I have harbored this idea, ever since starting my rehab assignment, that when I was called back up to the big club, I'd be the savior, astride a white horse and spreading good will and innocent laughter. I pictured myself riding bareback and sprinkling sparkly fairy dust over my fellow teammates, bringing them joy and, of course, victories. I dreamed my flowing robes would be touched by catchers and outfielders and short shortstops, each man becoming awash with relaxation. Meanwhile, my smile permeates any negativity. My glistening white teeth shine through the darkness of past losses. My hands are the hands that make the team whole. I am their messiah. Kiss my naked feet and glow with me.
Real life swatted these images out of my mind like a human's palm crashing down on a slow summer fly.
For various reasons (read yesterday's post), I missed Wednesday's game in LA. I did make the team flight back to NY, but it was a very cold and bitter trip for me. First, there were some grumblings because I never even went to the stadium once I landed (actually, it was my plane that landed) in LA. The game had ended upon touchdown (we lost 9 to 1) and for me to spend an hour driving to a quiet clubhouse simply to turn around again and drive back to the airport sounded ludicrous to me.
"Not when you play on a team," said Rick Churches, my fiery manager who's especially fiery when it comes to your truly. "You should've been here. We could've used you."
I told him my story and then iterated that the team was losing 6 to 0 in the 4th inning. If I'm their closer, they wouldn't have used me in the game. Plus, I'd pitched the night before. Why use me two days in a row if you don't need me and I'm coming off a major injury?
Don't question your manager. Not a good thing. Here's why:
Rick: You telling me how to manage my team?
Me: No.
Rick: Don't.
Me: I didn't.
Rick: Sounded like it.
Me: (wiggling in my shoes - no bare feet were kissed)
By this time, I was getting a little self-conscious because we were not on the team plane. We were in the airport near a Starbucks (I'd just ordered a grande skim hot chocolate with whip.). I could sense a few eyes (one person had a patch on, like a bad pirate) peering toward us.
Rick: We could've used you tonight.
Me: Mmm.
Rick: What?
Me: What?
Rick: I don't want to hear your "mmm" crap. Just tell me what you're thinking and don't patronize me.
Me: You said, "Tonight." It was a day game.
Rick: What difference does it make?
Me: None. It makes no difference. Do I have whipped cream on my lip?
He didn't answer. (I found out moments later, in the bathroom, that I did. How embarrassing.)
"Last call for flight 1803 to New York."
I swore because I was in the bathroom and not getting onto the plane. I got my stuff together and rushed to the gate. I couldn't find my ticket and the airline guy wouldn't let me on (even though it was a charter flight and I'm famous beyond famous). They had to call John Brock, the team's traveling secretary, off the plane to come and sort out my status as a member of the team. After 10 minutes, I was leading (John didn't want me to follow for fear he'd turn around and I'd be gone) him down the ramp and into the plane.
There was no white horse between my legs. My robes were non-existent. None of my teammates, some I've known for years, some I met for the first time in spring training, were looking at me as the savior. I had no sparkly fairy dust to sprinkle upon their heads. However, I did knock the back of big J.D. Bryant's head with my carry on. "Ouch!" he said.
"Sorry."
First Class. That's where I sit on the plane. It's in my contract. Yes, the whole team had the plane to them/ourselves. But there aren't 25 First Class seats on an airplane. The richest guys, the most successful guys, the guys with the most unscrupulous agents - they're the ones who get the First Class seats on every road trip. I've won 287 games, am making about $16 million this year, and have Jack Perry as my super agent. Yeah, I get First Class.
That doesn't always make it right. I couldn't help but feel as if I didn't belong. My 2007 season was lost: one game, one run, two pitches, an ERA of infinity. This season at Nashville? Here were my final stats:
G IP W L SO BB ERA SV
19 17.2 0 2 14 9 5.75 6
My numbers with the Hounds look pretty hideous, but let me point out that in my last 6 games with them, I didn't give up an earned run in 6 innings and had 8 strikeouts in 6 innings. And the most important point is I felt no pain.
Still, coming up to the big squad with the horrible resume from Nashville didn't give me much confidence on that plane. Neither did my Starbucks run-in with Rick. Neither did the handful of glares I received from some of the guys who are upset that I'm doing this instead of keeping my mouth shut (or talking to the traditional media instead). Oh, and the fact that I missed the game and the team is in last place doesn't help them or me get along just yet. Here are the standings as of Friday morning:
TEAM W L PCT. GB
Florida 23 12 .657 --
Philadelphia 19 15 .556 3.5
Atlanta 18 16 .545 4.5
Washington 14 21 .400 9
New York 12 23 .343 11
So we're in last place and already, to put it kindly, buried. We're not hitting. We're not pitching. Our defense has been porous. And Rick is already on the hot seat, 35 games into his managerial career. Now you can understand why he was a little upset with me in the airport.
It didn't help us any further that I sat behind him on the plane.
Rick: Stop kicking my seat.
Me: I'm not.
Rick: Then what is?
Me: I don't know.
Rick: Then stop whatever you're doing.
Me: I'm not doing anything.
Rick: Maybe that's why you started the season in AAA instead of with us.
Me: I see no connection between my seat on this plane and my status with the team.
Rick: You have no status with this team.
Me: I thought you had groomed me to be your closer.
Rick: You'll be lucky if you get the 5th inning of a blowout.
Me: That's smart thinking. Let your freshest arm, your hottest pitcher ride the bench.
Rick: You telling me how to run my team?
Me: Nope.
And that was it. Don't worry. I'm his closer. I want to be. I will be. Yes, it took a while to overcome the fact that I wasn't going to be a starting pitcher this year, like I have been all my life. But my head is clear now. I can do this. I will do this. At least until Billy Weston, our real closer, comes back.
That's when I leaned over to Bobby Spencer, our pitching coach, and asked him when, by chance, they expected Billy back. "I don't know," Bobby said. "Maybe mid-July."
It's May 9th. That gives me two months to prove to Rick, the team - to myself - that I can be successful. This is a big two months for me. If I can't do it, I know I'll pretty much be done after this season. I'll be living home this time next year, probably cleaning out my closet after Vanessa tells me to move out because she can't stand living with me 365 days out of the year.
I have to be good this year. I can't retire yet. What would I do then?
Showing posts with label Billy Weston. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Billy Weston. Show all posts
Friday, May 9, 2008
Wednesday, May 7, 2008
Two Bad Calls And An Unexpected Pleasant One
It's weird how one little event can set off an avalanche of repercussions. We were losing last night in the top of the 9th, down 1-0. We'd had no hitting. In fact, we were being no-hit. One baserunner from a walk in the 5th. Other than that, zippo. Then, the little event occurred.
Nobody on base, one out. The Tucson pitcher, Daryl Ryan, who'd been nearly perfect, throws an inside slider to our 17 year old Rey Marcos. Rey jumps out of the way, getting pretty dirty, then gets right back into the box. Ryan does it again, knocking Rey down. 2 and 0 count. Now I know Rey pretty well by now, and he's got this competitive fire inside that's hard to duplicate. You either have it or you don't. He's got it. He dug in once more in the box. A third pitch, way inside, hits Rey on his right shin. (Daryl pitches from the right side, Rey bats from both.) After some gentle prodding from his teammates and the home Tucson crowd that had been becoming less gentle ever since the first brushback pitch, Rey took the advice of someone and charged the mound.
I don't want to take full credit. Partial is fine. A week or so ago I explained to Rey, who calls himself my prodigy son, that he's going to be a target this year, and for a number of years, because of his youth and incredible skill. Lots of guys, both on his team and all the other teams, are going to be jealous/envious of him. And he's going to have to fight back every time. Don't take it, I said. But don't dish it out unless you absolutely need to.
Rey didn't take it last night.
He reached Daryl Ryan in front of the mound and, since this is the minor leagues, they had a moment to really go at it before anyone attempted to break it up. When the dust, and there was a lot of it, settled, Daryl had to leave the game - his first no-hitter! - with an injury to his foot (from trying to kick Rey in the same shin he'd thrown at) and Rey was booted. No big deal for us. A pinch runner took over for Rey at first base. Me.
So Ryan made the first bad call of the night, to pitch inside one too many times to our fiery rookie and future mainstay of the New York infield. The second bad call was coming up.
I took my lead off of first (I'm neither a very fast or very smart baserunner, but manager Dusty Graves had utilized nearly every bench option due to two players having the flu, two being too sore to play, and the rest already being used.) and dove back on what I thought was a throw over by the new Tucson pitcher. Of course, he didn't throw over. He just stepped off the rubber to tie his shoe. I made a couple of thousand people laugh. Always lovely to be the butt of a good joke.
I took another lead. This guy's first pitch is wild. I take off for second and make it without a throw. It's not a stolen base (I've never had one) but I pretend it is by pulling the base oout of the ground and hoisting it up over my head. The crowd loves the move. Dusty is more than upset. We're trying to win the game and I'm fooling around. He yells something at me from the dugout, something that most newspapers wouldn't print, and an umpire tells me to settle down. I feel like I'm in kindergarten all over again.
The base back in its place, resting comfortably on the ground, I take my lead off of second. A pitch and ground ball to the right side send me with no throw over to third. Two outs. Still a no-hitter. We're still losing 1-0.
Third base coach Willie Fernandez, who you remember from his 40 HR season for us three years ago (and now 40 like me and out of the game for his second season due to two knees that will need to be replaced before he turns 50), pats me on the butt and calls me an idiot for lifting up 2nd base. He chatters to me about my lead. Don't be too conservative, he says. I take another step. C'mon, a little more, he says. I look at the bag, which is about six inches away, and realize a little more aggression won't hurt anybody. Two feet, three feet, four feet, five feet. Now I've got a decent, but still conservative lead.
The pitcher (I don't know all the guys down here at AAA) looks over and with the speed of some superhuman slips his right foot off the rubber and whips the ball over to the third baseman. I dive back and get my hand back under the tag. After a timeout for me to brush off my once sparkling gray road uniform and some unkind, unprintable words from Willie, I take my lead again.
Since I've hardly ever run the bases (my lifetime batting avg. is .141) and really haven't at all since September of 2006, I was a little rusty. But the pitcher in me got the wheels in my head churning. If I was protecting a one-run lead with two outs in the ninth and a not-so-good runner on third base, what would I do? I figured I'd concentrate on the batter and not the runner. At worst, the runner could score and tie the game. At best, the batter makes an out. Since between 7 and 8 times out of 10 a batter does make an out, the odds are nearly always on the pitcher's side (that's how I like to look at it, at least).
Thus, the pitcher does what I think he's going to do and starts to completely ignore me. My lead grows. Five feet. Six feet. He doesn't even look over. Seven feet. Eight feet. Willie tries to whisper as loud as possible that I'm getting into "stupid" territory and should stop. Nine feet. The guy goes into his windup, throws and...
The ball gets away from the catcher. I run. I run hard. The ball doesn't bounce away, nor does it roll very far. It kind of trickles away, not far, but far enough for me to make the play at home close. The pitcher races me to the plate. The catcher, realizing he's close enough to get me, ignores the pitcher (second time in seconds a pitcher had been ignored) and lunges for me just as I slide in, feet first. I completely miss the plate with my feet and feel the Thud! of a big leather catcher's glove slap my chest just as my left hand gets close enough to the plate to make it a photo finish. The umpire, in horrible position (which is why he's a minor league ump and not in a larger stadium with ten times as many people earning ten times the salary), calls me safe.
Our dugout goes wild. We've tied the game and still not gotten a hit. I slowly get up - had the wind knocked out of me from a 235 pound man slamming his glove onto my lungs - and am embraced by a bunch of very happy boys (most of them are still boys in AAA, especially when a 40 year old like me is telling the story).
Dusty gives me a bear hug and tells me I was out "by a country mile." I don't ask what the difference is between a country mile and an urban mile, but figure suburban sprawl has something to do with it. He tells me I'm a lucky man I didn't get hurt and orders me to drink some Gatorade and loosen up because I'm going to pitch the ninth.
So the umpire made the second bad call of the inning, the score is tied, and the game's karma is totally changed. We go on to suddenly knock the ball all over the place. By the end of the inning, we're winning 5-1 and the Tucson crowd is throwing things onto the field. Since it's Cactus Night at the stadium, hundreds of cacti are tossed. The game is delayed while the grounds crew, made up of teachers and off duty pharmacy clerks, tries to pick up the pointy plants. It takes a while because it hurts to get stuck with a cactus thorn. But they get it done, I come out for the bottom of the 9th and get three quick outs. Game over. Visiting Nashville Hounds win 5-1.
In the joyous clubhouse after the game, I got a phone call. It was Rick Churches, my NY manager who's been good to not speak to me since the end of spring training. He said plans have been changed. Our closer, Billy Weston, who's had finger problems on his pitching hand for almost a month, is being placed on the DL. I'm being called up and am to meet the team in Los Angeles, where the Vets are playing a 3-game series. I'm going to be the closer while Billy heals up.
Wow, is all I can think. I'm going to make it back. I'm going to make it back for real right away. No more waiting. I'm ready and the call, this one a good one, has been made.
I go into Dusty's visiting manager's office and tell him. He nods and said he'd just heard. He shakes my hand and asks me to wait for a second. I sit down while he leaves the office. Two minutes later, he calls my name. I go into the heart of the clubhouse to a standing ovation. The players, my teammates for the last 6 weeks, are applauding me. Then Dusty presents a gift. It's second base, the base I'd held up not too long before. I accept and hold it up high, smiling. My minor league career is over. I'm back to the bigs.
See you in LA!
Nobody on base, one out. The Tucson pitcher, Daryl Ryan, who'd been nearly perfect, throws an inside slider to our 17 year old Rey Marcos. Rey jumps out of the way, getting pretty dirty, then gets right back into the box. Ryan does it again, knocking Rey down. 2 and 0 count. Now I know Rey pretty well by now, and he's got this competitive fire inside that's hard to duplicate. You either have it or you don't. He's got it. He dug in once more in the box. A third pitch, way inside, hits Rey on his right shin. (Daryl pitches from the right side, Rey bats from both.) After some gentle prodding from his teammates and the home Tucson crowd that had been becoming less gentle ever since the first brushback pitch, Rey took the advice of someone and charged the mound.
I don't want to take full credit. Partial is fine. A week or so ago I explained to Rey, who calls himself my prodigy son, that he's going to be a target this year, and for a number of years, because of his youth and incredible skill. Lots of guys, both on his team and all the other teams, are going to be jealous/envious of him. And he's going to have to fight back every time. Don't take it, I said. But don't dish it out unless you absolutely need to.
Rey didn't take it last night.
He reached Daryl Ryan in front of the mound and, since this is the minor leagues, they had a moment to really go at it before anyone attempted to break it up. When the dust, and there was a lot of it, settled, Daryl had to leave the game - his first no-hitter! - with an injury to his foot (from trying to kick Rey in the same shin he'd thrown at) and Rey was booted. No big deal for us. A pinch runner took over for Rey at first base. Me.
So Ryan made the first bad call of the night, to pitch inside one too many times to our fiery rookie and future mainstay of the New York infield. The second bad call was coming up.
I took my lead off of first (I'm neither a very fast or very smart baserunner, but manager Dusty Graves had utilized nearly every bench option due to two players having the flu, two being too sore to play, and the rest already being used.) and dove back on what I thought was a throw over by the new Tucson pitcher. Of course, he didn't throw over. He just stepped off the rubber to tie his shoe. I made a couple of thousand people laugh. Always lovely to be the butt of a good joke.
I took another lead. This guy's first pitch is wild. I take off for second and make it without a throw. It's not a stolen base (I've never had one) but I pretend it is by pulling the base oout of the ground and hoisting it up over my head. The crowd loves the move. Dusty is more than upset. We're trying to win the game and I'm fooling around. He yells something at me from the dugout, something that most newspapers wouldn't print, and an umpire tells me to settle down. I feel like I'm in kindergarten all over again.
The base back in its place, resting comfortably on the ground, I take my lead off of second. A pitch and ground ball to the right side send me with no throw over to third. Two outs. Still a no-hitter. We're still losing 1-0.
Third base coach Willie Fernandez, who you remember from his 40 HR season for us three years ago (and now 40 like me and out of the game for his second season due to two knees that will need to be replaced before he turns 50), pats me on the butt and calls me an idiot for lifting up 2nd base. He chatters to me about my lead. Don't be too conservative, he says. I take another step. C'mon, a little more, he says. I look at the bag, which is about six inches away, and realize a little more aggression won't hurt anybody. Two feet, three feet, four feet, five feet. Now I've got a decent, but still conservative lead.
The pitcher (I don't know all the guys down here at AAA) looks over and with the speed of some superhuman slips his right foot off the rubber and whips the ball over to the third baseman. I dive back and get my hand back under the tag. After a timeout for me to brush off my once sparkling gray road uniform and some unkind, unprintable words from Willie, I take my lead again.
Since I've hardly ever run the bases (my lifetime batting avg. is .141) and really haven't at all since September of 2006, I was a little rusty. But the pitcher in me got the wheels in my head churning. If I was protecting a one-run lead with two outs in the ninth and a not-so-good runner on third base, what would I do? I figured I'd concentrate on the batter and not the runner. At worst, the runner could score and tie the game. At best, the batter makes an out. Since between 7 and 8 times out of 10 a batter does make an out, the odds are nearly always on the pitcher's side (that's how I like to look at it, at least).
Thus, the pitcher does what I think he's going to do and starts to completely ignore me. My lead grows. Five feet. Six feet. He doesn't even look over. Seven feet. Eight feet. Willie tries to whisper as loud as possible that I'm getting into "stupid" territory and should stop. Nine feet. The guy goes into his windup, throws and...
The ball gets away from the catcher. I run. I run hard. The ball doesn't bounce away, nor does it roll very far. It kind of trickles away, not far, but far enough for me to make the play at home close. The pitcher races me to the plate. The catcher, realizing he's close enough to get me, ignores the pitcher (second time in seconds a pitcher had been ignored) and lunges for me just as I slide in, feet first. I completely miss the plate with my feet and feel the Thud! of a big leather catcher's glove slap my chest just as my left hand gets close enough to the plate to make it a photo finish. The umpire, in horrible position (which is why he's a minor league ump and not in a larger stadium with ten times as many people earning ten times the salary), calls me safe.
Our dugout goes wild. We've tied the game and still not gotten a hit. I slowly get up - had the wind knocked out of me from a 235 pound man slamming his glove onto my lungs - and am embraced by a bunch of very happy boys (most of them are still boys in AAA, especially when a 40 year old like me is telling the story).
Dusty gives me a bear hug and tells me I was out "by a country mile." I don't ask what the difference is between a country mile and an urban mile, but figure suburban sprawl has something to do with it. He tells me I'm a lucky man I didn't get hurt and orders me to drink some Gatorade and loosen up because I'm going to pitch the ninth.
So the umpire made the second bad call of the inning, the score is tied, and the game's karma is totally changed. We go on to suddenly knock the ball all over the place. By the end of the inning, we're winning 5-1 and the Tucson crowd is throwing things onto the field. Since it's Cactus Night at the stadium, hundreds of cacti are tossed. The game is delayed while the grounds crew, made up of teachers and off duty pharmacy clerks, tries to pick up the pointy plants. It takes a while because it hurts to get stuck with a cactus thorn. But they get it done, I come out for the bottom of the 9th and get three quick outs. Game over. Visiting Nashville Hounds win 5-1.
In the joyous clubhouse after the game, I got a phone call. It was Rick Churches, my NY manager who's been good to not speak to me since the end of spring training. He said plans have been changed. Our closer, Billy Weston, who's had finger problems on his pitching hand for almost a month, is being placed on the DL. I'm being called up and am to meet the team in Los Angeles, where the Vets are playing a 3-game series. I'm going to be the closer while Billy heals up.
Wow, is all I can think. I'm going to make it back. I'm going to make it back for real right away. No more waiting. I'm ready and the call, this one a good one, has been made.
I go into Dusty's visiting manager's office and tell him. He nods and said he'd just heard. He shakes my hand and asks me to wait for a second. I sit down while he leaves the office. Two minutes later, he calls my name. I go into the heart of the clubhouse to a standing ovation. The players, my teammates for the last 6 weeks, are applauding me. Then Dusty presents a gift. It's second base, the base I'd held up not too long before. I accept and hold it up high, smiling. My minor league career is over. I'm back to the bigs.
See you in LA!
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Opening Day Evening
So the home club opened up with a victory yesterday against the Florida Keys. Good pitching by Kai Goto, going 6 innings and only giving up those 2 runs. The bullpen got nicked up a bit, but a 5 to 4 victory is still a victory.
I didn't see the game live, obviously, since I'm in Nashville. I didn't see it on TV as it happened either. You see, I was busy entertaining. Word got out pretty quickly that I'm living in a trailer in the Pepsi Field parking lot. Before you know it, about 35 Nashville Hounds fans were in the parking lot with me, hoping we could have one giant (for an off day) tailgate. So that's what we did.
The people here in Nashville, from the small sample I met yesterday, are great. Not one person made fun of my crying due to homesickness. One woman said she'd knit a quilt for me. Another guy said he'd get some pals to serve as my personal security detail. He had a shotgun hanging on the inside of his pickup, so I nodded and tried to move away politely. My trailer is waterproof. It's not bulletproof. My mistake.
By the time the game in Florida was over, the tailgate was just starting to wind down. It grew over the hours to become sort of a rally for the Hounds' upcoming season. A news truck was there (I did not do an interview but they did get me on camera eating a very messy White Castle cheeseburger). Somehow, I found myself near the end on the roof of my Rockwood Signature Ultralite, screaming about how the Hounds are going "all the way" and "won't take prisoners" and how the season would be a "dogfight" (since we're Hounds) and other phrases that would require quotations if I listed them as well. Bottom line: The Hounds are going to sell some tickets this April. They'll hopefully have a winning year and give this town something to write home about! (Yes, this is their home. I know that.)
Around 8:15 I "retired" into my Ultralite. A handful of fans remained in the parking lot for another hour or two, but I was replaying the game on NBL.com. I have a 17" computer screen so I got a good view of how we won. Billy Weston looked good closing it out. I don't think we'll need to worry about his fingers. I think he's been soaking them in pickle brine to solve the blistering. Very old school, but whatever works...
Tuesday is workout day here with my Nashville Hounds squad. I haven't thrown since last Thursday, but that's on purpose. Near the end of spring training I was getting a dead arm. No real pain. Just a lifelessness. Hard to explain. It's like when you wake up from a dream and you can't get your eyes to open. My arm just couldn't overcome a certain sluggishness. So I took four days (got a doctor's note) off from baseball activity. I have been able to run and I found a local YMCA where I can swim. I'll probably do so this afternoon. The last thing I want is to lose all of the muscle and flexibility I've built up over the last four months of intense workouts.
My team-paid personal trainer, Andy, called yesterday to give me a verbal pump-up. He's not here with me because the team doesn't want to pay him during the season. I guess that's why. My contract is kind of vague as to whether or not they'd pay for him all year to work out with me. For that, I blame my super agent, Jack Perry, who I've invited to a slumber party in my trailer home. So far, he's respectfully declined. I'll let you know if he makes it down here. We can have another party. I'm sure he'll pay for the beer.
I didn't see the game live, obviously, since I'm in Nashville. I didn't see it on TV as it happened either. You see, I was busy entertaining. Word got out pretty quickly that I'm living in a trailer in the Pepsi Field parking lot. Before you know it, about 35 Nashville Hounds fans were in the parking lot with me, hoping we could have one giant (for an off day) tailgate. So that's what we did.
The people here in Nashville, from the small sample I met yesterday, are great. Not one person made fun of my crying due to homesickness. One woman said she'd knit a quilt for me. Another guy said he'd get some pals to serve as my personal security detail. He had a shotgun hanging on the inside of his pickup, so I nodded and tried to move away politely. My trailer is waterproof. It's not bulletproof. My mistake.
By the time the game in Florida was over, the tailgate was just starting to wind down. It grew over the hours to become sort of a rally for the Hounds' upcoming season. A news truck was there (I did not do an interview but they did get me on camera eating a very messy White Castle cheeseburger). Somehow, I found myself near the end on the roof of my Rockwood Signature Ultralite, screaming about how the Hounds are going "all the way" and "won't take prisoners" and how the season would be a "dogfight" (since we're Hounds) and other phrases that would require quotations if I listed them as well. Bottom line: The Hounds are going to sell some tickets this April. They'll hopefully have a winning year and give this town something to write home about! (Yes, this is their home. I know that.)
Around 8:15 I "retired" into my Ultralite. A handful of fans remained in the parking lot for another hour or two, but I was replaying the game on NBL.com. I have a 17" computer screen so I got a good view of how we won. Billy Weston looked good closing it out. I don't think we'll need to worry about his fingers. I think he's been soaking them in pickle brine to solve the blistering. Very old school, but whatever works...
Tuesday is workout day here with my Nashville Hounds squad. I haven't thrown since last Thursday, but that's on purpose. Near the end of spring training I was getting a dead arm. No real pain. Just a lifelessness. Hard to explain. It's like when you wake up from a dream and you can't get your eyes to open. My arm just couldn't overcome a certain sluggishness. So I took four days (got a doctor's note) off from baseball activity. I have been able to run and I found a local YMCA where I can swim. I'll probably do so this afternoon. The last thing I want is to lose all of the muscle and flexibility I've built up over the last four months of intense workouts.
My team-paid personal trainer, Andy, called yesterday to give me a verbal pump-up. He's not here with me because the team doesn't want to pay him during the season. I guess that's why. My contract is kind of vague as to whether or not they'd pay for him all year to work out with me. For that, I blame my super agent, Jack Perry, who I've invited to a slumber party in my trailer home. So far, he's respectfully declined. I'll let you know if he makes it down here. We can have another party. I'm sure he'll pay for the beer.
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