Been Busy...

Sorry for the sudden lack of posting. Family is in for the holidays - Vanessa's mother paid a surprise visit. (Keep an eye on your wallets.) My mom & dad decided to spend as much time at our house as possible to compete with the rival grandparent. Meanwhile, both Julia and Grace have taken advantage of all the attention by NOT being at home much at all. No school this week, so the last thing a couple of teens want to do is hang out at a household of people fighting over how many Christmas cookies should be allocated to each guest.

I visited with the team shrink yesterday and, funny thing, he made me sign a non-disclosure agreement before we spoke. In other words, he knows about my blog and is nervous I'll reveal his trade secrets to keeping me sane. So what happens between him and me (or is it he and I?) will have to cut out my new doctor. For example:

Doctor -
Me - Well, it all started when my father, "Red" Scott - you may have heard of him - forced me to spend Father's Day 1977 with my mother while he pitched a third of an inning in Cincinnati and gave up 7 runs on 5 hits, 2 walks and a hit batsman.
Doctor -
Me - You think so?
Doctor -
Me - I never thought of it that way. You're brilliant.
Doctor -
Me - You must write a book about this.

And so on. Not very interesting if you don't hear his advice, which is a cross between Dr. Phil, John Gray and Yanni. Still, we meet again next week. He claims I'll heal faster by talking to him. I told him it's my arm that's the problem, not my head. He laughed and showed me the door. Guess who thinks I'm nuts.

The next three nights are busy with Vanessa and me fulfilling charitable obligations. That means I'm being honored for something. In exchange for my appearance, the respective charity gets to charge people to sit and listen to Vanessa and I banter like Abbott & Costello. Yes, I'm the fat one. But we have the act down pretty good. She talks about something serious. I come on and talk about throwing a ball really fast, then she comes up and disputes everything I've ever said as "sweet nothings." I call her my "sweet little nothing" and then we go on from there. Very funny if you've paid $500 to eat cold, fatty steak and room temperature gazpacho.

We go back to church on Sunday. This is Vanessa's new thing. The family that goes to church together does other things together. She hasn't specified what those other things are. I know it won't be easy to get Julia and Grace out of bed on a weekend before 11:00. Ah, the secret lives of teens.

Andy is back today, so our rehab will be a Thursday, Friday, Saturday schedule, off on Sunday (Andy wants to go to church with us and sing in the choir), only a two-a-day on Monday (New Year's Eve), Tuesday off, then 6 days a week, three times a day through spring training. My wrist is still sore, but it'll get better in a couple more weeks. In the meantime, I'm getting my legs strong, my tummy thin, and my head in the game.

Dinner tonight with the family. Vanessa's ordering in Chinese. It'll be fun watching the grandparents argue over who gets to sit next to the twins while Julia and Grace don't show up to go see Charlie Wilson's War. I think they think it's a Tom Hanks/Julia Roberts romantic comedy. Maybe one day they'll learn to read movie reviews before going out to see a movie about the mujadeen.

The News

Because it was in the fifties yesterday and hit 60 last night, most of the snow melted and I had the sidewalks back when I went running this morning. The moon was full, so it was like running in subdued daylight at 5:45 in the AM time. I wasn't the only one who could see better. The neighborhood paperboys, who all drive their late-1990s minivans with the inside dome light on and Latino hit radio spilling out of their open windows, had good aim today. I was struck on the right thigh by a Wall Street Journal. A New York Times clipped me on my aching right wrist. And a couple Star Ledgers nailed me in the head (but not at the same time). I tell you, these guys must all be pitchers for their Morris County Paperboy softball teams. All they need is some offense and they they'll go all the way. At least they should on paper.

We had our Christmas party Saturday night. If you think an off season party at a big league player's house is filled with other players and their trophy wives and the famous front office personnel, you lose a turn. Unless there is a big team event, like the January caravan to help promote season ticket sales, you don't see baseball players gather together between November 1 and February 14. Half the team lives in other countries and half is spread all around this one. The last thing any of them would want to do is come to my house on a Saturday night and listen to my father talk about the difference between beer from Brooklyn and beer from Wisconsin.

Julia and Grace seemed to have a nice time. They had some friends come over for the shindig. If you think their friends always want to come over to our house so they could get a glimpse of the famous rich dude who pays for the home's heating bill, you lose another turn. By now, and especially after a year of inactivity, I'm not the big time celebrity who can impress people by walking into a room and breathing. Vanessa likes to impress upon me that, as soon as I retire for good, we won't raise as much money as we do now for our foundation. My voice will still work but will be, in effect, silenced as soon as I take that last journey from the pitcher's mound to the locker room. I have my personal services contract and will be a broadcaster soon afterward, but ask my dad (please don't). You can't raise much awareness of issues important to you, like Autism or Lyme Disease, if you're going on and on about the origins of the phrase "can of corn" for the fifth time in three months. You become boring. To Julia and Grace, I have been boring for many years. To their friends, I am now.

We had some help at the party. Three chefs, a four-person crew to clean up. Vanessa's new best friend Connie made six pies and forced most attendees to sample bits of each one. I got out of it by explaining my new diet won't allow me to eat desserts. Of course, Connie saw me eating a handful of Vanessa's Christmas cookies about ten minutes after I'd rejected her. We pretended not to see each other, but the experience stunted my appetite and I returned the uneaten portion of my Russian Teacake to the garbage can where I'd found it. Connie left soon thereafter, saying she wanted to be around when her husband came home. He's a surgeon in the City and works lots of late nights. I think he pulls down around a million a year. There's one guy who deserves that kind of salary.

Vanessa wanted to go to church Sunday, since it was Christmas Sunday, so we attended the 9:00 service in Chatham at the Methodist church. I hadn't been to church since the previous Christmas, but since we're not Catholic, I didn't feel guilty about it. I passed the time during the sermon thinking about what kind of X-Box games Vanessa was going to get me for Christmas. Which led me to think about how Felipe Castro is on the cover of next season's Big League Batter 2008 game. Which led me to say a quiet prayer that they find his mother by today so they can all have a nice Christmas together. I know that's got to be one scared and worried family.

Andy, my personal trainer, flew home to New Orleans on Friday and won't be back up until Thursday, so I'm working out on my own for almost a week. In the meantime, I will be paying a visit on Wednesday with our new team psychiatrist, Dr. Henry Pachtins. Just a little check up from the neck up. I don't expect much since I already blame all of the bad things that have ever happened to me on my father.

Speaking of which, "Red" Scott says the paperboys are after me because I never give them a Christmas tip. I asked how much he tips his paperboy. He said nothing. He reads all of his news on the Internet. Not a bad idea, but just my luck, I'd be running one morning and get clipped on the thigh by a Dell laptop, hurled out of a window by an angry paperboy, now unemployed because of the drop in paper sales.

A Cinderfella Story

I'm still dumbfounded. By now, you've seen or heard about how Vanessa and I made, not just the back pages, but the front pages of both the News and the Post. Let me be the million and sixth cover boy to state emphatically, "It's not what you think." I've heard people use this phrase in movies, on their second or third cell phones (athletes, once they get paid the big bucks, have one cell phone to speak with the wife and their other cell phones for girlfriends), even in the mirror (I do this when starting to feel more balding than the previous day). But when I state emphatically to you that "It's not what you think," you must realize that I'm telling the truth. Because I'm not like other guys (usually used by other guys at strip clubs).

Here's what happened. Vanessa and I got to baseball commissioner Elliott Pollock's townhouse on Saturday evening around 7:15. We weren't trying to be fashionably late. Traffic into Manhattan was ridiculous. It's Christmas. I usually drive us, but we splurged and hired a limo service to ferry us into NYC, from East Side to West Side, and then back home to New Jersey. Our driver was a pleasant man named Maceo. He says hi.

Elliott's party was fun. Great food. Many officials from the league and their families. I was the only player at first, which made Vanessa the only player's wife in attendance at first. There was dancing. So we danced a bit. I looked down at Vanessa's watch and it was 9:30. We had to leave to make it to Mrs. Delaney's party across town. Since Vanessa danced without her shoes, we spent twenty minutes looking for them. We found one. I could tell it was hers because it was made of glass and hers was the only foot in the kingdom that fit. We married three hours later, accompanied by a fairy godmother and a band of mice with Brooklyn accents.

The second shoe was lost, so we left, hopped into the Maceo Mobile, and sped toward a shoe store (name escapes me; college football was on the radio). Vanessa hopped out, bought a pair of pumps, and dove back in. We made it to Mrs. Delaney's by 10:45.

Needless to say, Mrs. Delaney was slightly miffed that we were three hours and fifteen minutes tardy for her party. I explained about the shoe, the mice and the bitter stepmother. She nodded and led us into her grand chalet. Beautiful place. Her townhouse is the size of Staten Island, only it wasn't built on top of industrial waste.

Kai Goto was there. We exchanged bows and we let some photographers take pictures of us pretending to Indian leg wrestle. Felipe Castro was there with his wife, Celia. His mother missed her plane from Venezuela, apparently, so she couldn't be there. Felipe was a little distressed, but Kai and I helped sooth him by helping him count the money in his wallet.

Around midnight, I started to list a bit. The wall held me up, but my tiredness remained. I grabbed Vanessa and made mention of Maceo turning into a lizard and his limo transforming back into a Dodge Dart if we didn't leave immediately. She was sympathetic, but wanted to head back to Elliott's to find her shoe. We bid Mrs. Delaney and other guests an adieu, told her her party was the best New York had to offer, and made a beeline for the car.

If you recall, the weather was pretty crappy Saturday night into Sunday. A mix of snow and freezing rain was falling when we asked Maceo to take us back to Elliott's. He sped through Central Park, hydroplaning only when the road wasn't in a straight line.

Back inside Elliott's, the party was jamming. It was about 12:40 or so. Vanessa searched for her shoe and I saw 4 or 5 retired players milling about. I'm not going to reveal their names because they specifically asked that I not tell anyone they'd been there. I asked if the other 65 people in attendance had also signed their confidentiality agreement. Humorless, they withdrew into the crowd and used Elliott's drapes as substitutes for napkins.

Somehow, Vanessa and I found ourselves dancing again. The D.J. was really good. But for the record, I do not wish that I had Jesse's girl. I have a woman like that. Unfortunately, Vanessa lost one of her new shoes. I swear, Elliott's place is like a washing machine/dryer combo that takes your pairs of socks and only returns one. At least Vanessa was back to owning a pair of shoes, one of which was in Maceo's possession in the limo.

Here's where it got a little strange. We left Elliott's after 40 minutes or so and made it downstairs. Vanessa told me not to let go of her as she hopped around. I responded emphatically that I would never do such a thing. The doorman winked at me as he opened the door. Outside, about twenty reporters with cameras, both the still and video kinds, were waiting. Out of surprise, I instantly dropped Vanessa's arm and she fell to the snowy, slippery sidewalk. People yelled things at us, mostly questions, and I helped her up. She snapped something at me pertaining to how she'd never ask me to hold a fishing pole while she tied the bait to the hook. I've never fished. Just because she did as a kid every Saturday with her dad doesn't make her better than me. So I told her I was sorry for dropping her to the snowy, slippery sidewalk, but if she had put GPS units into her shoes like I had suggested, she never would have needed me to hold her up in the first place. As she told me how ridiculous I sounded (I made the part of about suggesting she put GPS units into her shoes), Maceo pulled up. We slipped inside and drove off.

But wait. There's more.

The reporters were there because they'd been tipped off Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie were in the building for an event. Totally serious. I never saw them at Elliott's and apparently the reporters never saw them outside. Thus, rather than write off their stalk as pointless, they used their photo of Vanessa on the sidewalk and me looking down at her. Her face is of pain (it was cold, snowy and icy down there). Mine is of "Uh oh, I'm in trouble," which can look angry to passers-by with cameras, both the still and video kind. This photo eventually accompanied a special Sunday front page headline: Another Scott Down For The Count. This, of course, was in reference to when I spent the better part of last April 2nd on the grass in front of the pitcher's mound, writhing in pain after my angry elbow showed off its anger.

And if you think the photos made us look bad, I'm sure you read the accompanying articles which did not paint a flattering picture either. I swear, both the Post and News must employ the same reporters because both articles were basically the same thing. They told of how fat I'd gotten, how unhappy I was, and how witnesses at Elliott's party saw me talking to shadowy figures, probably female, near Elliott's drapery.

None of it was really a big deal, until I received a call directly from Mrs. Delaney around 11:00 AM Sunday morning asking what happened, how it happened, and what was I thinking. I explained the story to her, but she was still upset. At that point, I apologized for being late to her party and not going home from there but instead going to a rival party on the other side of town. I swore to her, and swear to her now as she actually reads this filth I call truth, that we only went back to Elliott's to find Vanessa's shoe. And so I could have one more little baked brie. Those things were really good.

I thought all was well until I received a call Sunday night from super agent Jack Perry. The team was asking me to apologize to a women's rights group which felt I had made fun of them by allowing my woman, who's my wife, to fall to a snowy, slippery sidewalk in the snowy, freezing rain on a very early Sunday morning. I explained to Jack that women fall all the time. Does Brad have to apologize to the plumbers and pipe fitters union every time Angelina slips in her tub? Jack said all I had to do was write a brief statement and he'd release it. I shook my head and told him I'd write a brief statement.

Here it is: Go away.

I am a team player, as Mrs. Delaney knows. I'll do anything to help my team win. But don't ask me to pander to a bunch of divorced women who focus their energies on the imaginary problems of others instead of focusing on their own. In the end, it will be they who shall apologize to me.

Fairy godmother was right. We should have just gone home at midnight.

I Am Santa

If you saw the news last night, you saw me dressed in full Santa Claus attire for the team holiday party, which had a sole purpose of celebrating area kids and their accomplishments. It's always fun to see a large group of 8 years olds laughing and singing, especially when they have no idea who we are. I could bet you $10 worth of team merchandise that 95% of the kids there never heard of Rick Churches, 96% have never gone to one of our games, and 97% don't like baseball. It's nothing against them. They're only eight years old. They got a free meal and their happy faces on TV. They sang and laughed, so they definitely had fun. But I question what the point is if we mean nothing to them. Do we invite these kids purely for the PR benefit? Do their school principals "know" someone in our organization well enough to get kids from their school invited, thus making the principal look good in the eyes of district parents and the superintendent? Could we have instead invited high school kids who may have been more impressed, more affected by a visit, but just don't happen to be as camera-cute as a bunch of inner city eight year olds in school uniforms? I guess it's none of my business. I show up, dress like Santa and try to pick caramel out of my molars with my tongue. I just think we could do a more targeted job of bringing joy to people. Eighteen year olds who would be more incentivized to go to our holiday party because they know they could meet members of the the team seem to be a better group, as they'd care and, therefore, you could get them to do positive things that would qualify them to see me lick my own mouth live and in person. It doesn't matter what I think. I'm just another cynical boy who thinks he knows everything every once in a while.

In other news, I got to have a nice lengthy sit-down with our new manager, Rick Churches, before we were introduced. He was a little upset that I was Santa and he was "my" elf. Because elves work for Santa, he felt the arrangement gave off the impression that he worked for me. Yes, he said this to me. I told him he was the only person in the entire borough of Manhattan who thought like that. He went on and on about how he's always been a lonely thinker and look where it's gotten him. I told him in that case not to look in a mirror. He'd be upset to see he was wearing a goofy beanie and silly green vest. I assumed he had tights on, but didn't want to bother him any more than he was. It's not good to have unhappy employees.

It was a pleasure to finally meet "The Jimmy Scott of Japan," Kai Goto. He was an elf and he didn't complain once. I think it's pretty clear to both of us that he's got a lot more left in the tank than I do, especially since he has a 6-year contract and mine is for one. So no lack of self-confidence there. He speaks a little bit of English, but we'll teach him all the finer points of the language in the clubhouse once spring training rolls around.

Felipe Castro also made a surprise appearance. I hadn't spoken to Felipe in a number of months and was happy to share a bear hug and ask how construction on his new house in Long Island is going. It's supposed to be something like 7500 square feet, this place. I told him his house will be nicer than our stadium, although he said he'd never invite 50,000 screaming strangers over to see.

And speaking of which, I chatted briefly with our owner, Mrs. Joan Delaney, who's campaigning very hard to get us a new stadium. She read of my conundrum in being invited to two parties tomorrow night, hers and commissioner Elliott Pollock's. She said not to worry, Vanessa and I can just go to Elliott's and have a great time. She was seeing me today. Because I have a mother who majored in guilt trips in college, I realized immediately that Vanessa and I should spend about 10 minutes at Elliott's party before rushing over to Mrs. Delaney's townhouse. Kai promised he'd sing karaoke. And Felipe was bringing his mother. Boy, that's going to be some shindig. I only hope Rick isn't too upset when we arrive and I ask him to hang up our jackets. Don't worry, Rick. We'll tip on the way out.