, his lips quivering, and his hair, somehow, shaking independently from his head. "Peggy," he called, "something's wrong with the TV!" She ran into the room and saw my almost 12 year old face in my hands. "What?" she asked. "Red" didn't take his eyes from the screen. "Didn't you ever buy us a color TV?" Mom rolled her eyes and left the room to go back to ironing his underpants.

Criticize him all you want - please, I beg you to - but he's always been a huge baseball fan. If he had a gun at his head and was given the choice of letting his family survive or the game of baseball, he'd choose the latter. I'd yell and stammer bad things at the man. But he'd just nod and say nobody is bigger than the game, not even himself. That is his definition of loyalty.

"Red" tried watching games at pubs and by inviting himself into other people's homes, desperate to get as close as possible to the lush green field and hazy blue sky of a ballgame. But it wasn't the same. By May 1, he'd reached into his pocket and spilled for a full-color Magnavox set. The screen was only 13-inches and the back of the set protruded about five feet. Trying hanging that 50-pound box on a wall. The house would've fallen down. His timing, however, was perfect. Dad got a radio job for Texas about two weeks later. After the school year, we moved to a new apartment outside of Dallas. Sitting shotgun in the car next to Mom on the 20-hour drive was our 50-pound Magnavox, seatbelt secured.

I sat in the back on a box containing "Red's" colored and numbered thumbtack collection.

I think the post-playing career moving for Dad's fledgling radio/TV career added to Mom's dislike of "the boob tube," as she called it. She thought when he was done playing, we'd be done moving. We'd finally be able to settle down in one town and she'd be able to make a friendship that lasted longer than a nine inning game. But "Red" was starting from scratch, with no agent, so he had to move around and find openings with last place clubs as radio fill in, part-time pre-game host... whatever he could get. The money wasn't very good, but he loved being around the players, being around the game. We had to go along for the ride.

Mom loves TV now. Not because "Red," after many years, became a fairly well-respected television announcer making a very good salary. She grew to like it when she started seeing her son make an appearance every fifth day inside "the boob tube." Thanks to cable, videocassettes, and eventually satellite, my mother has seen, by her count, 465 of my career 484 starts. She's seen my public service announcements, my local and national television commercials. She even goes to YouTube now on her Mac to fire up old video of me doing post-game interviews. I know she's going to be watching ABC's Diane Sawyer tonight talk to Vanessa and me in our home, filmed here last week. And I know she'll be watching the Pepsi spot Alyssa and I are filming today when it airs in late-February.

She doesn't call it "the boob tube" anymore. Mom calls it "Jimmy's box" because she's proud.

And what did she do if I was playing in one city and "Red" was announcing a game in another at the same time? She always chose her son. That, to me, is the definition of loyalty.

Crimes & Dinner Conversation

I didn't predict it and I didn't wish it upon him, but by now you've probably read that Cory Belle, my teammate and chief critic, was arrested last night. This isn't good for a number of reasons:

1. This is his third arrest in two years. Our owner, Mrs. Delaney, and the league commissioner, Elliott Pollock, are going to find a problem with that.
2. A judge will find problem with that as well.
3. If Cory is incarcerated on opening day and not in left field for us, we'll be missing a pretty potent bat.
4. More than one call has come in asking if I set the man up.

Note that Cory was arrested in a Kansas City nightclub. Since the city/town closes down at eight o'clock every night, I have no idea what kind of nightclub this was. That's Red Flag #1.

Red Flag #2: The other guys arrested with him have no connection to the sports world from what I can tell. I Googled their names. Nothing came up.

Red Flag #3: If shots were fired in the parking lot and a gun was found in Cory's car two hours later, the evidence leads to me being glad he hung up on my the other day.

I wish the best for Cory, whatever that is, and hope he can get his life in order. And no, I had nothing to do with calling the police. I get up now at 5:17 every morning. You think I'm going to call the cops at 1 AM to blow the whistle on a teammate who's mad at me for blogging? I'm sleeping at 1 AM, dreaming about cartoons.

In other news that's somewhat related, I got word that Felipe Castro's mother, while still being held captive somewhere in the jungles of Venezuela, had a brief conversation with Felipe over the weekend. She's apparently healthy, which is great. But I know Felipe must be going out of his mind trying to get her back.

My dad, "Red" Scott, the man who a month ago suggested he switch places with Mrs. Castro to save her and get him away from the Northeast winter, actually used whatever baseball connections he has to get in touch with Felipe and suggest it directly to the man. From what "Red" said, Felipe was very polite and thankful, but he declined the invitation out of loyalty to me. If Felipe would have asked my opinion, I would said two words: Take him.

I'm serious.

But that horrible saga continues. And instead of sitting in a crumbling Venezuelan jungle hut, Dad/"Red" comes over to my house three times a week and complains to me that my vow of media silence will crush all of his plans as a broadcaster for the team this year. Hey, I tell him, it's hard for me. Before every sentence I say to him, I have to remind him it's off the record. It gets monotonous, and not just for he and I, but for the whole family, especially if we're at the dinner table:

Red: Want me to pass the potatoes, Jimmy?
Me: If we're off the record, then yes.
Red: Here you go, son.
Me: Off the record, I give you my thanks.
Red: How about that Cory Belle stuff?
Me: (mouth full of potatoes)
Mom: He's a bad man.
Red: Peggy - please!
Vanessa: Red...
Red: I'm sorry, dear. Jimmy, how about that Cory Belle stuff?
Me: (mouth still kind of full) Are we off the record?
Vanessa: Jimmy...
Me: (after swallowing) Sorry, dear.

And so on. He suggested we eat dinner in front of a new blog posting so I can type the minutes of our meal together, like a court stenographer. I told him, off the record, that I can't eat and type at the same time. He grunted something and stormed off to the bathroom for fifteen minutes of solitude.

I doubt he's reading this, but I wish both Felipe and Cory all the best. I hope their immediate futures turn bright and they overcome either the bad men or the personal demons that have taken over their lives. If either of them want my help, I know a certain former ballplayer/current broadcaster willing to take one for the team - As long as he gets a good story out of it for his first telecast.

Good luck with that.

Bad Sun Risin'

Not a good day yesterday. Let's set aside my personal issues with the media and baseball world for a minute and get back into reality. I got up early, 5:17 AM, and was out running by 5:31. My driveway was clear. My lawn was clear. Our new fence, which is to surround the perimeter of our home, has been partially erected. At least the front is done and part of the right side (the right side if you're facing the house from the front). We have a gate in front of the driveway that I jumped over rather than opened electronically. I don't know the combination yet and probably won't for another year or two. (Guess who could never get into his locker at school.) I started my run by passing our two garbage cans, set out neatly for garbage pickup.

It was a good run. My right wrist is no longer wrapped from my fall, and the pain has mostly subsided. I didn't have to pre-medicate myself with Advil before the run. The up and down shaking of my arms was painful in the wrist for about 3 weeks. Four or five Advil taken 30 minutes before a run would help the wrist. Probably did damage to my heart. I'll let you know when I'm seventy (or "sempty" as Grandpappy Scott used to say).**

I ran for about 45 minutes. Doing about a 7 1/2 minute mile, that means I ran about, uh... You know. You do the math. Fact is, I ran far and hard and wasn't struck once by any flying newspapers from the army of paperboys driving around town in their 1996 Caravans, Mega 97 blasting from their open windows like gunfire. When I was a paperboy, I rode a bike. And wore headphones. And listened to tapes of the Rolling Stones. Plus, I was not 35 years old. Where have all the 11 year olds gone? Here's why immigration is such a huge issue in the upcoming election. The Hispanic population has taken all of the good paperboy jobs from the domestic 11 year olds. Now these boys are stuck at home every morning, unemployed, sleeping and thinking about potential plotlines for Halo IV.

I'm cynical today; a little surly. That's because I finished the run, like I always do, with a walk of about half a mile. Made it onto my street, the sky becoming colored with the sun due to rise shortly. And I looked ahead and saw something on my driveway that wasn't there before. I stopped walking. Instead, I started to run again, got to my driveway and almost puked. The stench was incredible. Somehow, within the previous 45 minutes, somebody, or somebodies, had taken what looked like every garbage can in the state of New Jersey and emptied it onto the front of my driveway. I could tell because cluttered in front of my new fence, just slightly away from the torn up garbage bags and loose food scraps, wet paper towels, moldy cans, and influenza-carrying used tissues, were about 35 empty garbage cans.

Needless to say, I hopped the fence, ran inside and called the police.

This was all on a day when Alyssa and Grace had to get to school by 7 AM for their early-morning extra curricular stuff. The car couldn't get out because of the trash, so I got out a snow shovel and carved out a path for Vanessa's Hummer. She drove away, her tires covered in banana peels and gum.

The police were mad at me.

Policewoman: Mr. Scott, why did you move the evidence?
Me: So my kids could go to school.
Policewoman: You compromised a crime scene.
Me: Do you think the bad people who did this deed left a clue amongst the rubble of suburban life that is now trapped between the grooves of my wife's car?
Policewoman: You joke, yet keep in mind who's going to have to clean all this up when we're done.
Me: Who?
Policewoman: You.

They were done after an hour or so. By then, half the community had come to pick up their garbage cans. I wasn't sure how so many people could look at a large, gray cylindrical instrument of waste collection which looked just like the other 33 large, gray cylindrical instruments of waste collection, and know which one(s) were theirs. People must have a spiritual connection to their garbage cans, I guess.

Our newly installed video cameras didn't catch the perpetrator(s) of this crime. They'd just been installed last week and weren't pointed in the right directions. I think they will be now, after we sue the company for negligence. I mean, how hard is it to point security cameras at a home's point of entry?

By midday, the debris was basically gone. The cleanup crew missed a few scraps which had become embedded between tiny cracks in the driveway, but otherwise the place looked as good as it did before this fourth act of vandalism on our home.

I called the police around 4:00. No witnesses. No leads.

Somebody out there doesn't like me.

** Just kidding. There's no "Grandpappy Scott." My father, "Red" Scott, had his family deported to Scotland many years before English was the official language of the United States.

The Weigh In

Apologies for not posting last Friday (have you noticed I take weekends off for good behavior?). My decision to betray the media and ignore them has created a firestorm of propaganda that I expect will end abruptly since the Giants advanced to the NFC Championship game. I think their success is more newsworthy than me not talking. But as of Friday, and over the weekend, there was still "controversy" in my decision. In other words, it's a slow time for baseball. What else is there to discuss? It's ironic that all people in baseball circles want to talk about is my decision not to. Friday was especially busy because one person in particular wanted me to pay a visit to her baseball circle: our good owner, Mrs. Joan Delaney.

I don't know if I've weighed in on how much I like Mrs. Delaney. She's been willing to spend money when needed. And she's been kind to my whole family. You should see the size of the fruit cake she had sent to us for Christmas! Yes, she can be a little off-center. Eight cats in her office are about eight too many for someone allergic to cats, which I am not. I just don't like them so I pretend. And her "anti-green" campaign is not especially popular nowadays. But I know in her mind, recycling is more expensive than she likes. I don't think she should encourage turning Staten Island back into a dump for solid waste. That's what the ocean is for, right? (A joke. I was joking. It's okay to laugh at the environment's expense. Much healthier than littering.)

I stepped into Mrs. Delaney's office - just me, no agent or lawyer or entourage of men in black suits - and she asked me to sit. We discussed the weather, my rehab. She said I looked lighter. I told her I was only because I had just sucked on the helium from one of the Get Well Soon! balloons outside her office (Mrs. Delaney recently sprained one of her thumbs on a stairmaster). Then we got down to brass tax, which is a phrase I've never used before, mainly because I have no idea what it means. But if taxes were made of brass, I'd be doing something about it. You can bet on it!

Her main question: Why was I going to forgo the media so that I could have a little Internet folly? I reminded Mrs. Delaney I had made my decision, however swift it was, because:

1. I was mad at players for knowingly hitting on my underage daughter. Their inability to police themselves made me question whether professional athletes, baseball players in particular, thought they (we) were immune to laws of their choosing because they could hit a ball real far or throw it real fast.
2. I was mad that my other daughter found herself in the uncomfortable situation of catching another player, a teammate, literally with his pants down while in the presence of a woman other than his wife.
3. I was mad at my reaction to #2, which was to tell my daughter to pretend it never happened, even though it was obviously a HUGE deal to her. But do I put team before family every time? The way I see it, I have two families - The one that pays me megabucks and the one that loves me (allegedly). Love must come before money, especially when you already have a healthy bank account.
4. I was mad at how the press dumped all over Vanessa for a charity event she and two other wives had planned. Here she is, trying to do something good, and they bash her. It's not like she said anything disrespectful to a reporter, or acted in some fashion as to cause a major celebrity scandal. The way she sees it, she's not a celebrity. Her husband is. If she can raise awareness of key issues and also money for charities because of who I am, then she's going to do her best, something she's been great at for the last 15+ years. For reporters to take sides without coming to her for comment first is not only disrespectful, but it's bad reporting. And I don't want to have anything to do with a group that won't respect my wife's right to defend herself.

Mrs. Delaney nodded and said she empathized with me. Then she explained that our team is one that gets along with the press. Her players need to understand how important the press is to the process of promoting the game and promoting her team in New York (hopefully moreso than the other team in New York, which she doesn't own). She didn't want to mention how she was pushing the city for a new stadium. She did of course. Continuing, she said that players who make rash, unpopular decisions don't help sway public opinion to her side. And she needs public opinion, since their taxes will be footing probably 90% of the bill (making me happy I live in New Jersey).

The publishers of the Post, the News and Newsday had called Mrs. Delaney. They wanted to see if she could publicly weigh in on this issue. She supported me with a No Comment until she could speak to me directly (something the press should have done with Vanessa).

I restated my position which, no doubt, has softened since I made it. Time does that to a man's mind as well as his stomach. But I told her that I can't go back now, not after my big-ass announcement which included capital letters and proper punctuation. If I go back, I look like a man of little character. I want to be a man of big character, especially since I'm 6 foot 4.

Mrs. Delaney nodded as only she can, which means she was upset. But I give her credit for not ordering me, in so many words, to speak to the press. She told me she wants two things, to win and to get that new stadium. She was hoping I'd help her with both. I told her I will, as long as it doesn't cost me anything. She said I may have already spent all the goodwill I had with this city, and maybe this team.

I told her I'd think about it. I owed her that much.

But my final decision was made on the drive home. My dad, "Red" Scott, he who has now become the team's regional sports network's new voice in the TV booth, asked since I wasn't talking to the press, was he included? I thought the unpleasant thought of him following me around all season, his little microphone pack strapped to his belt and cheesy smile glued onto his face with duct tape. I thought of the road trips and the special treatment he was expecting. I thought of how I'd never eat dinner alone again, how he'd somehow end up sleeping in my suite and wearing my bathrobe and eating my breakfast while I showered. "Well?" my dad said, irritation mixed with expectation. I smiled a little, just a little, and said, "No comment."