The State of Things That Are

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?

The Ultimate Groupie

I've only been married once. This doesn't mean I'm not married anymore. I got married on January 10, 1993 and remain wedded via holy matrimony to my spousal equivalent, Vanessa. We have the rings to prove it (not as big as my World Championship Series rings, but probably more valuable). There are lots of guys I have played with in the past, and on the current big league club, who have been divorced. Some guys have been divorced more than once; Jon Benson, for example, who's married to his third wife. I'm not judging him for being married three times. Nor am I making fun of him. I'm into the whole "people got to be free" thing, as long as nobody gets hurt. That's why I feel I have to say something about the woman who's apparently crawled out of a hole somewhere to say she has been Jon's mistress through all three marriages.

The woman is Nicole Verdetta. She's 40 and lonely and an example of the ultimate groupie. Many groupies are the one-night stand kind. They do it to say they did it. No strings attached. But there are other groupies, some like Nicole, who do it, I don't want to say to "entrap" a player, but as an investment. They'll do what the player wants in exchange for money, or material things like cars and apartments. Ms. Verdetta is this, plus more. You saw Fatal Attraction, right? That comes to mind about now.

Yes, I know her. Not well. Jon's been on the team since 2004 and I've seen her on the road, sometimes in our hotel lobby, sometimes at a restaurant with Jon. Yes, I've known Jon has been married to his current wife, Kathryn, since 2003. Like I said, I don't judge.

This is going to sound wrong of me, but I'm on Jon's side here. If Nicole has been his "girlfriend" since the 1990s, through his first, very brief marriage through his second marriage of a few years and through his current marriage of almost 5 years, she's known the deal. Jon marries, lives with his wife during the off season and with her halftime during the baseball season, and Nicole gets the occasional off season long weekend and most in-season road trips. Why she's decided to go public and, from what I heard, pose for Playboy just doesn't make sense. Maybe Jon tried to break up. Maybe she's crazy. Either way, it's not just Jon she's hurting.

We, Jon's teammates, know our deal in this: Keep our mouths shut. Maybe that's not what we should do in these cases (and Jon isn't the only guy we have to turn the other cheek toward who escorts a woman other than his wife to the hotel elevator). Maybe we should put a napkin over the phone and anonymously call the wife, "I saw your husband with another woman," then hang up. Maybe we should open an anonymous email account and send something to the wife. "Keep an eye on your husband." Maybe we should tell our wives, nudge nudge, wink wink, and let them do the dirty work. But who does that help? Us by removing our guilt?

I know of some marriages that were considered "open marriages." In these, both members of the couple were free to "date" others while the ballplayer was on the road. Suppose Jon had a deal with his wives: I marry you because I love you, but I see Nicole because she does something for me nobody else could ever do; only she's nuts so I won't marry her." (To avoid a lawsuit, let me state now Nicole Verdetta has never been accused by anyone of being "nuts." I'm sure she's a very nice, misunderstood lady.) If I had said something to his wife, it would just come back to me and Jon, very pissed, would explain how it was a) none of my business, and b) he has an arrangement so screw you!

It always comes back to the player. I've seen fights, been in arguments, when a wife or a player snitches on another player's off field recreation schedule. Vanessa once tattled on a former teammate and, man, I almost had my head beaten to a bloody pulp by the guy who she tattled on. I know better. Vanessa knows better. It's none of our business. It can't be.

Ms. Verdetta has come out and made these allegations. To Jon's credit, he hasn't denied anything. But think of the pressure he's under now. Reporters are on his back. His wife (and not just his first) must be pressuring him. Jon also has three kids. They can't be happy about this. Then there's the team. We've penciled Jon in for 12-14 wins this year. Will the stress of this public problem seep into his mind and ruin him? Will he freak out if he sees a teammate with a copy of Playboy in his locker or on the team plane?

From what I understand, Ms. Verdetta doesn't have a job. She says Jon's been paying her, basically, to be his "friend" for years. That means she has time to do publicity, promoting her Playboy layout and article, maybe get a reality show or a book deal. She wants something from Jon, didn't get it, and is now on the warpath. Most groupies aren't this vindictive. We don't know the whole story and maybe we never will. Like I said, it's none of our business.

But when it all goes public, I guess it becomes our business. Let's hope this story doesn't ruin Jon's business, in baseball, and he wins his games and the public relations battle that lies before him.