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 Nashville Hounds. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Nashville Hounds. 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, May 6, 2008
Halloween In May
An early game yesterday (10:30 AM) marred by two things:
1. We lost 5-1. I did not pitch.
2. Halloween in May
We were a flat team yesterday. Teams do that sometimes. Everyone just picks a day, subconsciously, to have no energy and go through the motions. We did that yesterday. Dusty Graves, our manager, was furious by the 4th inning because of this. He was tossed by the 5th. We didn't even see him after the game until we got on the bus that took us to the airport for our flight to Tucson. He was already on the plane as we boarded. He said nothing, just stared straight ahead. That's about all a manager can do on days like that.
The other thing that brought us down was a Halloween in May promotion the team ran. It got fannies in the seats (about 6500 in attendance), but it also distracted the hell out of a bunch of the guys. First, there was this:
These two were sitting right behind home plate.
Then there was this kid:
He never sat, the whole game. Just kept running up and down the aisles, screaming, "I'm dead! I'm dead!" It got worse when he'd start screaming it in Spanish. "Soy muerto! Soy muerto!"
Rey Marcos, our 17 year old superstar in training and my trusty ward, was freaked out. He kept looking at me from out on the field at shortstop, like I could do something. When he'd come in, I'd tell him to relax. But since my Spanish is about as good as my cooking, I don't think I got through to him. As a result, he went 0 for 5 and made two errors, one leading to a 3-run fifth for Salt Lake.
Finally, there were these two young ladies:
If you weren't Rey Marcos, then your eyes were here. Lots of chatter in the dugout about the costumes these femmes elected to wear to a 10:30AM minor league baseball game. They also put on a pretty interesting show during the 7th inning stretch. We went down 1-2-3 (on 5 pitches) shortly thereafter. Maybe Dusty should have been focusing more on the goings-on off the field. Or maybe that was his problem too. Maybe he was just as bad as everyone else. It's tough to be 50, I assume. I'm only 40, so what do I know.
Since the Jimmy Scott Foundation now owns the Nashville Hounds, I'm thinking of aborting future Halloween in May promotions. Why let the fans have fun when there's a ballgame to be played? Or maybe we'll just have it at night and make it harder for the players to see. Or maybe we turn the promotion into Nun Day. We can make a new habit of it. Get it?
1. We lost 5-1. I did not pitch.
2. Halloween in May
We were a flat team yesterday. Teams do that sometimes. Everyone just picks a day, subconsciously, to have no energy and go through the motions. We did that yesterday. Dusty Graves, our manager, was furious by the 4th inning because of this. He was tossed by the 5th. We didn't even see him after the game until we got on the bus that took us to the airport for our flight to Tucson. He was already on the plane as we boarded. He said nothing, just stared straight ahead. That's about all a manager can do on days like that.
The other thing that brought us down was a Halloween in May promotion the team ran. It got fannies in the seats (about 6500 in attendance), but it also distracted the hell out of a bunch of the guys. First, there was this:
These two were sitting right behind home plate.
Then there was this kid:
He never sat, the whole game. Just kept running up and down the aisles, screaming, "I'm dead! I'm dead!" It got worse when he'd start screaming it in Spanish. "Soy muerto! Soy muerto!"
Rey Marcos, our 17 year old superstar in training and my trusty ward, was freaked out. He kept looking at me from out on the field at shortstop, like I could do something. When he'd come in, I'd tell him to relax. But since my Spanish is about as good as my cooking, I don't think I got through to him. As a result, he went 0 for 5 and made two errors, one leading to a 3-run fifth for Salt Lake.
Finally, there were these two young ladies:
If you weren't Rey Marcos, then your eyes were here. Lots of chatter in the dugout about the costumes these femmes elected to wear to a 10:30AM minor league baseball game. They also put on a pretty interesting show during the 7th inning stretch. We went down 1-2-3 (on 5 pitches) shortly thereafter. Maybe Dusty should have been focusing more on the goings-on off the field. Or maybe that was his problem too. Maybe he was just as bad as everyone else. It's tough to be 50, I assume. I'm only 40, so what do I know.
Since the Jimmy Scott Foundation now owns the Nashville Hounds, I'm thinking of aborting future Halloween in May promotions. Why let the fans have fun when there's a ballgame to be played? Or maybe we'll just have it at night and make it harder for the players to see. Or maybe we turn the promotion into Nun Day. We can make a new habit of it. Get it?
Monday, May 5, 2008
Terms of Endearment
"Just when I thought I was about to make a clean getaway..." Great line by Jack Nicholson at the end of Terms of Endearment, the only movie that made me cry in 1983 (it was E.T. in '82).
Jack had just paid a visit to Shirley MacLaine, whose daughter was dying. Jack and Shirley had had a little affair together earlier in the movie, and as she drops him off at the airport, she tells him she loves him. Jack continues on, poised to walk into the terminal, when she shouts out to him, asking if he heard her. It's then that Jack says, "Just when I thought I was about to make a clean getaway." Remember his answer? Scroll to the bottom.
Thus, my story today begins with that line. Well, the line it really begins with is one of my final lines of Friday's post, in which I alluded to our front office personnel as "vermin." I don't actually know what vermin are. I just know they're probably yucky. My use of the term was not one anyone could consider endearing.
I didn't think much of my use of that word. It was hidden inside a paragraph and it just flowed out of me. That's what I told my wife, Vanessa.
Me: Like water from a river.
Vanessa: Like stupidity from an idiot.
Me: I like my simile better.
Vanessa: Do you ever think before you do these things? Or do you just hope nobody notices?
You see, Vanessa read my post. She doesn't usually read them, claiming not to have "the time." Somebody in the front office read my post, because that somebody told others in the front office. Of course, the media caught hold at some point during this process, which spread to newspapers, television, the internet... I can't think of any other media. Billboards. No, nobody's going to reprint portions of my blog posts on a billboard yet. They'd need my permission. But I digress. Lots of people ended up reading my comment about the front office being composed of "vermin." Vanessa eventually became one of the "lots of people" and her frustration with me was proof.
I didn't answer her questions, by the way. Still in search of the perfect psychiatrist/psychologist mix, I don't feel I can answer anything deep without consulting with someone who'll give me the right answer to repeat to people like my wife.
So, of course, I'm not speaking to the media, which makes my line blow up even more. And more questions are raised: Do I think all people in the front office are vermin? Even the interns? Even the people from the cleaning service who empty trash cans after 8PM? Or was there one or two specific folks I considered vermin? Either way, didn't I owe an apology to the entire front office, including interns and cleaning service people?
To me, it was clear, if you read the entire post, which most people probably didn't, that I was not calling interns, cleaning people, assistants, assistants to assistants, or the DHL guy, vermin. Those are fine people who don't need to be offended because they should know I was not referring to them. Still, I'll be a big man and apologize to them, their families, their ancestors and their descendants. The front office people who make the front office run are not vermin. They're very nice people with fancy haircuts and nice shoes.
It is clear I was referring to our General Manager, Alvin Kirby, who's been called a lot worse than "vermin" by a lot worse people than me (or is it I?). Alvin is a big boy who can handle a rogue player like me call him a name. Sticks and stones, right? The line it was a little quip I embedded into a much larger post that might have stung a little, from Alvin's perspective, but he's got much bigger problems, such as the sexual assault lawsuit, his pending divorce, the fact that the Vets are 14 and 16. I mean, if he hadn't tried to screw around with my super agent, Jack, and me a week ago, none of this would have ever happened. Needless to say, I apologize to Alvin for the public mockery of his title. He is a respectable man who has overcome a lot, especially racism, to become the first black GM of the Veterans and one of only two black GMs in baseball over the past 6 years. He should be proud of himself. I write that not to patronize, but to point out a point. I'd be damn proud if that were me.
However, the firestorm was in full swing by Saturday night. We blew away Salt Lake at home and were feeling good after winning two games in a row. I pitched an inning, gave up a hit but struck out two. Nice effort, if I do say so myself (and I say it a lot lately). After the game, I showered and walked back to my trailer in the parking lot with Andy, my personal trainer turned security liaison. Guess who's waiting there?
Alvin: Hi, Jimmy. Am I vermin?
Me: Not literally.
Alvin: I'm upset with you.
Me: I guess I can tell, since the team is in Phoenix, your office is in New York, it's Saturday night and you're standing in a Nashville parking lot with somebody who insulted you.
Alvin: Everything's a joke to you, isn't it? Wait, don't answer.
Me: Not answering.
Alvin: May I see this famous trailer of yours?
I bid Andy a good night but told him to stick close in case he hears me scream in terror. Then he could run away.
Alvin followed me inside. He commented on my accommodations, but I couldn't tell if he was insulting me or not. What do you think "small like your pea brain" means? Then he got right down to it. He flew into Nashville that day, a planned trip, to see me pitch and check out some of the team's AAA prospects. He thought I pitched well, better than the reports he'd been getting. I told him I'd been pitching better than the reports he'd been getting for a while. That's why he shouldn't have negotiated to have me play in Nashville for two more weeks. He told me I was $1 million richer because of those negotiations. I agreed and told him I would have settled for $250,000. He smiled. "I would have paid $2 million." I made a mental note to fire my super agent.
Alvin: You've got to stop making controversy with your blog.
Me: You've got to stop doing controversial things to me with the power of your position.
Alvin: I could release you in a heartbeat. Then you'd have nothing to look forward to this year, no seeing your wife and kids after home games, no rapport with the fans who've supported you for 14 years.
Me: It's not good to make decisions like that purely on emotion.
Alvin: Which is why you should think before releasing your stuff.
Me: I see you've been speaking to Vanessa.
We argued a little bit more, but it wasn't really too intense. He knew he was right and I knew he was right. I also knew that I'd probably make the same mistake again.
Alvin: Why can't you learn from your mistakes?
Me: I can as a baseball player. Hit a grand slam off of me and I'll know to throw high and tight to you for now on. But as a human, I am merely mortal.
Alvin: Most people know, eventually, that if they hurt others with their words that they shouldn't do it anymore.
Me: Okay. I won't bring up how you've tried to screw me and my contract twice in the last six months.
Alvin: Good. I won't bring up how you didn't rehab for the first six months after your injury.
Me: I was depressed.
Alvin: I was angry.
Me: As an aside, I'm not going to kiss you when we get to the make-up stage.
Alvin smiled at that. He really has had a rough go of it personally since February, and I assume since before then. Like me, he's made mistakes and probably said some inappropriate things in her non-baseball life. And like me, he just wants to put that behind him and win a world championship this year. If he doesn't, this is probably his last as our GM. And if I don't pitch well, it's probably my last year as a player. Vanessa won't like that. She thinks the controversies I'm going through this year are a direct result of my fear of the future. If I'm driving her crazy now, what's our life going to be like when I'm home every day for the rest of my life?
Alvin Kirby left around midnight. He was going to fly to Phoenix first thing Sunday morning. I had a game Sunday afternoon (we won again, I pitched another shutout inning). Today, Monday, we have another one of those 10:30 AM games. Weird timing. But today is also Halloween Day at Pepsi Field. Show up in a costume and get a free hot dog, courtesy of Ballpark Franks. Looking forward to seeing you at the ballpark today.
Oh, I found out what vermin are: Animals or insects, like cockroaches or rats, that are annoying and destructive.
No wonder nobody considered that a term of endearment.
Jack Nicholson's answer: "I love you too, kid."
Jack had just paid a visit to Shirley MacLaine, whose daughter was dying. Jack and Shirley had had a little affair together earlier in the movie, and as she drops him off at the airport, she tells him she loves him. Jack continues on, poised to walk into the terminal, when she shouts out to him, asking if he heard her. It's then that Jack says, "Just when I thought I was about to make a clean getaway." Remember his answer? Scroll to the bottom.
Thus, my story today begins with that line. Well, the line it really begins with is one of my final lines of Friday's post, in which I alluded to our front office personnel as "vermin." I don't actually know what vermin are. I just know they're probably yucky. My use of the term was not one anyone could consider endearing.
I didn't think much of my use of that word. It was hidden inside a paragraph and it just flowed out of me. That's what I told my wife, Vanessa.
Me: Like water from a river.
Vanessa: Like stupidity from an idiot.
Me: I like my simile better.
Vanessa: Do you ever think before you do these things? Or do you just hope nobody notices?
You see, Vanessa read my post. She doesn't usually read them, claiming not to have "the time." Somebody in the front office read my post, because that somebody told others in the front office. Of course, the media caught hold at some point during this process, which spread to newspapers, television, the internet... I can't think of any other media. Billboards. No, nobody's going to reprint portions of my blog posts on a billboard yet. They'd need my permission. But I digress. Lots of people ended up reading my comment about the front office being composed of "vermin." Vanessa eventually became one of the "lots of people" and her frustration with me was proof.
I didn't answer her questions, by the way. Still in search of the perfect psychiatrist/psychologist mix, I don't feel I can answer anything deep without consulting with someone who'll give me the right answer to repeat to people like my wife.
So, of course, I'm not speaking to the media, which makes my line blow up even more. And more questions are raised: Do I think all people in the front office are vermin? Even the interns? Even the people from the cleaning service who empty trash cans after 8PM? Or was there one or two specific folks I considered vermin? Either way, didn't I owe an apology to the entire front office, including interns and cleaning service people?
To me, it was clear, if you read the entire post, which most people probably didn't, that I was not calling interns, cleaning people, assistants, assistants to assistants, or the DHL guy, vermin. Those are fine people who don't need to be offended because they should know I was not referring to them. Still, I'll be a big man and apologize to them, their families, their ancestors and their descendants. The front office people who make the front office run are not vermin. They're very nice people with fancy haircuts and nice shoes.
It is clear I was referring to our General Manager, Alvin Kirby, who's been called a lot worse than "vermin" by a lot worse people than me (or is it I?). Alvin is a big boy who can handle a rogue player like me call him a name. Sticks and stones, right? The line it was a little quip I embedded into a much larger post that might have stung a little, from Alvin's perspective, but he's got much bigger problems, such as the sexual assault lawsuit, his pending divorce, the fact that the Vets are 14 and 16. I mean, if he hadn't tried to screw around with my super agent, Jack, and me a week ago, none of this would have ever happened. Needless to say, I apologize to Alvin for the public mockery of his title. He is a respectable man who has overcome a lot, especially racism, to become the first black GM of the Veterans and one of only two black GMs in baseball over the past 6 years. He should be proud of himself. I write that not to patronize, but to point out a point. I'd be damn proud if that were me.
However, the firestorm was in full swing by Saturday night. We blew away Salt Lake at home and were feeling good after winning two games in a row. I pitched an inning, gave up a hit but struck out two. Nice effort, if I do say so myself (and I say it a lot lately). After the game, I showered and walked back to my trailer in the parking lot with Andy, my personal trainer turned security liaison. Guess who's waiting there?
Alvin: Hi, Jimmy. Am I vermin?
Me: Not literally.
Alvin: I'm upset with you.
Me: I guess I can tell, since the team is in Phoenix, your office is in New York, it's Saturday night and you're standing in a Nashville parking lot with somebody who insulted you.
Alvin: Everything's a joke to you, isn't it? Wait, don't answer.
Me: Not answering.
Alvin: May I see this famous trailer of yours?
I bid Andy a good night but told him to stick close in case he hears me scream in terror. Then he could run away.
Alvin followed me inside. He commented on my accommodations, but I couldn't tell if he was insulting me or not. What do you think "small like your pea brain" means? Then he got right down to it. He flew into Nashville that day, a planned trip, to see me pitch and check out some of the team's AAA prospects. He thought I pitched well, better than the reports he'd been getting. I told him I'd been pitching better than the reports he'd been getting for a while. That's why he shouldn't have negotiated to have me play in Nashville for two more weeks. He told me I was $1 million richer because of those negotiations. I agreed and told him I would have settled for $250,000. He smiled. "I would have paid $2 million." I made a mental note to fire my super agent.
Alvin: You've got to stop making controversy with your blog.
Me: You've got to stop doing controversial things to me with the power of your position.
Alvin: I could release you in a heartbeat. Then you'd have nothing to look forward to this year, no seeing your wife and kids after home games, no rapport with the fans who've supported you for 14 years.
Me: It's not good to make decisions like that purely on emotion.
Alvin: Which is why you should think before releasing your stuff.
Me: I see you've been speaking to Vanessa.
We argued a little bit more, but it wasn't really too intense. He knew he was right and I knew he was right. I also knew that I'd probably make the same mistake again.
Alvin: Why can't you learn from your mistakes?
Me: I can as a baseball player. Hit a grand slam off of me and I'll know to throw high and tight to you for now on. But as a human, I am merely mortal.
Alvin: Most people know, eventually, that if they hurt others with their words that they shouldn't do it anymore.
Me: Okay. I won't bring up how you've tried to screw me and my contract twice in the last six months.
Alvin: Good. I won't bring up how you didn't rehab for the first six months after your injury.
Me: I was depressed.
Alvin: I was angry.
Me: As an aside, I'm not going to kiss you when we get to the make-up stage.
Alvin smiled at that. He really has had a rough go of it personally since February, and I assume since before then. Like me, he's made mistakes and probably said some inappropriate things in her non-baseball life. And like me, he just wants to put that behind him and win a world championship this year. If he doesn't, this is probably his last as our GM. And if I don't pitch well, it's probably my last year as a player. Vanessa won't like that. She thinks the controversies I'm going through this year are a direct result of my fear of the future. If I'm driving her crazy now, what's our life going to be like when I'm home every day for the rest of my life?
Alvin Kirby left around midnight. He was going to fly to Phoenix first thing Sunday morning. I had a game Sunday afternoon (we won again, I pitched another shutout inning). Today, Monday, we have another one of those 10:30 AM games. Weird timing. But today is also Halloween Day at Pepsi Field. Show up in a costume and get a free hot dog, courtesy of Ballpark Franks. Looking forward to seeing you at the ballpark today.
Oh, I found out what vermin are: Animals or insects, like cockroaches or rats, that are annoying and destructive.
No wonder nobody considered that a term of endearment.
Jack Nicholson's answer: "I love you too, kid."
Friday, May 2, 2008
The Sound Of Silence
Sorry for the blog blackout this week. Very sensitive negotiations were going on that just concluded last evening. For my career over the past year, this has proven to be a typical negotiation. But instead of jawing about it, or writing about it here, I used some decent judgement and kept a lid on my thoughts until all was through. Had I lifted a finger toward my keyboard, you know I would have been unstoppable. That's not good when you're negotiating with management.
Let me start from the beginning of this particular saga. I had an agreement with the team that I would be called up from Nashville on May 1st. No ifs, ands or buts. On May 1, I am in New York with the Veterans. My super agent, Jack Perry, received an email - not a phone call, an email - from GM Alvin Kirby last Friday, April 25th. The team, looking for more consistency from me, wanted me to stay with the Nashville club for an extra two to three weeks. Jack, a reasonable man, did not forward the email to me on account of my most likely making it public seconds later. Instead, Jack called Alvin and ripped into him for wanting to break an agreement and not being professional enough to call Jack about it. Apparently, someone hung up on someone, because the story didn't end there.
I received a call from Jack on Saturday (not an email) and was filled in on the new development. I called QVC and had my new luggage order put on hold while I sat on my hands and waited. Well, I didn't sit on my hands because I pitched Saturday night. My head, which as you know has not been as clear as it should be for someone being paid many millions of dollars for throwing a piece of dead cow at someone holding a dead tree, clouded over even further as I took the ball on the mound in the 9th inning. Before I walked off the mound 39 pitches later, our 2-run lead had somehow turned into a loss by three runs (in other words, I gave up five runs). Thank goodness we were in Omaha. I could pretend the cheers for the three run home run by what's his name rehabbing for K.C. were for me and not what's his name rehabbing for K.C.
I got back to my hotel room and starting posting a furious post in this space about how the team is screwing with my head and has been ever since this winter, when they offered me an extra buyout so I wouldn't opt into my contract; how I've been, in my head, demoted to relief pitcher, picked on by the front office, and languished in the minor leagues for a month with a (finally) healthy arm. And now I'm told the team wants to extend my stay in AAA by two to three more weeks.
Vanessa, my rock, my steady influence, my counselor, the one who will only enable me if what I'm trying to do is good for the greater good of society, our family, and me (not always in that order), told me to immediately delete the post. Do not upload it, no matter what. After arguing about it for ten minutes, I acquiesced to her wishes and threw my laptop out a second story hotel window in Omaha (just because I was mature enough to listen to her doesn't mean I was mature enough to like the decision).
We had a day game on Sunday. I didn't pitch because I'd thrown too many pitches on Saturday. So I sat, grumbling and mumbling and stewing, in the dugout. My Nashville Hounds manager, Dusty Graves, tried to cheer me up by letting me manage the 8th and 9th innings. Under my direction, the team blew a 2-0 lead and turned it into a 3-2 loss. By the time we'd made it onto the bus to the airport, I was no longer the only man over the age of 40 who was grumbling and mumbling and stewing.
I hit rock bottom on Monday. Back "home" in Nashville, I was booed by the 5000+ fans who came to see me pitch on what was supposed to be my final three games with the Hounds. We were losing 9-0 in the top of the 9th when I only needed to throw five pitches to get us to the bottom of the inning. The cheers I heard after that effortless half inning were sarcastic. I've been so inconsistent, the lack of pain I've felt (a good thing) has been outweighed by the fact that some nights I'm great and some I'm awful. Down by 9 runs, the fans are thinking, what pressure is there for a guy to throw a meaningless 1-2-3 inning? Answer: On this night, all the pressure in the world. Because...
By this point, Jack had gotten the Players Association involved. Legally (not in the real world, but in the baseball world), the team had to call me up on May 1. I've been down here on a minor league rehab assignment. The maximum number of days a player can play under those terms in the minor leagues is thirty. 28 days were complete and the team didn't want to call me up. Because of issues on the big league roster, they didn't want to cut another player because they had to call me up. They wanted two more weeks to "evaluate" the team (at that point, the Vets were 11 and 14) before making decisions. Their pitch to the PA was that I was still injured. I physically couldn't play in New York. My 1-2-3, 5-pitch inning on Monday kind of proved the flaw in their thinking.
But I stayed quiet. I was furious - still am - but didn't say anything to Dusty or you or any teammates. "Let Jack deal with this," I said.
I shouldn't have sent the email to Alvin Kirby. You don't tell yourself you're going to let your super agent fix a situation and then go behind his back and email your GM about what a jerk he's acting like. But I did it. Alvin, this time acting professional, didn't respond to me. He went to Jack. Called him. Apparently, they went at it pretty good. Just like Vanessa and me when I told her about what I'd done. (I would reprint the email here, but cooler heads have convinced me to delete it from the hard drive of my (then) new computer, which was found the following day in a dumpster behind the stadium hotel in a condition the police would later state as "mangled beyond recognition.")
Tuesday comes. Nothing. No news. I hate that. Just when you need to hear something - anything - you hear nothing. I think in this case, Jack and Alvin purposely kept me in the dark as punishment for the email. While that would be unprofessional, I wouldn't put it past either man. Because when you hear no news, you become paranoid. By Tuesday night, I was more paranoid than a serial killer at a detectives convention.
Wednesday drops by. It's now April 30. Do I stay or do I go? We have a very weird 10:30 AM game time. Stadium still sold out. I pitch the 9th inning, us down 3-2, and get out of a man on third, no outs jam by striking out three consecutive Mountain Men (on 11 pitches). Standing ovation as I leave the mound (this ovation for real; no sarcasm). Yes, they all believe I'm done in Nashville, my beyond-the-bleachers, Pepsi Field parking lot trailer home to be auctioned off with the proceeds going to a local food bank. They love that I was here and are probably happy that I'll be gone (just because the team has been horrible this April). I don't know whether to smile or cry. Where will I be on Thursday?
I found out an hour later (while taking a taxi to a Best Buy to get myself a new laptop). Finally. A deal was made. After the game, I was removed from the DL, called up, and placed back on the DL. While the Vets had to make a corresponding roster move for the thirty seconds that I was up on the team - a move they hadn't wanted to make - they got their ultimate wish for me to stay in AAA for 15 more days.
What did I get? The Players Association approved my receiving a "special bonus" for my troubles, a bonus of $1 million. Jack, my super agent, never budged from that ridiculous sum of money. All along, the team wanted to pay me nothing extra. So I went from two weeks at my base pay to two weeks for $1 million. I can't cry over the deal. After all, it's a million dollars.
Thus, I began my official final two weeks for AAA Nashville by pitching a second day in a row Thursday night, my Hounds down 5-0 already, and mowing down the Mountain Men in order. My head has cleared somewhat. My wallet has bulged quite a bit (don't get all upset, after taxes and commissions, I'm donating the full amount to the same Nashville food bank that's receiving the proceeds from the auctioning off of my trailer). I know for sure now that with my health and this final 15 (now 14 and not the 21 the team was insisting on) days with the Hounds, I'll be that much better for the Vets. I can feel it.
As per my relationship with the NY front office? It stinks. But you know what? That's why I have a super agent. Let Jack deal with the vermin who run the Vets. I'm a player. The clock is ticking down to my first appearance in a year with NY. I think you're going to be happy to see me. Lord knows, I'll be happy to see you.
Let me start from the beginning of this particular saga. I had an agreement with the team that I would be called up from Nashville on May 1st. No ifs, ands or buts. On May 1, I am in New York with the Veterans. My super agent, Jack Perry, received an email - not a phone call, an email - from GM Alvin Kirby last Friday, April 25th. The team, looking for more consistency from me, wanted me to stay with the Nashville club for an extra two to three weeks. Jack, a reasonable man, did not forward the email to me on account of my most likely making it public seconds later. Instead, Jack called Alvin and ripped into him for wanting to break an agreement and not being professional enough to call Jack about it. Apparently, someone hung up on someone, because the story didn't end there.
I received a call from Jack on Saturday (not an email) and was filled in on the new development. I called QVC and had my new luggage order put on hold while I sat on my hands and waited. Well, I didn't sit on my hands because I pitched Saturday night. My head, which as you know has not been as clear as it should be for someone being paid many millions of dollars for throwing a piece of dead cow at someone holding a dead tree, clouded over even further as I took the ball on the mound in the 9th inning. Before I walked off the mound 39 pitches later, our 2-run lead had somehow turned into a loss by three runs (in other words, I gave up five runs). Thank goodness we were in Omaha. I could pretend the cheers for the three run home run by what's his name rehabbing for K.C. were for me and not what's his name rehabbing for K.C.
I got back to my hotel room and starting posting a furious post in this space about how the team is screwing with my head and has been ever since this winter, when they offered me an extra buyout so I wouldn't opt into my contract; how I've been, in my head, demoted to relief pitcher, picked on by the front office, and languished in the minor leagues for a month with a (finally) healthy arm. And now I'm told the team wants to extend my stay in AAA by two to three more weeks.
Vanessa, my rock, my steady influence, my counselor, the one who will only enable me if what I'm trying to do is good for the greater good of society, our family, and me (not always in that order), told me to immediately delete the post. Do not upload it, no matter what. After arguing about it for ten minutes, I acquiesced to her wishes and threw my laptop out a second story hotel window in Omaha (just because I was mature enough to listen to her doesn't mean I was mature enough to like the decision).
We had a day game on Sunday. I didn't pitch because I'd thrown too many pitches on Saturday. So I sat, grumbling and mumbling and stewing, in the dugout. My Nashville Hounds manager, Dusty Graves, tried to cheer me up by letting me manage the 8th and 9th innings. Under my direction, the team blew a 2-0 lead and turned it into a 3-2 loss. By the time we'd made it onto the bus to the airport, I was no longer the only man over the age of 40 who was grumbling and mumbling and stewing.
I hit rock bottom on Monday. Back "home" in Nashville, I was booed by the 5000+ fans who came to see me pitch on what was supposed to be my final three games with the Hounds. We were losing 9-0 in the top of the 9th when I only needed to throw five pitches to get us to the bottom of the inning. The cheers I heard after that effortless half inning were sarcastic. I've been so inconsistent, the lack of pain I've felt (a good thing) has been outweighed by the fact that some nights I'm great and some I'm awful. Down by 9 runs, the fans are thinking, what pressure is there for a guy to throw a meaningless 1-2-3 inning? Answer: On this night, all the pressure in the world. Because...
By this point, Jack had gotten the Players Association involved. Legally (not in the real world, but in the baseball world), the team had to call me up on May 1. I've been down here on a minor league rehab assignment. The maximum number of days a player can play under those terms in the minor leagues is thirty. 28 days were complete and the team didn't want to call me up. Because of issues on the big league roster, they didn't want to cut another player because they had to call me up. They wanted two more weeks to "evaluate" the team (at that point, the Vets were 11 and 14) before making decisions. Their pitch to the PA was that I was still injured. I physically couldn't play in New York. My 1-2-3, 5-pitch inning on Monday kind of proved the flaw in their thinking.
But I stayed quiet. I was furious - still am - but didn't say anything to Dusty or you or any teammates. "Let Jack deal with this," I said.
I shouldn't have sent the email to Alvin Kirby. You don't tell yourself you're going to let your super agent fix a situation and then go behind his back and email your GM about what a jerk he's acting like. But I did it. Alvin, this time acting professional, didn't respond to me. He went to Jack. Called him. Apparently, they went at it pretty good. Just like Vanessa and me when I told her about what I'd done. (I would reprint the email here, but cooler heads have convinced me to delete it from the hard drive of my (then) new computer, which was found the following day in a dumpster behind the stadium hotel in a condition the police would later state as "mangled beyond recognition.")
Tuesday comes. Nothing. No news. I hate that. Just when you need to hear something - anything - you hear nothing. I think in this case, Jack and Alvin purposely kept me in the dark as punishment for the email. While that would be unprofessional, I wouldn't put it past either man. Because when you hear no news, you become paranoid. By Tuesday night, I was more paranoid than a serial killer at a detectives convention.
Wednesday drops by. It's now April 30. Do I stay or do I go? We have a very weird 10:30 AM game time. Stadium still sold out. I pitch the 9th inning, us down 3-2, and get out of a man on third, no outs jam by striking out three consecutive Mountain Men (on 11 pitches). Standing ovation as I leave the mound (this ovation for real; no sarcasm). Yes, they all believe I'm done in Nashville, my beyond-the-bleachers, Pepsi Field parking lot trailer home to be auctioned off with the proceeds going to a local food bank. They love that I was here and are probably happy that I'll be gone (just because the team has been horrible this April). I don't know whether to smile or cry. Where will I be on Thursday?
I found out an hour later (while taking a taxi to a Best Buy to get myself a new laptop). Finally. A deal was made. After the game, I was removed from the DL, called up, and placed back on the DL. While the Vets had to make a corresponding roster move for the thirty seconds that I was up on the team - a move they hadn't wanted to make - they got their ultimate wish for me to stay in AAA for 15 more days.
What did I get? The Players Association approved my receiving a "special bonus" for my troubles, a bonus of $1 million. Jack, my super agent, never budged from that ridiculous sum of money. All along, the team wanted to pay me nothing extra. So I went from two weeks at my base pay to two weeks for $1 million. I can't cry over the deal. After all, it's a million dollars.
Thus, I began my official final two weeks for AAA Nashville by pitching a second day in a row Thursday night, my Hounds down 5-0 already, and mowing down the Mountain Men in order. My head has cleared somewhat. My wallet has bulged quite a bit (don't get all upset, after taxes and commissions, I'm donating the full amount to the same Nashville food bank that's receiving the proceeds from the auctioning off of my trailer). I know for sure now that with my health and this final 15 (now 14 and not the 21 the team was insisting on) days with the Hounds, I'll be that much better for the Vets. I can feel it.
As per my relationship with the NY front office? It stinks. But you know what? That's why I have a super agent. Let Jack deal with the vermin who run the Vets. I'm a player. The clock is ticking down to my first appearance in a year with NY. I think you're going to be happy to see me. Lord knows, I'll be happy to see you.
Friday, April 25, 2008
If I Never Got Hurt Last Year...
It's done. There's nothing I can do about it. These are the two phrases I tell myself every morning that I wake up not with my team in New York but with a minor league franchise based out of Nashville. I got hurt a year ago. My surgery was 385 days ago. Physically, I'm fine. Mentally, I just can't get over myself. I've been a starting pitcher since Little League. Heck, in 1980 I threw my first no-hitter, all 6 innings of it (I hit a home run too). Relief pitchers can't throw no-hitters. Relief pitchers put out fires other people started, usually starting pitchers (like I used to be). Relief pitchers wait, warm up, sit down, warm up, sit down, get angry with their manager, then shower and never get in the game. Relief pitchers get frustrated and have to have incredible egos and incredible self-confidence. If I never got hurt last year, I wouldn't have to think about this. But I did get hurt. And now I'm a relief pitcher. There's nothing I can do about it.
I'm not a control freak, or never was before. But I think I'm becoming one. Is that possible? To change later in life from a colorful, flexible fellow to a colorful control freak? I guess so. It's happening to me. Just like that injury. It is what it is, as someone recently said.
I don't like to sulk. It generally doesn't get me anywhere. I spent about 180 of the last 385 days sulking and all it did was get me fat and help me notice the bald spot growing on my forehead. Valuable lesson learned. If I'd never gotten hurt last year, I'd never know sulking was bad.
Relief pitchers can't sulk. They have to be ready every day to play, kind of like outfielders, only more in charge than outfielders, who just stand around waiting for something to happen to them. Relief pitchers make things happen. Pitchers make things happen. I've always been a pitcher. Always tried to make things happen - good things. Maybe I've always been a control freak and didn't know it.
Imagine if you spent your whole life doing something, then something happens and you can't do that thing anymore. Like breathing. Imagine if you could breathe your whole life, then you suddenly can't. It stinks. Horrible metaphor, but that's how I felt while sulking. I couldn't breathe. I thank my lucky stars, I thank God, Yahweh, Buddha, Reagan - I thank who or whatever it is/was that taught me to breathe again. Now I'm breathing one inning a day, one day at a time. I'm used to 7 innings every fifth day. So if I can get around the possibility that I could conceivably pitch 7 innings in a week (one per day - stay with me), I'm therefore pitching just as much as I ever did before. I'm just spreading it out.
It's like if you put a big hamburger on your plate. You want to eat it. And there's a lot of it. Now put that same hamburger, cut up, onto 25 plates. It's not as effective, in terms of presentation to one's hunger palette, as one big burger on one plate. I used to eat one big burger every fifth day. Now I'm eating White Castle every day.
There's more. If I never got hurt last year, I wouldn't have spent as much time with my family last year as I did. Which makes this time, right now, even harder. You get used to things. I was used to a life on the road before the injury. Then I got used to life at home. Yes I was sulking, but I was doing it in the presence of my wife and daughters. They hated me for it, but that's their problem. Now, I'm healthy and on the road again (17 of the first 24 days of the Hounds' season are on the road - and my family isn't even staying with me in my Nashville trailer). And I'm missing my three girls (I threw my wife in there as a "girl" to make her feel better after my previous "that's their problem" statement regarding my sulking at home earlier in this paragraph. Oh, I could have deleted the statement and never had to throw in the "girl" line as an apology gift to my wife, but I didn't so sue me.) Bottom line: If I never got hurt, I never would have known how important my family is to me.
There are other things that have happened that may not have occurred. If I never got hurt last year...
I'm not a control freak, or never was before. But I think I'm becoming one. Is that possible? To change later in life from a colorful, flexible fellow to a colorful control freak? I guess so. It's happening to me. Just like that injury. It is what it is, as someone recently said.
I don't like to sulk. It generally doesn't get me anywhere. I spent about 180 of the last 385 days sulking and all it did was get me fat and help me notice the bald spot growing on my forehead. Valuable lesson learned. If I'd never gotten hurt last year, I'd never know sulking was bad.
Relief pitchers can't sulk. They have to be ready every day to play, kind of like outfielders, only more in charge than outfielders, who just stand around waiting for something to happen to them. Relief pitchers make things happen. Pitchers make things happen. I've always been a pitcher. Always tried to make things happen - good things. Maybe I've always been a control freak and didn't know it.
Imagine if you spent your whole life doing something, then something happens and you can't do that thing anymore. Like breathing. Imagine if you could breathe your whole life, then you suddenly can't. It stinks. Horrible metaphor, but that's how I felt while sulking. I couldn't breathe. I thank my lucky stars, I thank God, Yahweh, Buddha, Reagan - I thank who or whatever it is/was that taught me to breathe again. Now I'm breathing one inning a day, one day at a time. I'm used to 7 innings every fifth day. So if I can get around the possibility that I could conceivably pitch 7 innings in a week (one per day - stay with me), I'm therefore pitching just as much as I ever did before. I'm just spreading it out.
It's like if you put a big hamburger on your plate. You want to eat it. And there's a lot of it. Now put that same hamburger, cut up, onto 25 plates. It's not as effective, in terms of presentation to one's hunger palette, as one big burger on one plate. I used to eat one big burger every fifth day. Now I'm eating White Castle every day.
There's more. If I never got hurt last year, I wouldn't have spent as much time with my family last year as I did. Which makes this time, right now, even harder. You get used to things. I was used to a life on the road before the injury. Then I got used to life at home. Yes I was sulking, but I was doing it in the presence of my wife and daughters. They hated me for it, but that's their problem. Now, I'm healthy and on the road again (17 of the first 24 days of the Hounds' season are on the road - and my family isn't even staying with me in my Nashville trailer). And I'm missing my three girls (I threw my wife in there as a "girl" to make her feel better after my previous "that's their problem" statement regarding my sulking at home earlier in this paragraph. Oh, I could have deleted the statement and never had to throw in the "girl" line as an apology gift to my wife, but I didn't so sue me.) Bottom line: If I never got hurt, I never would have known how important my family is to me.
There are other things that have happened that may not have occurred. If I never got hurt last year...
- I never would have had the off season contract dispute with the team.
- The Vets wouldn't have had to fire Larry Picketts and hire Rick Churches to manage.
- I never would have gotten into heated arguments, many times publicly, with Rick Churches because he wouldn't be my manager, laid back Larry Picketts would be.
- Rick Churches would still be in the NYS (our regional sports network) broadcast booth, not managing, and my father, "Red" Scott, would still be anywhere but New York broadcasting games.
If I never got hurt last year...
- I'd already have my 300 wins. Now, as a reliever, it may take me 3 seasons to win 13 more games. Do I want to play that much longer? More important, does anybody else want me to play that much longer?
- I never would have started this blog.
- I'd still be talking to the media.
- I never would have "grown" and "matured" and would be my old, happy, ignorant, lovable self.
- I wouldn't be in as good a shape as I'm in right now.
- I wouldn't be playing in the minor leagues, on rehab assignment. I'd be in New York on a starting assignment.
If I never got hurt last year...
- My Nashville Hounds would probably have a better record than 4 and 16.
- I probably would not be a de facto owner of my Nashville Hounds, thanks to billionaire Charlie Walker.
- I never would have met Andy, my personal trainer who also serves as my security "detail" in Nashville. (He's very big. Don't mess with him.)
- I never would have been sued by the team psychologist (not psychiatrist - there's a difference), Dr. Henry Cohegans, for breaking the terms of our confidentiality agreement because I wouldn't be blogging or even going to him because I never got hurt.
If I never got hurt last year...
- I never would have had public run-ins with my father, "Red" Scott, NYS broadcaster who's mad at me for not talking to the media (him) on the record but blogging instead.
- I never would have been as fulfilled as I am right now with my life.
- I never would have been turned into a relief pitcher.
You know what? It happened. It just did. And there's nothing I can do about it except move on. No more sulking. No more regrets. I got hurt last year and now I'm better. I can't wait to prove myself again in New York.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
The Pleasant Surprise That I Should Have Remembered
We won yesterday! My Nashville Hounds are now 3 and 11, but still only 5.5 games out of first place. While I won't be here for any championship run in August, they're still my team. These are my guys. It's like "Survivor" down here. You're constantly competing with each other to be the next winner (who gets called up to New York), yet each time somebody leaves (occasionally one of us gets cut or demoted), it's sad. We don't cry on camera, gently wiping the tears from our eyes so we don't mess our makeup. But we do feel a loss. I felt that way when Felipe Castro was called up last week, and he was only here for just under half a dozen games. I'll feel that way when I head north for good. These are my Hounds, my boys. Every one is a winner.
I sound like the host of some children's TV show. "Every one of you won today, whether you have a trophy or disgraced your family name. Good luck in life. You're going to need it."
Not sure if you sense it, but I'm a little giddy today. Not due to my performance on Wednesday. To get some good work in, I pitched both the 8th and 9th. The 8th was great. 1-2-3 inning. I needed that. The 9th, not as good. Leadoff HR and two more hits before getting out of it. 2 innings, 3 hits, 1 run. That's not good enough yet. However, the 8th is what I'll remember. I felt good and pitched well. Remember the good, forget the bad, but try to learn from it too. Complicated.
The giddiness - don't worry, I remember - was brought on by... Oh, I won't spoil it for you. But this will help you know why I'll remember the 8th more than the 9th.
I was sitting in the bullpen beginning in the 6th inning and saw somebody familiar behind home plate. I squinted and thought, "Damn, she looks familiar." Then I shook my head and tried to forget about it by spitting pistachio shells all over the place.
Just before the 8th, I was throwing warmup pitches when the familiar woman caught my eye again. I froze, just as my catcher, Einer Rosario, threw the ball back to me, hitting me square in the chest. I dropped to the ground, everyone - I mean EVERYONE - came running. But I never took my eye off the familiar woman. Because I finally realized she was my wife, Vanessa. And I was supposed to meet her before the game. Hell, I was supposed to arrange to have somebody pick her up at the airport.
Um, I forgot.
Now you know why I froze.
My chest will be fine. There's a bruise. It's sore, but only when I breathe. "Serves you right," my lovely spouse said to me after the game as I gave her a tour of the stadium (took about 3 minutes). I just smiled (without breathing). It was so great to be surprised by my wife's visit, even though it technically wasn't a surprise since she told me she was coming. I mean, she gave me all of her flight information, including arrival time. This wasn't supposed to be a surprise.
But I forgot, so, uh, SURPRISE!!
When I said, "What a fantastic surprise," to her, she wasn't sure what I was talking about for almost a full second. Then she shook her head in that You May Be 40 But You Still Need A Nanny To Look After You kind of way.
She came down because she had missed my birthday over the weekend and also wanted to see the trailer that I'm living in in the Pepsi Field parking lot. Not sure if you've seen it. Here you go:
Vanessa slept here last night. Did I mention (yes) a while back that it had two sinks? It does. And let me tell you: Two sinks in a bathroom saves a marriage.
Vanessa got to meet my protege, Rey Marcos, who is 17 but looks 16. She asked me, around 10:30 last night, if Rey was ever going to leave. I told her yes. Around 11:15, she asked me again. I understood this time and asked Rey to leave by 11:45, after Vanessa said she was going to bed. Unfortunately, my trailer only has one room.
So in order for my spousal equivalent to sleep, I had to help Rey leave through the throng of groupies outside wearing thongs.
I assume he made it home to his hotel room since I didn't get a call from his parents (who call me if they haven't heard from him in more than 5 hours) or the police.
I went to bed happy, still giddy about the surprise visit from my wife. She's flying back to Newark Airport on Sunday morning, which will give us some much needed time together and also give her a break from her stalker "friend" Connie, who is as bad as ever. More on Connie tomorrow.
But today, I'm giddy all over. It's nice to be loved, even if you can't remember that you are sometimes.
I sound like the host of some children's TV show. "Every one of you won today, whether you have a trophy or disgraced your family name. Good luck in life. You're going to need it."
Not sure if you sense it, but I'm a little giddy today. Not due to my performance on Wednesday. To get some good work in, I pitched both the 8th and 9th. The 8th was great. 1-2-3 inning. I needed that. The 9th, not as good. Leadoff HR and two more hits before getting out of it. 2 innings, 3 hits, 1 run. That's not good enough yet. However, the 8th is what I'll remember. I felt good and pitched well. Remember the good, forget the bad, but try to learn from it too. Complicated.
The giddiness - don't worry, I remember - was brought on by... Oh, I won't spoil it for you. But this will help you know why I'll remember the 8th more than the 9th.
I was sitting in the bullpen beginning in the 6th inning and saw somebody familiar behind home plate. I squinted and thought, "Damn, she looks familiar." Then I shook my head and tried to forget about it by spitting pistachio shells all over the place.
Just before the 8th, I was throwing warmup pitches when the familiar woman caught my eye again. I froze, just as my catcher, Einer Rosario, threw the ball back to me, hitting me square in the chest. I dropped to the ground, everyone - I mean EVERYONE - came running. But I never took my eye off the familiar woman. Because I finally realized she was my wife, Vanessa. And I was supposed to meet her before the game. Hell, I was supposed to arrange to have somebody pick her up at the airport.
Um, I forgot.
Now you know why I froze.
My chest will be fine. There's a bruise. It's sore, but only when I breathe. "Serves you right," my lovely spouse said to me after the game as I gave her a tour of the stadium (took about 3 minutes). I just smiled (without breathing). It was so great to be surprised by my wife's visit, even though it technically wasn't a surprise since she told me she was coming. I mean, she gave me all of her flight information, including arrival time. This wasn't supposed to be a surprise.
But I forgot, so, uh, SURPRISE!!
When I said, "What a fantastic surprise," to her, she wasn't sure what I was talking about for almost a full second. Then she shook her head in that You May Be 40 But You Still Need A Nanny To Look After You kind of way.
She came down because she had missed my birthday over the weekend and also wanted to see the trailer that I'm living in in the Pepsi Field parking lot. Not sure if you've seen it. Here you go:
Vanessa slept here last night. Did I mention (yes) a while back that it had two sinks? It does. And let me tell you: Two sinks in a bathroom saves a marriage.
Vanessa got to meet my protege, Rey Marcos, who is 17 but looks 16. She asked me, around 10:30 last night, if Rey was ever going to leave. I told her yes. Around 11:15, she asked me again. I understood this time and asked Rey to leave by 11:45, after Vanessa said she was going to bed. Unfortunately, my trailer only has one room.
So in order for my spousal equivalent to sleep, I had to help Rey leave through the throng of groupies outside wearing thongs.
I assume he made it home to his hotel room since I didn't get a call from his parents (who call me if they haven't heard from him in more than 5 hours) or the police.
I went to bed happy, still giddy about the surprise visit from my wife. She's flying back to Newark Airport on Sunday morning, which will give us some much needed time together and also give her a break from her stalker "friend" Connie, who is as bad as ever. More on Connie tomorrow.
But today, I'm giddy all over. It's nice to be loved, even if you can't remember that you are sometimes.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Throwing Up
I am so sick. Not the doctor's note, all day TV watching, toilet-hugging, people feeling sorry for me, oh my God he's passed out on the floor call 9-11, somebody get a lone scientist to research and find a cure before it's too late kind of sick. No, I can breathe through my nose, eat a horse and sleep all night without getting up to pee once. My problem is I'm sick of me. Here, in my trailer overlooking the Pepsi Field parking lot (and my security agent Andy's trailer), after my protege, 17 year old wunderkind Rey Marcos has left to return to his hotel room - alone - so he doesn't catch a venereal disease from some Nashville Hounds groupie, I reflect on my stay here in Nashville and feel sick.
I keep throwing up. That's my biggest problem. I keep throwing up.
The ball, that is.
The reason I'm here with the Hounds is to gain arm strength so I can pitch one inning a game 4 times a week. Oh, it would also be a help if, when I pitched, I could get batters out. My arm strength is good. I pitched three times last week and pitched Sunday and Tuesday so far this week. I'll pitch tonight, Wednesday, to satisfy the back-to-back days criteria, then pitch Friday or Saturday. There. I'm plenty strong. Take me back New York. I want to eat a horse and sleep in my own bed again.
Only...
I'm throwing up all the time. I stand on the mound, go into my windup (or motion, you choose your own word for it), and release the ball from my pitching hand. The ball should slither around in the air before landing at or below the knees of the batter.
The ball is landing in the parking lot, denting my trailer.
Because I keep throwing up.
For a pitcher, the "release point" is hugely important. Where the ball leaves the fingers makes all the difference between its dropping low or rising high. My ball keeps rising. It rises twice lately: Once when I release it and a second time when the batter hits it to Kingdom Come.
My record so far down here:
Games: 6
Innings Pitched: 4.2
Strikeouts: 1
Walks: 4
Hits: 11
Home Runs Allowed: 5
ERA: 19.28
Saves: 1
Won/Loss: 0/3
My ERA is actually 19.29 because the math equates to 19.2857142857. But I didn't want to round up after the .28. It's too depressing.
My health is fine. Really. There is no pain. I feel good in the locker room before the game. I feel good on the field before the game. I feel good sitting in the bullpen during the game. I feel even better warming up during the game. I feel good jogging out to the mound. Physically, I mean. Mentally, I feel horrible jogging out to the mound because the whole time I'm getting booed. That's stinky, to get booed. Yes, it's the minors but, man, who wants to get booed? But the jog keeps me loose and I feel great on the mound throwing my last warmup pitches.
As soon as the batter jumps into that box, I feel awful. I feel like throwing up (the puking kind here). Nerves, I tell myself. Just nerves. "You want it so badly, but just relax," a little voice says in my mind. I'm unsure whose voice it is, because mine is kind of high and whiny. This one is low and mature with a hint of debonair. I think it's George Clooney's voice. It's deep and sounds like the speaker has gray hair. Yeah, it's got to be Clooney. We've never met, but I hear he used to be a big fan. Of something. Probably not me. Because the voice doesn't relax me, I still want to throw up (the puking kind), and then I go into my motion (or windup, your choice) and let the ball leave my fingers.
BAM!!!
There it goes. Don't break a window in my trailer.
Bobby Spencer is the New York pitching coach. He called me this morning and told me he's been watching film of me. "Everything's perfect," he said. "Your windup, or motion, depending upon how you want to describe it, is a-ok. Release point is fine. I think it's your arm slot that's giving you problems."
Oh, it's my arm slot.
An arm slot is the angle your arm flies through the air to help propel a baseball out of your fingers. He thinks my arm slot is too close to overhand. "You're at about 86 degrees," Bobby said. (He's a pure techno-geek.) "You want 77."
So tonight - whoa, wait a minute. Our game today is at noon!!! Let me rephrase. Today, sometime between noon and 3:00, I will try for a 77 degree arm slot. Maybe that will keep me from throwing up (the baseball kind).
Because if I don't fix this soon, I'm going to need to hug a toilet and throw up for real. This whole rehab process is starting to make me sick.
I keep throwing up. That's my biggest problem. I keep throwing up.
The ball, that is.
The reason I'm here with the Hounds is to gain arm strength so I can pitch one inning a game 4 times a week. Oh, it would also be a help if, when I pitched, I could get batters out. My arm strength is good. I pitched three times last week and pitched Sunday and Tuesday so far this week. I'll pitch tonight, Wednesday, to satisfy the back-to-back days criteria, then pitch Friday or Saturday. There. I'm plenty strong. Take me back New York. I want to eat a horse and sleep in my own bed again.
Only...
I'm throwing up all the time. I stand on the mound, go into my windup (or motion, you choose your own word for it), and release the ball from my pitching hand. The ball should slither around in the air before landing at or below the knees of the batter.
The ball is landing in the parking lot, denting my trailer.
Because I keep throwing up.
For a pitcher, the "release point" is hugely important. Where the ball leaves the fingers makes all the difference between its dropping low or rising high. My ball keeps rising. It rises twice lately: Once when I release it and a second time when the batter hits it to Kingdom Come.
My record so far down here:
Games: 6
Innings Pitched: 4.2
Strikeouts: 1
Walks: 4
Hits: 11
Home Runs Allowed: 5
ERA: 19.28
Saves: 1
Won/Loss: 0/3
My ERA is actually 19.29 because the math equates to 19.2857142857. But I didn't want to round up after the .28. It's too depressing.
My health is fine. Really. There is no pain. I feel good in the locker room before the game. I feel good on the field before the game. I feel good sitting in the bullpen during the game. I feel even better warming up during the game. I feel good jogging out to the mound. Physically, I mean. Mentally, I feel horrible jogging out to the mound because the whole time I'm getting booed. That's stinky, to get booed. Yes, it's the minors but, man, who wants to get booed? But the jog keeps me loose and I feel great on the mound throwing my last warmup pitches.
As soon as the batter jumps into that box, I feel awful. I feel like throwing up (the puking kind here). Nerves, I tell myself. Just nerves. "You want it so badly, but just relax," a little voice says in my mind. I'm unsure whose voice it is, because mine is kind of high and whiny. This one is low and mature with a hint of debonair. I think it's George Clooney's voice. It's deep and sounds like the speaker has gray hair. Yeah, it's got to be Clooney. We've never met, but I hear he used to be a big fan. Of something. Probably not me. Because the voice doesn't relax me, I still want to throw up (the puking kind), and then I go into my motion (or windup, your choice) and let the ball leave my fingers.
BAM!!!
There it goes. Don't break a window in my trailer.
Bobby Spencer is the New York pitching coach. He called me this morning and told me he's been watching film of me. "Everything's perfect," he said. "Your windup, or motion, depending upon how you want to describe it, is a-ok. Release point is fine. I think it's your arm slot that's giving you problems."
Oh, it's my arm slot.
An arm slot is the angle your arm flies through the air to help propel a baseball out of your fingers. He thinks my arm slot is too close to overhand. "You're at about 86 degrees," Bobby said. (He's a pure techno-geek.) "You want 77."
So tonight - whoa, wait a minute. Our game today is at noon!!! Let me rephrase. Today, sometime between noon and 3:00, I will try for a 77 degree arm slot. Maybe that will keep me from throwing up (the baseball kind).
Because if I don't fix this soon, I'm going to need to hug a toilet and throw up for real. This whole rehab process is starting to make me sick.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
The Union Army
If you listen closely, you can hear the drum beats coming from both sides, union and management, as our Basic Agreement comes to a close very soon. Too soon for fans. You know the story: management wants a salary cap, knows they'll never get it, so they don't ask for it anymore. But they have to ask for something. Thus, they speak of removing teams or arbitration or free agency. Maybe updating the drug policy again so the players don't get aspirin budgets anymore. Their strategy is this: The more they ask for, the better chance they'll get something. Anything, really, is what they want.
The game is going through a renaissance. Revenues are through the retractable roof. More fans came to games in 2007 than ever before, and the projection for 2008 is even better. TV revenues and ratings have grown. Money from the Internet is busting owners' pockets. Finally, the value of teams grows greater with each fan who passes through a metal detector on their way into stadiums. Yes, it's a great time to be an owner.
Yet, the union is wary of all this good news. We're like old farm animals, poked and prodded and screwed over so many times (not sure anymore if the farm animals reference is a good one anymore). There's got to be something coming, something not good (meaning bad).
Pigs
One, or you, could say that the union is just being paranoid. Maybe. But I don't think there will ever be complete trust between ownership and the union. I mentioned how we've been screwed so many times, right? It's like if a spouse cheats on another and gets caught. If the one who didn't cheat takes the cheater back, the marriage is still marred, scarred, and two steps closer to over than ever before. The trust can never completely return, no matter how long you (or one) stay together.
In the ownership/union relationship, we'll be married forever. There's no option for divorce here. They've colluded, they've made cuts in people, salaries, they've supported us as we did performance enhancing drugs, then publicly scorned us for doing so. If this were a church, they'd spend most of their time in confession.
Not that the players are exactly angels. We are the ones, after all, who actually took the performance enhancers. We are the ones who've gotten hurt so many times that certain owners have lost enough money to get out of the game entirely. A greater percentage of players have been arrested than owners. And it's not like we're exactly loyal to the people who pay us either. As soon as a guy can be a free agent, 8 times out of 10 he leaves for more money. We're not saints by any means.
Still, we know to be prepared. Howard Phillips, our esteemed head of the union for the last 25 years, has sent to us a memo stating they're going to begin keeping a portion of every paycheck we receive in an escrow fund so that, in case of lockout or strike, we'll have money to live off of. You're thinking, probably out loud, how can millionaires be afraid of not having enough money for a few months? The answer is this: We're not smart. The owners are smart. Howard Phillips is smart. Players? Bowling balls are sharper than the majority of us. We're great at throwing and hitting baseballs, but we're terrible at money management. We're terrible at self-control. We're even worse at finding someone to control us or our money. Either we don't listen to a solid money pro and screw ourselves or we trust the wrong money pro and get screwed. In other words (heads up cat burglars), there are lots of pillow cases in the homes of big league ballplayers stuffed with wads of cash.
My side on all this is a little more complicated. I am a player, obviously. Always have been. But since billionaire Charlie Walker gifted the Nashville Hounds, the Vets' AAA affiliate, to my charity, I'm technically an owner. Even more technically, I'm not an owner because the charity runs the team since I'm not allowed to play and also own a team, be it big league or minor league. However, let's put all technicalities aside. It's in my, and the charity's, best interests for the team revenues and value to rise in an inverse ratio to player salaries and costs. Thus, I'm on the player's side when it comes to the National Baseball League and the owners' side when it comes to the National Baseball Minor League. See what I mean? It's complicated.
Lots of you would prefer that I keep these problems to myself and just play some friggin' baseball. The Veterans are playing under .500 ball and the Hounds are 2 and 7. I'm no good luck charm, certainly, at this point in the season. But this is how baseball works. It's a terrible, awful cliche that 8 out of 10 free agents like to say, but here I go: Baseball is a business.
Thanks for letting me use my daily cliche. I feel liberated.
Continuing...
I'm a flag flying carrier of my union membership card. I flash it whenever I get into trouble. The union army has always been there to save my buttocks from whatever jam I got myself into. I want the army to know that I stand by them. My allegiance is to the union first, the game second - which is dumb because if there is no game, there's no point in a union. But, as I mentioned, whoever said ballplayers were smart?
I can't imagine there will be a strike or a lockout this year. Which means there will probably be a strike or a lockout this year. I hope not. But you never know. That's why it's good to be prepared. My union is going to be prepared. What about yours?
The game is going through a renaissance. Revenues are through the retractable roof. More fans came to games in 2007 than ever before, and the projection for 2008 is even better. TV revenues and ratings have grown. Money from the Internet is busting owners' pockets. Finally, the value of teams grows greater with each fan who passes through a metal detector on their way into stadiums. Yes, it's a great time to be an owner.
Yet, the union is wary of all this good news. We're like old farm animals, poked and prodded and screwed over so many times (not sure anymore if the farm animals reference is a good one anymore). There's got to be something coming, something not good (meaning bad).
Pigs
One, or you, could say that the union is just being paranoid. Maybe. But I don't think there will ever be complete trust between ownership and the union. I mentioned how we've been screwed so many times, right? It's like if a spouse cheats on another and gets caught. If the one who didn't cheat takes the cheater back, the marriage is still marred, scarred, and two steps closer to over than ever before. The trust can never completely return, no matter how long you (or one) stay together.
In the ownership/union relationship, we'll be married forever. There's no option for divorce here. They've colluded, they've made cuts in people, salaries, they've supported us as we did performance enhancing drugs, then publicly scorned us for doing so. If this were a church, they'd spend most of their time in confession.
Not that the players are exactly angels. We are the ones, after all, who actually took the performance enhancers. We are the ones who've gotten hurt so many times that certain owners have lost enough money to get out of the game entirely. A greater percentage of players have been arrested than owners. And it's not like we're exactly loyal to the people who pay us either. As soon as a guy can be a free agent, 8 times out of 10 he leaves for more money. We're not saints by any means.
Still, we know to be prepared. Howard Phillips, our esteemed head of the union for the last 25 years, has sent to us a memo stating they're going to begin keeping a portion of every paycheck we receive in an escrow fund so that, in case of lockout or strike, we'll have money to live off of. You're thinking, probably out loud, how can millionaires be afraid of not having enough money for a few months? The answer is this: We're not smart. The owners are smart. Howard Phillips is smart. Players? Bowling balls are sharper than the majority of us. We're great at throwing and hitting baseballs, but we're terrible at money management. We're terrible at self-control. We're even worse at finding someone to control us or our money. Either we don't listen to a solid money pro and screw ourselves or we trust the wrong money pro and get screwed. In other words (heads up cat burglars), there are lots of pillow cases in the homes of big league ballplayers stuffed with wads of cash.
My side on all this is a little more complicated. I am a player, obviously. Always have been. But since billionaire Charlie Walker gifted the Nashville Hounds, the Vets' AAA affiliate, to my charity, I'm technically an owner. Even more technically, I'm not an owner because the charity runs the team since I'm not allowed to play and also own a team, be it big league or minor league. However, let's put all technicalities aside. It's in my, and the charity's, best interests for the team revenues and value to rise in an inverse ratio to player salaries and costs. Thus, I'm on the player's side when it comes to the National Baseball League and the owners' side when it comes to the National Baseball Minor League. See what I mean? It's complicated.
Lots of you would prefer that I keep these problems to myself and just play some friggin' baseball. The Veterans are playing under .500 ball and the Hounds are 2 and 7. I'm no good luck charm, certainly, at this point in the season. But this is how baseball works. It's a terrible, awful cliche that 8 out of 10 free agents like to say, but here I go: Baseball is a business.
Thanks for letting me use my daily cliche. I feel liberated.
Continuing...
I'm a flag flying carrier of my union membership card. I flash it whenever I get into trouble. The union army has always been there to save my buttocks from whatever jam I got myself into. I want the army to know that I stand by them. My allegiance is to the union first, the game second - which is dumb because if there is no game, there's no point in a union. But, as I mentioned, whoever said ballplayers were smart?
I can't imagine there will be a strike or a lockout this year. Which means there will probably be a strike or a lockout this year. I hope not. But you never know. That's why it's good to be prepared. My union is going to be prepared. What about yours?
Monday, April 14, 2008
My Protege
I'm not sure if I ever gave you my line about how stalking is really just an intense form of goal-setting. But I figured out a little more. Many times the goal-setting stalker is really an opportunity for the stalkee to develop your own personal protege. I've rarely had them on the big club. The older you get as a player, the more the press makes of the fact that this player or that player has been taken under some older veteran's wing. Maybe sometimes, but in general, there is not too much wing undertaking.
A lot of younger players come up and either 1) Think their hot sh*t and don't want to listen to coaches, much less their teammates, or 2) Are so scared they don't want to ask too many questions for fear of rousing suspicion that maybe, just maybe, they don't belong in the big leagues.
Meanwhile, most older veterans are desperate to hang onto their careers. The few who want to seriously go into coaching eventually realize that, to coach, you have to be able to speak with players other than the ones who look back at you in a mirror. But otherwise, the generations stick together in the clubhouse, just like the Spanish-speaking guys stick together and the religious right guys stick together.
Down here in the minor leagues, it's not much different. The veterans down here on rehab assignments don't want to forge too many relationships because 1) They don't want to jinx themselves into thinking they'll be spending more time in the minors than they need, and 2) They're pissed off that they're in the minor leagues and can't get over themselves.
Meanwhile, the young guys are usually too shy to walk up to the veteran guys down here for a cup of coffee and ask questions. It's just like high school. The career minor leaguers are the dorks, the geeks are the guys in the minors dying to make it all the way to the top and the most popular guys are the ones who are down for a week or two rehabbing a hamstring or rotator cuff.
Since we all knew I'd be down in Nashville for up to four weeks (it's already been two, but who's counting) and then, by weirdness and unfortunate illness, I ended up indirectly owning the Nashville Hounds, I've gotten more attention from the players on this team than most guys down here temporarily do. For example, Felipe Lopez was here for 6 days and 5 games. He was called up to New York after yesterday's game (we won and are now 2 and 9, not a good way to start the season). We all knew Felipe was going to be here for a week at most. He's a shy guy anyway, plus his mother still being held against her will somewhere in Venezuela made it hard for guys to go up to him and ask if they should stand in a batters box with their feet 18 inches apart or 19.
A number of players have spoken to me and tried to ask questions, but most kind of fade away out of fear that my Hall of Fame pedigree (you know how great I am, right?) will force me to appear surly and nasty. Then there's Rey Marcose.
Rey Marcos is not the protege I expected to have stalk, I mean, follow me around constantly. For starters, he's not a pitcher. He a shortstop. Second, he's 17 years old. I turned 40 on Saturday (virtually unrecognized beyond a Happy Birthday wish on the scoreboard - I guess even the coaching staff didn't want to pull a prank on me, like leave 40 turds in my new underwear or something [disgusting, but you weren't there for my 30th]). Let me re-read. I got lost in all my () and []... Uh...okay. So, we're talking about Rey Marcos, the 17 year old wonderboy shortstop who's now my protege. Another weird thing about our relationship. He doesn't speak one word of English. Totally serious. The team has an academy and a whole bunch of systems set up so young Latino guys coming up through the minors can learn English and basic life skills, like not to spend all their money at McDonald's (that's true - some Latino American guys make it to America and only eat McDonald's for their first six months, thus they gain 15 pounds that sure as hell ain't muscle). Rey Marcos has passed through the system so fast, he hasn't had a chance to learn how to speak English. When he sits down with me, it's like I'm Robinson Crusoe and he's Friday. I'm stranded down here, he's my only friend, so it's up to me to teach him English.
There are more parallels to the Robinson Crusoe metaphor. Like how I made my home in the jungle, only the jungle in my sense is the parking lot of Pepsi Field, where the Hounds play. My trailer is like my treehouse, only there are only three steps from asphalt to entrance (I have a fear of heights, except when I'm on airplanes - go figure). Rey hangs out all the time, then leaves for his hotel room somewhere nearby. There are people we need to be afraid of, generally groupies who want to find their way into the trailer and are thwarted off by Andy, my personal trainer turned security guard who now has his own trailer right next to mine (the team made Andy pay $750 to park for the month, which, of course, I'm paying since I'm the one who asked Andy to provide security for me. And, of course, I'm not really paying the $750, since New York is paying it, knowing I needed security (and knowing they're saving $$$$ since I bought my own trailer and didn't rent a house or suite at the Hilton for the month on their dime). Thus, New York is, in effect, paying Nashville for Andy to park in the parking lot. And since I, in effect, own the Hounds, New York is, in effect, paying me. Here's how the structure of payment looks:
I got lost again using () and []. I didn't use any {} and refuse to use <>. One day, maybe I'll use a full blog of . But that's way in the future, probably when Rey Marcos is playing in New York full time.
See how I got back on track? I'm a smarty pants.
Jimmy Scott continues...
Rey hangs with me and watches me eat. He watches me not talk to the press after games (some here think I'm a bad influence on him in that capacity). He watches me blog. No, his head doesn't rest on my shoulder as I type, but he's there, lurking, eyes always watching... Spooky, huh?
But he's a good kid. I've heard him speak on the phone with his parents in the Dominican. They allegedly invited me down for dinner sometime. Funny how I've played with so many guys from other countries and never, ever been invited to their homes. Maybe it's because I never invited them to mine. I'll ask Vanessa tonight when we talk on the phone, after Rey has left and headed back through the throng of groupies to his room, alone, the way I explained in my broken Spanish he should sleep. Hey, at 17 I would have done anything to have groupies want a piece of me. But I was a junior in high school with zits on my face and a fastball that was just being found. I didn't date (any relationship I had with a girl lasted no more than 2 weeks before she/they broke up with me on account of them not liking me anymore and, possibly, never liking me in the first place). Rey could have a "date" every night if he wanted. I'm teaching him not to. I was a father at 24 (while married, I was still a little young). I don't want Rey, with his lack of English and American life skills, to be a father at 17.
So now you know about my protege. He's hitting .419 with 2 HRs and 5 stolen bases. No errors. The plan is for him to play here and get called up in September. He'll probably be up sooner. So after I'm back in New York by May 1, I may have my protege with me before the summer is over. Maybe I'll have a chance to invite my first Dominican teammate over to my house for a nice dinner.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Learning To Brawl
"My" team, the Nashville Hounds (mine since my charity is part-owner now and also because I'm playing for them for the time being), has gotten off to a 1 and 6 start. We're not (including me) pitching well. We're not hitting well. We're not catching the ball well. It rained on Wednesday, which let us lose in 6 innings instead of the usual nine. That gave us more time to reflect on how to get better in all facets of the game of baseball.
My job here is to build up arm strength after last season's injury so that I can - to my surprise - be a relief pitcher with the big club in New York. In this role, which I've never done before, I need to be able to pitch two days in a row and at least 4 times a week. I've already pitched on the back-to-back timeframe, only I've pitched poorly overall. It's either my body that's still learning or my head.
For my teammates, the great majority are learning how to play the game. How to recognize a pitch as it pours out of a pitcher's hand. How to position one's self with runners on base. How to shorten a swing and protect the plate with two strikes. How to properly fight if a guy on the other team deserves to have his head pounded in.
That's right. Guys in the minor leagues also need to learn how to properly involve themselves in a baseball fight. I've put together a tutorial that I'll share with you that should properly show etiquette, style and strategy when fighting in baseball.
You've seen baseball fights before. Here's a boring one from a college game:
Not much happened here. This is, actually, the proper way for a baseball brawl to work. There's an inciting incident causing two opposing players "jaw" at each other, then both benches need to "empty" so that the two players don't end up alone in a steel cage death match.
The key to a baseball brawl is to not get hurt. Another important lesson is this: Don't make a fool of yourself, like this guy:
No, the one who should be embarrassed is not the pursuer. It's the one being pursued. Always remember: Both Benches Will Empty. Reinforcements are always - ALWAYS - on the way in a baseball brawl. There's no need to run away.
But what could the pitcher have done here? There's always the drop kick. Scroll up to 2:25 in the following example to see exactly how it's done:
For the kids reading this, until you get out of Little League, the proper way to battle on the field is on one leg:
As the aggressor in a fight, you can take a few lessons from the following video. Note the foresight on the batter as he takes care of the pitcher's first line of defense before going after the pitcher.
Unfortunately, his one error in judgement here was, for a brief moment, he was surrounded without the reinforcements, most probably because his teammates were so thrown off guard by the nontraditional attack on the catcher.
I hope this lesson brings joy into your homes and properly explained how to brawl on a baseball diamond. We return home tomorrow to play Iowa, not the entire state, just the Chicago AAA affiliate. We're hoping for a peaceful game.
My job here is to build up arm strength after last season's injury so that I can - to my surprise - be a relief pitcher with the big club in New York. In this role, which I've never done before, I need to be able to pitch two days in a row and at least 4 times a week. I've already pitched on the back-to-back timeframe, only I've pitched poorly overall. It's either my body that's still learning or my head.
For my teammates, the great majority are learning how to play the game. How to recognize a pitch as it pours out of a pitcher's hand. How to position one's self with runners on base. How to shorten a swing and protect the plate with two strikes. How to properly fight if a guy on the other team deserves to have his head pounded in.
That's right. Guys in the minor leagues also need to learn how to properly involve themselves in a baseball fight. I've put together a tutorial that I'll share with you that should properly show etiquette, style and strategy when fighting in baseball.
You've seen baseball fights before. Here's a boring one from a college game:
Not much happened here. This is, actually, the proper way for a baseball brawl to work. There's an inciting incident causing two opposing players "jaw" at each other, then both benches need to "empty" so that the two players don't end up alone in a steel cage death match.
The key to a baseball brawl is to not get hurt. Another important lesson is this: Don't make a fool of yourself, like this guy:
No, the one who should be embarrassed is not the pursuer. It's the one being pursued. Always remember: Both Benches Will Empty. Reinforcements are always - ALWAYS - on the way in a baseball brawl. There's no need to run away.
But what could the pitcher have done here? There's always the drop kick. Scroll up to 2:25 in the following example to see exactly how it's done:
For the kids reading this, until you get out of Little League, the proper way to battle on the field is on one leg:
As the aggressor in a fight, you can take a few lessons from the following video. Note the foresight on the batter as he takes care of the pitcher's first line of defense before going after the pitcher.
Unfortunately, his one error in judgement here was, for a brief moment, he was surrounded without the reinforcements, most probably because his teammates were so thrown off guard by the nontraditional attack on the catcher.
I hope this lesson brings joy into your homes and properly explained how to brawl on a baseball diamond. We return home tomorrow to play Iowa, not the entire state, just the Chicago AAA affiliate. We're hoping for a peaceful game.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Explosions, Ejections & Majick
I had some time today before having to make it to Brickyard Park here in Oklahoma City. So I took a cab to where the "Oklahoma City Bomber" did his thing on April 19, 1995, almost exactly 13 years ago. I saw all of the footage on TV when it happened, but since this is my first time to Oklahoma City, I wanted to see for myself what's there.
The Oklahoma City National Memorial & Museum is beautiful and terrible and heartbreaking and spectacular all at the same time. If you ever get down this way, or even if you don't, I recommend taking the tour and seeing for yourself what can happen when people go too far.
Which brings us to Monday night's game. Ninth inning, two men on, two men out and I'm pitching with a one-run lead. Then the crazy thing happened. I throw a 2-2 pitch and the batter makes contact (It was Marvin Majick, a pinch hitter). Before you know it, there are explosions. But it wasn't the war kind. It was fireworks. Somebody got a little switch happy and set off a full load of fireworks at the moment the ball met the bat. Needless to say, just about every soul in the ballpark was distracted. Our left fielder, Miguel Ramirez, would normally have caught what my dad, "Red" Scott, would call a "can of corn." Simple fly to left. The game should have been over.
But he missed the ball. You see, the sky was suddenly on fire.
Two runners scored by the time Miguel realized he'd missed the ball, the ball was in play, and he needed to throw the ball back to the infield. Well, his throw was far too late and we lost the game and I "blew" another save. Marvin Majick was a hero.
The story doesn't end there.
Our manager, Dusty Graves, went ballistic. You thought there were fireworks behind the outfield wall. You should have seen this. Dusty yelled and screamed. He pounded his fists. He got into the faces of ever umpire present. He kicked dirt. He lifted bases off the ground and threw them. It was a complete rampage.
We stood on the field, unsure if the game was over or not. Turns out it was. The umpires decided not to replay the final pitch, my final pitch; their decision made easier by Dusty's continuing craziness. Dusty was ejected, and a few of us wondered if it could be technically called an ejection since the game was already over.
When Dusty was "escorted" off the field by security, we followed him into the dugout and clubhouse. But just as I stepped into the on deck circle, one lone firework shot into the air. I turned to look. It was beautiful. I'd pitched poorly, our manager had humiliated himself, but looking at that one momentary glow in the air, I realized how unimportant this game can be sometimes. I thought for a moment of the victims of that terrible tragedy from 13 years ago in this city and promised myself I'd spread the word about the museum. Don't forget about the past. Those who died there deserve better.
The Oklahoma City National Memorial & Museum is beautiful and terrible and heartbreaking and spectacular all at the same time. If you ever get down this way, or even if you don't, I recommend taking the tour and seeing for yourself what can happen when people go too far.
Which brings us to Monday night's game. Ninth inning, two men on, two men out and I'm pitching with a one-run lead. Then the crazy thing happened. I throw a 2-2 pitch and the batter makes contact (It was Marvin Majick, a pinch hitter). Before you know it, there are explosions. But it wasn't the war kind. It was fireworks. Somebody got a little switch happy and set off a full load of fireworks at the moment the ball met the bat. Needless to say, just about every soul in the ballpark was distracted. Our left fielder, Miguel Ramirez, would normally have caught what my dad, "Red" Scott, would call a "can of corn." Simple fly to left. The game should have been over.
But he missed the ball. You see, the sky was suddenly on fire.
Two runners scored by the time Miguel realized he'd missed the ball, the ball was in play, and he needed to throw the ball back to the infield. Well, his throw was far too late and we lost the game and I "blew" another save. Marvin Majick was a hero.
The story doesn't end there.
Our manager, Dusty Graves, went ballistic. You thought there were fireworks behind the outfield wall. You should have seen this. Dusty yelled and screamed. He pounded his fists. He got into the faces of ever umpire present. He kicked dirt. He lifted bases off the ground and threw them. It was a complete rampage.
We stood on the field, unsure if the game was over or not. Turns out it was. The umpires decided not to replay the final pitch, my final pitch; their decision made easier by Dusty's continuing craziness. Dusty was ejected, and a few of us wondered if it could be technically called an ejection since the game was already over.
When Dusty was "escorted" off the field by security, we followed him into the dugout and clubhouse. But just as I stepped into the on deck circle, one lone firework shot into the air. I turned to look. It was beautiful. I'd pitched poorly, our manager had humiliated himself, but looking at that one momentary glow in the air, I realized how unimportant this game can be sometimes. I thought for a moment of the victims of that terrible tragedy from 13 years ago in this city and promised myself I'd spread the word about the museum. Don't forget about the past. Those who died there deserve better.
Monday, April 7, 2008
Sock Puppet Night
Sunday was Sock Puppet Night at Pepsi Field for my Nashville Hounds. Don't ask me who thought it up, just like don't ask me why we had a Sunday night game when we had to leave right after to get to Oklahoma City for a Monday night game. Thank God we could fly since it would have taken us 10 hours by bus. The AAA level isn't as bad as it used to be - better stadiums and clubhouses, slightly better pay (although I'm on my big league contract, so I'm fine), somewhat nicer hotels. But still, we arrived at our hotel outside of Oklahoma City a little after 4:30 AM on Monday. I can't sleep on planes. I try and try, but the pressure is too much for me. Ask me to throw a strike with 2 men on and 2 men out in the bottom of the 9th in front of 55,000 fans and I can do it without sweating. Ask me to fall asleep on an airplane at two in the morning and I suffer performance anxiety. I become more wired than a an old telephone company. Plus, the excitement from attending a Sock Puppet Night kind of carries over for a few days, don't you think?
Sock Puppet Night was sponsored by Champion, which makes tube socks. In an effort to get the city of Nashville to by more socks, I guess, Champion sponsored Secret Puppet Night for fans to come out, in the seventh inning stretch, onto the field and show off their sock puppets. Some people got pretty elaborate with their designs. The winner, a woman named Pam who turned her two hands into soft, cottony replicas of Byrne Cassa, who holds the team record for home runs in a season with 39, and Jose Tomas, who once struck out five men in one inning here (true story - happened in 1969). I thought it was a little unfair that Pan won, since in her day job she has her own business hot-gluing sparkly beads onto clothes. Sock puppets are in this woman's blood. I believe her prize was a year's supply of Champion tube socks. Lucky lady.
I did not pitch over the weekend. After throwing Thursday and Friday in my first relief back-to-back days, we decided to give me two days off. My ERA is a solid 36.00, which means I've gotten off to a slow start. Still, it's only two games for me. The team is 1 and 3. We're only 1 game out of first place, so I'm not going to lambaste myself for blowing my first save opportunity which, if I had been successful, would have put us in a three-way tie for first. If a player is suicidal 4 games into the season, he's in store for a very long year.
The pleasant surprise we had on Sunday was the arrival of Felipe Castro. He missed all of spring training because of his mother's being kidnapped and held for ransom in the jungles of Venezuela. She's still there. And Felipe's here on minor league assignment in the hopes he can use baseball as a diversion. There's nothing he can do to help his mom, he was told, so someone somewhere convinced him to come to the States and try to hit a ball really far. The plan is for him to play with us for a few games (as few as possible, the big club is 2 and 3 with little offense) to get the timing on his swing back. He pinch hit on Sunday night and struck out. His face was twisted in pain when he came back to the dugout. It was obvious that his body was in Nashville but his heart and mind are in Caracas.
Most of the guys here tried to keep their distance from Felipe. Not because they didn't like him, but they didn't know what to say. Felipe is a big star here in America and an even bigger star in Latin America. I'm sure some of the Spanish-speaking players didn't want their image of Felipe tarnished by getting to know him at this time in his life.
So, since I was in the dugout and not the bullpen, I made it my job to try to infuse Felipe with a love for sock puppets. I asked him about his childhood sock puppet collection. He just looked at me. I told him the story of Juanes, the Sock King, who used to bring all the little Latino boys and girls sock puppets if they did all of the chores for madre and padre. Did Juanes the Sock King ever pay a visit to Felipe's house? He just looked at me.
A clubhouse boy, for fifty bucks, was able to get his hands on Pam's prize winning sock puppets (literally - get it? since these are sock puppets?), brought them over to me. I slipped my calloused mitts into the Cassa and Tomas replicas (quite lifelike) and put on a sock puppet show for Felipe. No performance anxiety here. It was quite graphic, in a number of different ways. I especially liked the part where Cassa and Tomas got married in a Venezuelan oil factory.
Felipe got a kick out of my show and gave me $5. I thanked him and told him I'd give the money to Pam, who did such a good job with set design.
He sat by himself, eyes closed, on the flight to Oklahoma City. I can only hope he did so with a little bit of hope in his heart, hope that he'll be okay and his mother will be found. That's all any of us can ask for.
Sock Puppet Night was sponsored by Champion, which makes tube socks. In an effort to get the city of Nashville to by more socks, I guess, Champion sponsored Secret Puppet Night for fans to come out, in the seventh inning stretch, onto the field and show off their sock puppets. Some people got pretty elaborate with their designs. The winner, a woman named Pam who turned her two hands into soft, cottony replicas of Byrne Cassa, who holds the team record for home runs in a season with 39, and Jose Tomas, who once struck out five men in one inning here (true story - happened in 1969). I thought it was a little unfair that Pan won, since in her day job she has her own business hot-gluing sparkly beads onto clothes. Sock puppets are in this woman's blood. I believe her prize was a year's supply of Champion tube socks. Lucky lady.
I did not pitch over the weekend. After throwing Thursday and Friday in my first relief back-to-back days, we decided to give me two days off. My ERA is a solid 36.00, which means I've gotten off to a slow start. Still, it's only two games for me. The team is 1 and 3. We're only 1 game out of first place, so I'm not going to lambaste myself for blowing my first save opportunity which, if I had been successful, would have put us in a three-way tie for first. If a player is suicidal 4 games into the season, he's in store for a very long year.
The pleasant surprise we had on Sunday was the arrival of Felipe Castro. He missed all of spring training because of his mother's being kidnapped and held for ransom in the jungles of Venezuela. She's still there. And Felipe's here on minor league assignment in the hopes he can use baseball as a diversion. There's nothing he can do to help his mom, he was told, so someone somewhere convinced him to come to the States and try to hit a ball really far. The plan is for him to play with us for a few games (as few as possible, the big club is 2 and 3 with little offense) to get the timing on his swing back. He pinch hit on Sunday night and struck out. His face was twisted in pain when he came back to the dugout. It was obvious that his body was in Nashville but his heart and mind are in Caracas.
Most of the guys here tried to keep their distance from Felipe. Not because they didn't like him, but they didn't know what to say. Felipe is a big star here in America and an even bigger star in Latin America. I'm sure some of the Spanish-speaking players didn't want their image of Felipe tarnished by getting to know him at this time in his life.
So, since I was in the dugout and not the bullpen, I made it my job to try to infuse Felipe with a love for sock puppets. I asked him about his childhood sock puppet collection. He just looked at me. I told him the story of Juanes, the Sock King, who used to bring all the little Latino boys and girls sock puppets if they did all of the chores for madre and padre. Did Juanes the Sock King ever pay a visit to Felipe's house? He just looked at me.
A clubhouse boy, for fifty bucks, was able to get his hands on Pam's prize winning sock puppets (literally - get it? since these are sock puppets?), brought them over to me. I slipped my calloused mitts into the Cassa and Tomas replicas (quite lifelike) and put on a sock puppet show for Felipe. No performance anxiety here. It was quite graphic, in a number of different ways. I especially liked the part where Cassa and Tomas got married in a Venezuelan oil factory.
Felipe got a kick out of my show and gave me $5. I thanked him and told him I'd give the money to Pam, who did such a good job with set design.
He sat by himself, eyes closed, on the flight to Oklahoma City. I can only hope he did so with a little bit of hope in his heart, hope that he'll be okay and his mother will be found. That's all any of us can ask for.
Friday, April 4, 2008
Rowdy Rally In Nashville
I'm starting to really like my 2007 Rockwood Signature Ultra Lite 8293SS trailer(http://www.alsmotorhomes.com/show.php?id=186). It's white, 29 feet long, has two sinks in the bathroom, and in the perfect setting for me, the Pepsi Field parking lot. My commute to the stadium is about 5 minutes by foot. They say most car accidents occur within 2 miles of somebody's home. I can avoid all of that as long as I don't trip.
Our Thursday game was a bummer, since we got pounded, but the fans apparently had a great time. After the game, I showered and dressed and hung out for a few minutes talking to Mario Gutierrez, a Venezuelan who, at 26, is just about too old to get a chance to make it into the big leagues. At least that's what conventional wisdom, and he, said. I told him I was almost 40 and I was in the minors. Stop complaining. My point was to keep trying and throw conventional wisdom out the window. If you can pitch, you can pitch. Age shouldn't matter.
I left the locker room hoping I'd given him hope, although I know the baseball business. What I gave him was probably false hope.
Leaving the stadium, I saw a handful of fans who were looking at me. These weren't young kids. The most youthful was probably in his fifties. They approached me and starting giving me a Nashville Hounds history lesson. They'd been in Nashville all their lives and had followed the team, and its players, the entire time. They wanted to make sure that I understood their passion and didn't quickly turn around and sell the team to the wrong person as soon as Charlie Walker died. I told them not to worry. The plan was to hold onto it for a while. Or they could buy it on the spot for $20 million. They laughed and said Social Security doesn't pay enough.
I thought we were done, so I said goodbye and began the long 5-minute trek "home." The parking lot was full. Not with cars, but with other people who had brought their trailers. There were some like mine. There were RVs. There were station wagons with hitches and pop-up tent houses built into their trailers. There were pickup trucks with little houses in the beds. Then it hit me. This was a rally. A rally, not for the Hounds, but for me.
This was pretty cool. Somebody counted and said there were forty some-odd trailer type vehicles in the parking lots. There were about 200 people participating, everyone cooking tailgate style. There was a guy who played banjo, another the fiddle (Nashville is the country music capital of the world in case you didn't know [I didn't]). After an hour or so, they joined forces, met up with a harmonica player, and did some bluegrass standards (I'd never heard the songs, so they were new releases to me).
When I thought they'd be done, it got rowdier. People were drinking, more trailers drove in, smoke rose from grills... By 9:00, I'd be given 27 chocolate cakes. I like chocolate cake, but that's a lot for me to eat in sitting. The freezer in my Ultra Lite's kitchen is about as big as a catcher's mitt, so I had to start giving the cakes away.
I wanted to go to bed by 9:30. The party seemed to be just starting. It got a little louder, a little rowdier. It got a little younger. The mix started to turn a little sour.
At around 10:15, the first gunshot went off. By the time the police arrived 5 minutes later, about 10 shots had been fired. Whoever had the gun, or guns, was hidden well. Most people were either under their vehicles, hugging the blacktop of the parking lot, or in their trailers under the covers. It's eerie when the sounds you hear go so quickly from music and laughter to gunshots to police radios breaking through the silence.
No arrests were made, although it took the cops about 90 minutes to have every trailer, but mine, vacate the parking lot. Then they asked me for my permit to park where I was. I lied and said the team had it in their office. They told me I'd need to show it to them the next day or have to find another place to park.
By around 1AM I was in bed. To my calculations, I'd lost out on 3 1/2 hours of sleep. Not good because I had to be in the locker room this morning at 8 AM for a rehab session with the team's trainer, Russell Katz.
Woke up this morning and my head was numb; hangover numb, and I hadn't even had anything alcoholic to drink. I made it in to see Russell and thought through my haze if it was worth staying in a trailer anymore. I was getting visitors all the time, problems were arising, my sleep pattern was off. Before I knew it, it was 10:30. I'd been asleep on the trainer's table for over 2 hours. Yes, I thought, something had to be done. I had to stop this before it ruined my focus.
You could tell my focus was off when I came into the game today in the 9th, trying to protect a 2-run lead. By giving up 5 runs in my second appearance of the season, I helped us lose by three.
There was no party after the game. Just a police escort to my trailer. They'd seen the permit (it really was in the team's office) and told me it was okay to stay in the parking lot, but I needed security. It flew in late Friday night in the shape of a 300 pound African-American blues singer who can also put you through the hardest workout of your life: Andy Gambell, my former personal trainer, who would now be my personal security guard.
Don't worry. He's got his own trailer. Mine may have two sinks, but he needs four to be happy. And now I'm happy too. It's hard to be homesick when your security guard is singing the blues all night long.
Our Thursday game was a bummer, since we got pounded, but the fans apparently had a great time. After the game, I showered and dressed and hung out for a few minutes talking to Mario Gutierrez, a Venezuelan who, at 26, is just about too old to get a chance to make it into the big leagues. At least that's what conventional wisdom, and he, said. I told him I was almost 40 and I was in the minors. Stop complaining. My point was to keep trying and throw conventional wisdom out the window. If you can pitch, you can pitch. Age shouldn't matter.
I left the locker room hoping I'd given him hope, although I know the baseball business. What I gave him was probably false hope.
Leaving the stadium, I saw a handful of fans who were looking at me. These weren't young kids. The most youthful was probably in his fifties. They approached me and starting giving me a Nashville Hounds history lesson. They'd been in Nashville all their lives and had followed the team, and its players, the entire time. They wanted to make sure that I understood their passion and didn't quickly turn around and sell the team to the wrong person as soon as Charlie Walker died. I told them not to worry. The plan was to hold onto it for a while. Or they could buy it on the spot for $20 million. They laughed and said Social Security doesn't pay enough.
I thought we were done, so I said goodbye and began the long 5-minute trek "home." The parking lot was full. Not with cars, but with other people who had brought their trailers. There were some like mine. There were RVs. There were station wagons with hitches and pop-up tent houses built into their trailers. There were pickup trucks with little houses in the beds. Then it hit me. This was a rally. A rally, not for the Hounds, but for me.
This was pretty cool. Somebody counted and said there were forty some-odd trailer type vehicles in the parking lots. There were about 200 people participating, everyone cooking tailgate style. There was a guy who played banjo, another the fiddle (Nashville is the country music capital of the world in case you didn't know [I didn't]). After an hour or so, they joined forces, met up with a harmonica player, and did some bluegrass standards (I'd never heard the songs, so they were new releases to me).
When I thought they'd be done, it got rowdier. People were drinking, more trailers drove in, smoke rose from grills... By 9:00, I'd be given 27 chocolate cakes. I like chocolate cake, but that's a lot for me to eat in sitting. The freezer in my Ultra Lite's kitchen is about as big as a catcher's mitt, so I had to start giving the cakes away.
I wanted to go to bed by 9:30. The party seemed to be just starting. It got a little louder, a little rowdier. It got a little younger. The mix started to turn a little sour.
At around 10:15, the first gunshot went off. By the time the police arrived 5 minutes later, about 10 shots had been fired. Whoever had the gun, or guns, was hidden well. Most people were either under their vehicles, hugging the blacktop of the parking lot, or in their trailers under the covers. It's eerie when the sounds you hear go so quickly from music and laughter to gunshots to police radios breaking through the silence.
No arrests were made, although it took the cops about 90 minutes to have every trailer, but mine, vacate the parking lot. Then they asked me for my permit to park where I was. I lied and said the team had it in their office. They told me I'd need to show it to them the next day or have to find another place to park.
By around 1AM I was in bed. To my calculations, I'd lost out on 3 1/2 hours of sleep. Not good because I had to be in the locker room this morning at 8 AM for a rehab session with the team's trainer, Russell Katz.
Woke up this morning and my head was numb; hangover numb, and I hadn't even had anything alcoholic to drink. I made it in to see Russell and thought through my haze if it was worth staying in a trailer anymore. I was getting visitors all the time, problems were arising, my sleep pattern was off. Before I knew it, it was 10:30. I'd been asleep on the trainer's table for over 2 hours. Yes, I thought, something had to be done. I had to stop this before it ruined my focus.
You could tell my focus was off when I came into the game today in the 9th, trying to protect a 2-run lead. By giving up 5 runs in my second appearance of the season, I helped us lose by three.
There was no party after the game. Just a police escort to my trailer. They'd seen the permit (it really was in the team's office) and told me it was okay to stay in the parking lot, but I needed security. It flew in late Friday night in the shape of a 300 pound African-American blues singer who can also put you through the hardest workout of your life: Andy Gambell, my former personal trainer, who would now be my personal security guard.
Don't worry. He's got his own trailer. Mine may have two sinks, but he needs four to be happy. And now I'm happy too. It's hard to be homesick when your security guard is singing the blues all night long.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Fallout On Opening Day
My post yesterday caused quite a stir, just like billionaire Charlie Walker expected. What's interesting to me is how so many news outlets came to the Pepsi Field parking lot to interview me here at my trailer. Don't they know I'm not talking to them? It's kind of hard to say, "No comment" when you're not speaking, so my shoulder-shrugging probably looks pretty stupid on camera.
Even more important is Charlie was there today to throw out the first pitch. Of course, the stadium was sold out, including standing room areas, and was packed for Charlie's arrival on the field. I didn't know 13,000 fans could make so much noise. I could tell Charlie appreciated the long ovations. I've only met him twice (yesterday and today when I caught his pitch, which was a little High & Tight), but he seems like a good man who just happened to be able to turn himself into a multi-billionaire. I wish him well and pray he feels comfortable during these last few months he's got. I told him that, when we do end up selling the team, all of the proceeds will go toward pancreatic cancer research. The twinkle in his eye made me believe that had been his hope all along.
Which brings me to the Jimmy & Vanessa Scott Foundation's sudden ownership of the AAA Nashville Hounds. I received calls from my super agent Jack Perry, Howard Phillips, the head of the players' union, Elliott Pollock, the commissioner, and my mother, three of the four telling me that there are rules forbidding active National Baseball League players from owning a franchise (Mom wants to make sure the pillow she sent was firm enough. It is.). I asked them each to look further into whether or not those rules count if the franchise is a minor league one. I can tell teams of lawyers are currently going through the basic agreement now, searching for definitive ways to halt this sale. It's all in a good cause and Jack says a lawyer told him that the sale will probably go through in the end because Charlie didn't sell the team to us, it was a gift, and also he gave it to a charitable organization, not me as an individual. As long as I'll be able to prove that I'm not on the team's payroll and not active in its management structure (I already resigned as Chairman), we should be fine. The point is to use the team as an investment to raise money for charity and one day in the future (Charlie said to wait five years; he'd know) sell it to someone or some organization that will keep it in Nashville as an asset to the local community.
I'm taking a long breath. Bear with me.
Jimmy Scott continues...
All of this brings me to the reason I'm in Nashville and not visiting Atlanta with the big club: The Hounds had its opening day game today. We got clobbered 10 to 1. I pitched a scoreless 7th inning (our manager, Dusty Graves, used 8 pitchers). There was some life in my arm, which, as I mentioned the other day, had been feeling "dead." My pitches were a little flat. My breaking ball didn't really break. A couple foul balls traveled about 500 feet as a result. But, since they were foul, I'm not supposed to be worried. Right?
Dusty told me he'll get me in tomorrow's game too, which will be my first back-to-back days of game action. I'm a little surprised because I thought they'd wait another 10 days or so before trying it out, especially after my dead arm. But since I'm pretty much completely healthy (a little head cold, thus the "pretty much" line), they want to push me a little. That and I hear our closer in NY, Billy Weston, has got some soreness again in a couple of his pitching fingers. I think they'd like me up in New York sooner rather than later, just in case.
Just in case. Sounds ominous, doesn't it?
Even more important is Charlie was there today to throw out the first pitch. Of course, the stadium was sold out, including standing room areas, and was packed for Charlie's arrival on the field. I didn't know 13,000 fans could make so much noise. I could tell Charlie appreciated the long ovations. I've only met him twice (yesterday and today when I caught his pitch, which was a little High & Tight), but he seems like a good man who just happened to be able to turn himself into a multi-billionaire. I wish him well and pray he feels comfortable during these last few months he's got. I told him that, when we do end up selling the team, all of the proceeds will go toward pancreatic cancer research. The twinkle in his eye made me believe that had been his hope all along.
Which brings me to the Jimmy & Vanessa Scott Foundation's sudden ownership of the AAA Nashville Hounds. I received calls from my super agent Jack Perry, Howard Phillips, the head of the players' union, Elliott Pollock, the commissioner, and my mother, three of the four telling me that there are rules forbidding active National Baseball League players from owning a franchise (Mom wants to make sure the pillow she sent was firm enough. It is.). I asked them each to look further into whether or not those rules count if the franchise is a minor league one. I can tell teams of lawyers are currently going through the basic agreement now, searching for definitive ways to halt this sale. It's all in a good cause and Jack says a lawyer told him that the sale will probably go through in the end because Charlie didn't sell the team to us, it was a gift, and also he gave it to a charitable organization, not me as an individual. As long as I'll be able to prove that I'm not on the team's payroll and not active in its management structure (I already resigned as Chairman), we should be fine. The point is to use the team as an investment to raise money for charity and one day in the future (Charlie said to wait five years; he'd know) sell it to someone or some organization that will keep it in Nashville as an asset to the local community.
I'm taking a long breath. Bear with me.
Jimmy Scott continues...
All of this brings me to the reason I'm in Nashville and not visiting Atlanta with the big club: The Hounds had its opening day game today. We got clobbered 10 to 1. I pitched a scoreless 7th inning (our manager, Dusty Graves, used 8 pitchers). There was some life in my arm, which, as I mentioned the other day, had been feeling "dead." My pitches were a little flat. My breaking ball didn't really break. A couple foul balls traveled about 500 feet as a result. But, since they were foul, I'm not supposed to be worried. Right?
Dusty told me he'll get me in tomorrow's game too, which will be my first back-to-back days of game action. I'm a little surprised because I thought they'd wait another 10 days or so before trying it out, especially after my dead arm. But since I'm pretty much completely healthy (a little head cold, thus the "pretty much" line), they want to push me a little. That and I hear our closer in NY, Billy Weston, has got some soreness again in a couple of his pitching fingers. I think they'd like me up in New York sooner rather than later, just in case.
Just in case. Sounds ominous, doesn't it?
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Charlie And The Baseball Factory
Joan Delaney and the NY Veterans franchise do not own the Nashville Hounds. Their relationship is one of affiliation. The Vets signed a deal to have the Hounds be their AAA minor league affiliate through 2010. At that point, both parties may sign a new deal with each other or move along to greener pastures.
The owner of the Hounds is billionaire Charles Walker, CEO of 3D Corp., which manages the wealth of investors and the assets of a slew of other companies. "Charlie" is 77 years old and considered by Forbes to be the richest man in the world.
The richest man in the world knocked on the door of my trailer this morning.
It was early for most people, around 7:15 AM. I'd been playing National Baseball League 2008 on my X-Box (Some people listen to NPR first thing, or the Morning Zoo. I play X-Box.) when I heard the knock. My first inclination was to ignore it. Since I've parked this trailer in the parking lot of the Hounds' Pepsi Field, I've had an incredible number of visitors. I don't mind. Without Vanessa or the girls and with my homesickness, these visitations help keep my mind busy. I don't let anyone inside, however, just in case (plus, I'm a pig). I set up some lawn chairs and sit and talk. Nashville "folk" have good manners and seem to know when it's time to go, so stalkers have not been a problem so far. But a couple times, I'll admit, I've let the knocks go unheeded. Sometimes I just need a break. I think I'm a loner deep down too, something I don't realize until I'm alone, which hasn't been often since my injury one year ago yesterday (Yes, somebody brought over a cake to celebrate. Chocolate.). When I heard this morning's knock, I considered the early hour and my X-Box abilities. The knock came a second time and I felt it was one that should be answered.
There was Charlie. I can call him Charlie because that's what he asked me to call him. He can call me whatever he wants because he's a billionaire and, quite frankly, those people can do whatever they want. He called me Jimmy.
The door of my trailer faces Pepsi Field. I like that view better than of the parking lot, which is just a big slab of blacktop. Charlie and I sat in two lawn chairs and began to chat. He was drinking a cup of Dunkin' Donuts coffee. I declined his offer since I don't drink coffee and try to watch my caffeine intake (besides four small pieces of that chocolate cake yesterday). We looked out at the $128 million stadium he'd had built two years before.
Charlie - You like it?
Me - Yes.
Charlie - You want it?
Me - To have?
Charlie - I'm selling all of my worldly possessions.
This was immediately strange. Charlie looked like a 77 year old businessman, dressed in a very nice, but not overpriced, dark blue suit and red tie with swirly baseballs on it. His shoes were very shiny and looked overpriced, but I don't know shoes well and didn't think asking would be appropriate. His hair, what's left of it, was gray and combed; his teeth close to white. No, he didn't seem crazy and he didn't appear to be a Maharishi dressed for a costume party.
Me - Why are you selling everything? And what makes you think I can afford this baseball stadium?
Charlie - I've got pancreatic cancer. They gave me between two and six months to live. I don't want to die owning anything except the clothes on my back.
I was immediately shaken up. He looked as healthy as one can look who's 77 with only a little bit of gray hair. And I hadn't heard about his cancer. He told me only a handful of people knew. And he said he knew the world would find out after he came to me.
Charlie - You're getting a scoop.
Me - I'm not really happy about it.
Charlie - Neither am I.
He knew I was only going to be on his Hounds for a month at the most. I'm the most well known "Hound" he'd ever had play for him. Because he's owned the team for 40 years (The Vets have been an affiliate for two), he thought this last month would be the most special of his tenure with the club.
Charlie - The Hounds were my first big investment.
Me - What did you pay?
Charlie - $16,000. They're worth about $16 million today.
Me - I'm no math major, but you've at least doubled your investment.
Charlie - I think I've tripled it.
I laughed. Imagine the richest man in the world sitting on one of your lawn chairs, sipping coffee and shooting the breeze with you, unannounced, at 25 minutes after 7 in the morning. It was pretty cool.
He told me he has trusts and investments and properties worth something like $62 billion. "It fluctuates from time to time," he said. My next question was based upon me, since in my world, everything must revolve around me.
Me - Why are you giving me this scoop?
Charlie - I'm giving you my team.
Me - (jaw dropping open, thousands of thoughts running through my head, most cancelling each other out except the small craving for chocolate cake)
Charlie - I'm giving it to your charity. You can sell it or run it. It's up to you.
Me - (physically pushing my jaw closed and swallowing)
Charlie - How much money have you and your wife raised in your career?
Me - (after some stammering) Around $21 million.
Charlie - Where does it go?
Me - A handful of places, but mostly for cancer, autism and Alzheimer's research. We started allocating proceeds to Lyme disease research two years ago after Vanessa got it.
Charlie - What's the biggest single donation you've ever received?
Me - Adidas gave us $1 million after we won the Series in 2000.
Charlie - I'm going to at least triple it.
I'm no math whiz, but giving the Jimmy & Vanessa Scott Foundation a minor league baseball team worth at least $16 million is practically quadrupling the biggest donation we'd ever received.
Me - What do we do with it?
Charlie - Keep it. That's my recommendation. Just you playing here for a month has increased the value of it by about a million dollars. It's a brand new stadium. You've got some good people running the organization. Keep it for five years and I can almost guarantee you'll sell it for $35 million.
Me - Pretty cool.
Charlie - I know.
Me - What happens now? Do we get into your glass elevator and fly into the sky. "Look Grandpa, I can see my trailer!"
Charlie Walker has one of the greatest laughs I'll ever remember. Even knowing he's going to be dead before the summer ends, before his Hounds complete their season, he still laughed loud and strong.
He stood up, finished his coffee and handed me a folder full of papers. "This is the key to the car," he said metaphorically. I suggested he mail them to Vanessa. Knowing me, I'd spill chocolate cake crumbs all over them. Then we shook hands. "It's your team now, Jimmy." He looked at me, a deep, longing type of look. I could sense, just for that moment, a bit of remorse. Not because he didn't like me or was unhappy with his actions - I could tell he'd planned this out and thought this through completely - but because he wished he had his youth again. He wished he could have a catch with his dad again. He wished he could hold his sons one more time (they died together in a plane crash in the 1970s). He wished it all wasn't going to end in two to five months.
Then it hit me. Tomorrow's opening day.
Me - Charlie. It's my team? I own it?
Charlie - Your foundation owns it, but you're listed as Chairman, which means you run it.
Me - Then I can make decisions for it.
Charlie - Certainly.
Me - I want you to throw out the first pitch.
He smiled. I know he's not a sentimental guy; could tell just by sitting with him for twenty minutes. You don't become a billionaire 62 times over by crying every time you make a deal. He nodded and got into his limo. "Sure thing, Jimmy." And then they drove away.
Tomorrow's opening day for my Nashville Hounds. Charlie Walker is throwing out the first pitch. I'll catch it. This will be Charlie's last pitch. I'm happy to say I met the man. He's made me feel like a better one.
The owner of the Hounds is billionaire Charles Walker, CEO of 3D Corp., which manages the wealth of investors and the assets of a slew of other companies. "Charlie" is 77 years old and considered by Forbes to be the richest man in the world.
The richest man in the world knocked on the door of my trailer this morning.
It was early for most people, around 7:15 AM. I'd been playing National Baseball League 2008 on my X-Box (Some people listen to NPR first thing, or the Morning Zoo. I play X-Box.) when I heard the knock. My first inclination was to ignore it. Since I've parked this trailer in the parking lot of the Hounds' Pepsi Field, I've had an incredible number of visitors. I don't mind. Without Vanessa or the girls and with my homesickness, these visitations help keep my mind busy. I don't let anyone inside, however, just in case (plus, I'm a pig). I set up some lawn chairs and sit and talk. Nashville "folk" have good manners and seem to know when it's time to go, so stalkers have not been a problem so far. But a couple times, I'll admit, I've let the knocks go unheeded. Sometimes I just need a break. I think I'm a loner deep down too, something I don't realize until I'm alone, which hasn't been often since my injury one year ago yesterday (Yes, somebody brought over a cake to celebrate. Chocolate.). When I heard this morning's knock, I considered the early hour and my X-Box abilities. The knock came a second time and I felt it was one that should be answered.
There was Charlie. I can call him Charlie because that's what he asked me to call him. He can call me whatever he wants because he's a billionaire and, quite frankly, those people can do whatever they want. He called me Jimmy.
The door of my trailer faces Pepsi Field. I like that view better than of the parking lot, which is just a big slab of blacktop. Charlie and I sat in two lawn chairs and began to chat. He was drinking a cup of Dunkin' Donuts coffee. I declined his offer since I don't drink coffee and try to watch my caffeine intake (besides four small pieces of that chocolate cake yesterday). We looked out at the $128 million stadium he'd had built two years before.
Charlie - You like it?
Me - Yes.
Charlie - You want it?
Me - To have?
Charlie - I'm selling all of my worldly possessions.
This was immediately strange. Charlie looked like a 77 year old businessman, dressed in a very nice, but not overpriced, dark blue suit and red tie with swirly baseballs on it. His shoes were very shiny and looked overpriced, but I don't know shoes well and didn't think asking would be appropriate. His hair, what's left of it, was gray and combed; his teeth close to white. No, he didn't seem crazy and he didn't appear to be a Maharishi dressed for a costume party.
Me - Why are you selling everything? And what makes you think I can afford this baseball stadium?
Charlie - I've got pancreatic cancer. They gave me between two and six months to live. I don't want to die owning anything except the clothes on my back.
I was immediately shaken up. He looked as healthy as one can look who's 77 with only a little bit of gray hair. And I hadn't heard about his cancer. He told me only a handful of people knew. And he said he knew the world would find out after he came to me.
Charlie - You're getting a scoop.
Me - I'm not really happy about it.
Charlie - Neither am I.
He knew I was only going to be on his Hounds for a month at the most. I'm the most well known "Hound" he'd ever had play for him. Because he's owned the team for 40 years (The Vets have been an affiliate for two), he thought this last month would be the most special of his tenure with the club.
Charlie - The Hounds were my first big investment.
Me - What did you pay?
Charlie - $16,000. They're worth about $16 million today.
Me - I'm no math major, but you've at least doubled your investment.
Charlie - I think I've tripled it.
I laughed. Imagine the richest man in the world sitting on one of your lawn chairs, sipping coffee and shooting the breeze with you, unannounced, at 25 minutes after 7 in the morning. It was pretty cool.
He told me he has trusts and investments and properties worth something like $62 billion. "It fluctuates from time to time," he said. My next question was based upon me, since in my world, everything must revolve around me.
Me - Why are you giving me this scoop?
Charlie - I'm giving you my team.
Me - (jaw dropping open, thousands of thoughts running through my head, most cancelling each other out except the small craving for chocolate cake)
Charlie - I'm giving it to your charity. You can sell it or run it. It's up to you.
Me - (physically pushing my jaw closed and swallowing)
Charlie - How much money have you and your wife raised in your career?
Me - (after some stammering) Around $21 million.
Charlie - Where does it go?
Me - A handful of places, but mostly for cancer, autism and Alzheimer's research. We started allocating proceeds to Lyme disease research two years ago after Vanessa got it.
Charlie - What's the biggest single donation you've ever received?
Me - Adidas gave us $1 million after we won the Series in 2000.
Charlie - I'm going to at least triple it.
I'm no math whiz, but giving the Jimmy & Vanessa Scott Foundation a minor league baseball team worth at least $16 million is practically quadrupling the biggest donation we'd ever received.
Me - What do we do with it?
Charlie - Keep it. That's my recommendation. Just you playing here for a month has increased the value of it by about a million dollars. It's a brand new stadium. You've got some good people running the organization. Keep it for five years and I can almost guarantee you'll sell it for $35 million.
Me - Pretty cool.
Charlie - I know.
Me - What happens now? Do we get into your glass elevator and fly into the sky. "Look Grandpa, I can see my trailer!"
Charlie Walker has one of the greatest laughs I'll ever remember. Even knowing he's going to be dead before the summer ends, before his Hounds complete their season, he still laughed loud and strong.
He stood up, finished his coffee and handed me a folder full of papers. "This is the key to the car," he said metaphorically. I suggested he mail them to Vanessa. Knowing me, I'd spill chocolate cake crumbs all over them. Then we shook hands. "It's your team now, Jimmy." He looked at me, a deep, longing type of look. I could sense, just for that moment, a bit of remorse. Not because he didn't like me or was unhappy with his actions - I could tell he'd planned this out and thought this through completely - but because he wished he had his youth again. He wished he could have a catch with his dad again. He wished he could hold his sons one more time (they died together in a plane crash in the 1970s). He wished it all wasn't going to end in two to five months.
Then it hit me. Tomorrow's opening day.
Me - Charlie. It's my team? I own it?
Charlie - Your foundation owns it, but you're listed as Chairman, which means you run it.
Me - Then I can make decisions for it.
Charlie - Certainly.
Me - I want you to throw out the first pitch.
He smiled. I know he's not a sentimental guy; could tell just by sitting with him for twenty minutes. You don't become a billionaire 62 times over by crying every time you make a deal. He nodded and got into his limo. "Sure thing, Jimmy." And then they drove away.
Tomorrow's opening day for my Nashville Hounds. Charlie Walker is throwing out the first pitch. I'll catch it. This will be Charlie's last pitch. I'm happy to say I met the man. He's made me feel like a better one.
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