Look at what happened back in 1993:
Well, now all you need to do is multiply this by about 15 and convert it to 2008 standards. You see, Rick Churches, my manager (who is a bit high-strung), went completely over-the-top nuts last night in the clubhouse. I haven't seen any video of it yet anywhere - it happened right before the press came down after last night's game - but maybe one of the guys here caught it on his cell phone and will upload it in the near future. Anyway, it was nothing like this:
First of all, when Rick went nuts, it didn't take place in the shower. He was sort of half in his office and half out. And he wasn't really yelling at the team. He was just sort of yelling overall at the state of the world. I turned away when he began to bring world affairs into his rant for fear he'd make eye contact with me and I'd start to laugh. I wouldn't have been laughing at him. Well, yes, I would have been laughing at him. And that's just something a player shouldn't do to his manager, especially when his manager is going on a tirade.
It started somewhere in the 8th inning when Rick got thrown out of the game for arguing balls and strikes. You can't do that with umpires. While the majority of umpires are good men who are doing a professional job, some are terrible. Some have giant egos, larger than the egos of people like me, and you can't get past those egos for a second. Rick argued with an umpire's ego and got tossed. We were soundly trounced in a one-game rainout makeup, 10-2, our two runs scoring in the first inning. I think Rick was more upset that we were no-hit the rest of the night. Take away our first three batters and they pitched a perfect game against us.
Nobody likes to be beaten like that. Especially a manager. So Rick went nuts. Kookoo. Over the rainbow. Crackers.
Oh, I wish I had video for you. The papers had a few sentences about it in today's editions, but since Rick was done early, it's all hearsay. None of us (or is it we?) players would be directly quoted as to the full content of his anger. Even here, I'm not going to give you every last detail. Not today. I want to see what the team does in response. Or what Rick does before I spill all the beans and get lambasted for it from everyone I know. So, I'll just confirm that Rick was engaged in fury last evening and we deserved every word he said.
Nearly every word. I'm not completely bald just yet.
Showing posts with label going bald. Show all posts
Showing posts with label going bald. Show all posts
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Friday, May 16, 2008
Jimmy Scott's High & Tight
It's launched! "But," you say, "what is Jimmy Scott's High & Tight? Is it a Broadway show? Ooh, I love Broadway. Is there singing and dancing?"
No, it's not a Broadway show, thus, there is no singing and dancing.
"Is it a diner? I love to eat. Do you serve both steaks and chops?"
No.
"Then which is it? Steaks or chops?"
It's not a diner.
"Is it a set of designer underpants? You're almost 40 Jimmy. You're at the stage in a man's life when the pants are either lifted above the stomach or below. Is it a set of designer underpants?"
No, but I like that idea. May I steal it?
"Jimmy," you say with gusto, "I'm stuck. What else can a famous formerly 'greatest pitcher of his generation' do that would be called Jimmy Scott's High & Tight?"
I'll tell you.
Go here: http://www.jimmyscottshighandtight.com/
That's it! It's a website.
"A website?"
Yes.
"What on earth is a great baseball player who is definitely starting to go bald doing with a website?"
Stuff. I'm doing stuff. This blog? It's gonna go up there. The podcast interviews? They're gonna go up there. Video interviews? I'm gonna do some of them and put them up there. Oh, you'll feel joy learning more about my family, my team, our management. There is a Forum section where you can write nasty things about me. There is a poll up with more to come so you can act all American and vote. There are links. You'll see pictures. The list is not endless. It ends there.
"What will it cost me?"
Nothing. I'm a multi-multi-multi-millionaire. What am I gonna do with your money? Spend it on more underpants?
"Lord, I hope not."
That makes 3.2 million of us.
"What do I need to do?"
Go there, young man. Go to http://www.jimmyscottshighandtight.com/. Participate. Comment on blogs. Join the Jimmy Scott Fan Club. Click on the Syndicate button and let the daily website changes come to you. The site is like a ground ball. You need to set yourself into proper position to field it cleanly.
"I don't understand that last metaphor."
Neither do I.
"Are you still gonna blog here?"
Yeah. Still gonna blog, but probably more often. I want to have contests and give things away. I want you to become more involved in my life.
"Will we have sex?"
Nope. Vanessa would be mad.
"Will you have me over for dinner?"
Chances of that are extremely remote. What's in it for me?
"I'll go to your website."
Okay. Deal.
"Will you serve steaks or chops?"
Ha ha. You're funny. Enjoy the website. Enjoy your weekend. Root for me. I'm rooting for you.
No, it's not a Broadway show, thus, there is no singing and dancing.
"Is it a diner? I love to eat. Do you serve both steaks and chops?"
No.
"Then which is it? Steaks or chops?"
It's not a diner.
"Is it a set of designer underpants? You're almost 40 Jimmy. You're at the stage in a man's life when the pants are either lifted above the stomach or below. Is it a set of designer underpants?"
No, but I like that idea. May I steal it?
"Jimmy," you say with gusto, "I'm stuck. What else can a famous formerly 'greatest pitcher of his generation' do that would be called Jimmy Scott's High & Tight?"
I'll tell you.
Go here: http://www.jimmyscottshighandtight.com/
That's it! It's a website.
"A website?"
Yes.
"What on earth is a great baseball player who is definitely starting to go bald doing with a website?"
Stuff. I'm doing stuff. This blog? It's gonna go up there. The podcast interviews? They're gonna go up there. Video interviews? I'm gonna do some of them and put them up there. Oh, you'll feel joy learning more about my family, my team, our management. There is a Forum section where you can write nasty things about me. There is a poll up with more to come so you can act all American and vote. There are links. You'll see pictures. The list is not endless. It ends there.
"What will it cost me?"
Nothing. I'm a multi-multi-multi-millionaire. What am I gonna do with your money? Spend it on more underpants?
"Lord, I hope not."
That makes 3.2 million of us.
"What do I need to do?"
Go there, young man. Go to http://www.jimmyscottshighandtight.com/. Participate. Comment on blogs. Join the Jimmy Scott Fan Club. Click on the Syndicate button and let the daily website changes come to you. The site is like a ground ball. You need to set yourself into proper position to field it cleanly.
"I don't understand that last metaphor."
Neither do I.
"Are you still gonna blog here?"
Yeah. Still gonna blog, but probably more often. I want to have contests and give things away. I want you to become more involved in my life.
"Will we have sex?"
Nope. Vanessa would be mad.
"Will you have me over for dinner?"
Chances of that are extremely remote. What's in it for me?
"I'll go to your website."
Okay. Deal.
"Will you serve steaks or chops?"
Ha ha. You're funny. Enjoy the website. Enjoy your weekend. Root for me. I'm rooting for you.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
They're Calling Me Barbara
I don't like it. The "they", taken from the Latin root from the title above, "they're", is composed of my teammates and a handful of media folk who line my big league clubhouse with their fancy pants and designer shoes (the media guys don't wear either, just regular pants and sneakers). It seems the interview I posted yesterday with Dr. Mike Marshall added more to the negative feeling about me. Here were some comments and from whence they were derived:NEWSPAPER GUY (NPG)
NPG: Hey, Jimmy, I listened to your Mike Marshall interview.
Me: Doctor.
NPG: Well, yeah. Dr. Mike Marshall.
Me: It's what he is.
NPG: Anyway, I think -
Me: No, there's no "anyway" here. He's a doctor. He's got a PhD. What's so bad about that?
NPG: Nothin.
Me: Do you have a PhD?
NPG: No.
Me: Neither do I. That makes us both idiots.
NPG: May I quote you, Barbara?
Me: No. And don't call me Barbara.
OUTFIELDER (OF)OF: (rattailing my naked buttocks)
Me: Ouch. What is this, summer camp?
OF: Why don't you quit your pitching job and take a gig with ESPN?
Me: It doesn't pay as well.
OF: Really, Barbara?
Me: Who's Barbara?
OF: You. You're a little Barbara Walters.
Me: I'm probably taller than her.
OF: Still -
Me: And heavier.
OF: You and -
Me: But she probably has more hair. Even though she's pretty old now.
OF: Why don't you get her on your show?
Me: Why don't you?
OF: Nice comeback. Where'd you think that one up, summer camp?
He rat tailed me again on the tush just as I turned away.
MANAGER (RICK CHURCHES)Rick: Jimmy take a seat.
(I should state that we were in his office when this exchange occured.)
Me: (sitting without a wisecrack)
Rick: What's this about you wanting to retire?
Me: I don't want to retire.
Rick: You're going to be forced into it if you don't lay off the computer stuff and start spending some time on pitching.
Me: How much time a day can I throw a ball?
Rick: It's more than throwing. It's watching video. It's studying the other team.
Me: All right, let's say that takes up 3 hours of my day.
Rick: It's getting into top physical shape.
Me: Add another 2 hours
Rick: You don't work out 2 hours a day.
Me: Yes I do. You just can't see my raging abs. My clothes are big.
Rick: I'm saying your focus should be here, on this team and on this game.
Me: I'm saying that if you take the 5 hours a day of prep work for this gig we call baseball, and then -
Rick: There's the game itself too. Add in another 3 hours.
Me: 4 if it's Interleague. My point is, you take 6 hours out of 24 and that leaves... Umm...
Rick: 18 hours.
Me: Good! That's a lot of hours of nothingness. I can blog then and interview people and talk about what I'm going to do when I retire.
Rick: Do you want to retire?
Me: No.
Rick: Then put your focus on the game. You won't have to anytime soon if you pay more attention to baseball.
Me: We're starting to run in circles.
Rick: At least you'd be working out, Barbara.
POTENTIAL PODCAST INTERVIEW CANDIDATE (PPC)
PPC: No, don't interview me.
Me: Why?
PPC: I don't want to do interviews with the media. Why would I want to do one with a ballplayer.
Me: It could be fun.
PPC: Who do you think you are, Barbara Walters?
Me: No.
PPC: I'll pass.
I'm a trailblazer, a pioneer. I am an icon. I will be the man, many years from now, who historians will look back upon and say, "This was one semi-balding man who became a giant in his field, a greater giant than all of the others combined. He took risks. He followed his heart. We erect this statue of him in his honor. We're sorry he couldn't be here today. He had a prior engagement interviewing Barbara Walters for his groundbreaking podcast show."
Finally, let me add one more exchange between me and my jealous/envious closet admirers.
"RED" SCOTT (NYS GAME ANNOUNCER AND, ALSO, MY DAD)Red: What's this about you interviewing people?
Me: I'm interviewing people.
Red: I heard.
Me: Good.
Red: Why?
Me: Put down the microphone.
Red: Hmm?
Me: I'll talk to you off the record.
Red: We are off the record.
Me: So put down the microphone then.
Red: It's off. Don't you trust me.
Me: No.
Red: What kind of man can't trust his own father?
Me: The kind of man whose father is untrustworthy.
Red: You think you're better than me?
Me: No. Wait, let me rephrase. Yes, I do.
Red: You're not. You're just like me.
Me: I'm not like you at all. Why do you always try to lump in my extracurricular activities with the way you've treated your family since the day the earth cooled off from its origins as a flaming fireball.
Red: Speaking of flaming fireballs, they're calling you Barbara. Did you know that?
Me: Yes.
Red: It bugs you, doesn't it?
Me: Put the microphone down.
Red: Call you mother. She'd like to talk to you. Give me 5 minutes to prepare.
Me: You're not taping my call with Mom. That's illegal.
Red: Oh. Good day.
Me: Good day.
And he walked away, the man who never retired from baseball. The man who, at 72, I fear I will turn into one day. Yes, I must figure out my life before I'm his age, hanging around guys 50 years younger than me and watching them rattail each other. That's just sick.
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Figuring Out My Life
I got home after Saturday's game a little upset. I'd just blown my first save of the season (but gotten my first win - only 12 to 300! - wait, I'm not supposed to be excited about personal goals. Never mind.) and Vanessa was home waiting for me. I grumbled a little to her about something trivial and she told me off. I won't reprint her words here because they're private (actually, I forgot most everything she said, but the "privacy" thing makes us sound private). The gist of it all was this: Jimmy (that's me) is going to not be playing baseball for the rest of his life. The assumption is that Jimmy (me again) will one day retire and have to fill up the days of his life with...something.
Vanessa: You better find out what that is.
Me: We can go on a second honeymoon.
Vanessa: If living with you during retirement is like this, you can go on a second honeymoon with your second wife.
Well, no husband wants to hear that, especially from his first wife. So I said something dumb back to get the last word in ("Maybe I will," I believe was the phrase.). She said something back, not so dumb, and got the last word in anyway (truly forgot what that was due to my not getting the last word and not fulfilling my momentary goal).
I moped around the house for a while, doing a lot of nothing. I do that when I get home after afternoon games. My nights can be filled with the following:
1. Moping around and being bored
2. Watching cartoons
3. Bothering Vanessa or my kids with queries like, "What are you doing?" and "Want any help?" To which I receive the response, "You should get a hobby."
I thought this blog was my hobby, but it only takes 35-45 minutes a day. If I subtract 45 minutes from 24 hours, there's still at least...um...lots of time left in the day to do stuff. My problem is I have no "stuff" to do. And that upsets my lovely wife, making her threaten me with a divorce to be named later.
Then it hit me: Ask somebody what to do! It's thrilling to come up with an idea on your own. But who to ask? I had a shrink - team supplied - who's not talking to me. I have a wife, but she's not the one who'll give me answers I need since she's biased against me. My kids' guidance counselor at school? Good idea, but she's a lady and would probably not be very impressed with the balding that's beginning on my scalp.
Then it hit me: Ask former ballplayers! They're retired! They must have all the time in the world to talk to me about what they're doing with the rest of their lives since they're currently living in the "rest of their lives" time period.
Thus, I reached out to Mike Marshall first, former Cy Young Award winner (1974) while with Los Angeles. He holds all sorts of records for relief pitchers, like most pitching appearances in a season (106) and most relief innings (208).
But there's more.
He's Dr. Mike Marshall to you and me. I saw him on HBO Real Sports a couple of weeks ago with Bryant Gumble, talking about his efforts to eliminate injuries to pitchers. Coming off a 2007 season in which I threw two pitches before getting injured and missing the rest of the year, I suddenly wished Vanessa had yelled at me in 2006.
I'm no doctor. Far from it. (Vanessa won't even call me Dr. Love when I ask during those "private" times.) Maybe Dr. Marshall could help me. Maybe he could give me some advice. It was worth reaching out to him.
I went to his website, http://www.drmikemarshall.com/, and sent him an email. He responded and agreed to speak to me. So we did. And I recorded it. Unwilling to turn this into some Linda Tripp/Monica Lewinsky thing, I told the good doctor I was recording our conversation. He said fine, as long as I posted it on my blog. I said fine, as long as - Well, I had no counter to his proposal, so I'm posting our conversation here.
The Dr. Mike Marshall Interview
Give a good hard listen. You finally get to hear my voice after my not talking to the media for so long. And, in the background, you'll hear some interesting music.
More important, you'll hear what Dr. Marshall has to say about pitching and baseball. His website http://www.drmikemarshall.com/ has loads of free information young kids may find interesting. Maybe old kids will find it interesting too. You can even send him emails on your own with questions. There's a free book, some video, all sorts of neat stuff. You'll love it. And you'll love him (but not in "that" way).
As for me, I'm going to start doing more of these legal recordings. I've called more people and am going to speak with other former big leaguers, like Tommy John (nice, since I had his surgery last year), Richie Hebner, Rick Minor, Dave Baldwin and more. I'm even going to speak with a sports psychology consultant to see if I can get my head on straight.
Thus, I will no longer just be an incredible pitcher who fans adore, I will become a man who my wife adores and who my two adolescent kiddies tolerate. It's gonna be great!
Vanessa: You better find out what that is.
Me: We can go on a second honeymoon.
Vanessa: If living with you during retirement is like this, you can go on a second honeymoon with your second wife.
Well, no husband wants to hear that, especially from his first wife. So I said something dumb back to get the last word in ("Maybe I will," I believe was the phrase.). She said something back, not so dumb, and got the last word in anyway (truly forgot what that was due to my not getting the last word and not fulfilling my momentary goal).
I moped around the house for a while, doing a lot of nothing. I do that when I get home after afternoon games. My nights can be filled with the following:
1. Moping around and being bored
2. Watching cartoons
3. Bothering Vanessa or my kids with queries like, "What are you doing?" and "Want any help?" To which I receive the response, "You should get a hobby."
I thought this blog was my hobby, but it only takes 35-45 minutes a day. If I subtract 45 minutes from 24 hours, there's still at least...um...lots of time left in the day to do stuff. My problem is I have no "stuff" to do. And that upsets my lovely wife, making her threaten me with a divorce to be named later.
Then it hit me: Ask somebody what to do! It's thrilling to come up with an idea on your own. But who to ask? I had a shrink - team supplied - who's not talking to me. I have a wife, but she's not the one who'll give me answers I need since she's biased against me. My kids' guidance counselor at school? Good idea, but she's a lady and would probably not be very impressed with the balding that's beginning on my scalp.
Then it hit me: Ask former ballplayers! They're retired! They must have all the time in the world to talk to me about what they're doing with the rest of their lives since they're currently living in the "rest of their lives" time period.
Thus, I reached out to Mike Marshall first, former Cy Young Award winner (1974) while with Los Angeles. He holds all sorts of records for relief pitchers, like most pitching appearances in a season (106) and most relief innings (208).
But there's more.
He's Dr. Mike Marshall to you and me. I saw him on HBO Real Sports a couple of weeks ago with Bryant Gumble, talking about his efforts to eliminate injuries to pitchers. Coming off a 2007 season in which I threw two pitches before getting injured and missing the rest of the year, I suddenly wished Vanessa had yelled at me in 2006.
I'm no doctor. Far from it. (Vanessa won't even call me Dr. Love when I ask during those "private" times.) Maybe Dr. Marshall could help me. Maybe he could give me some advice. It was worth reaching out to him.
I went to his website, http://www.drmikemarshall.com/, and sent him an email. He responded and agreed to speak to me. So we did. And I recorded it. Unwilling to turn this into some Linda Tripp/Monica Lewinsky thing, I told the good doctor I was recording our conversation. He said fine, as long as I posted it on my blog. I said fine, as long as - Well, I had no counter to his proposal, so I'm posting our conversation here.
The Dr. Mike Marshall Interview
Give a good hard listen. You finally get to hear my voice after my not talking to the media for so long. And, in the background, you'll hear some interesting music.
More important, you'll hear what Dr. Marshall has to say about pitching and baseball. His website http://www.drmikemarshall.com/ has loads of free information young kids may find interesting. Maybe old kids will find it interesting too. You can even send him emails on your own with questions. There's a free book, some video, all sorts of neat stuff. You'll love it. And you'll love him (but not in "that" way).
As for me, I'm going to start doing more of these legal recordings. I've called more people and am going to speak with other former big leaguers, like Tommy John (nice, since I had his surgery last year), Richie Hebner, Rick Minor, Dave Baldwin and more. I'm even going to speak with a sports psychology consultant to see if I can get my head on straight.
Thus, I will no longer just be an incredible pitcher who fans adore, I will become a man who my wife adores and who my two adolescent kiddies tolerate. It's gonna be great!
Thursday, May 8, 2008
The First Class Cab Ride
After the call on Tuesday night that I was done with my rehab assignment in the minors and to report to LA for a Wednesday afternoon game, I did what I do best in situations like that. I went to bed. It was past 10PM west coast time. The hotel room had already been paid for. And did they actually expect me to take a midnight flight to LA, arrive in some hotel room at 3 AM and then be ready for a 1 PM game? Well, yes, they did expect that from me. But sometimes, sports fans, it's what we expect from ourselves that matters the most, especially when we're sleepy. I was sleepy on Tuesday evening, so I went to bed.
I was up early on Wednesday. You must give me credit for not sleeping late. By 7 AM, I was shaving my armpits and humming Streisand songs (both parts of the "You Don't Bring Me Flowers" duet). By 7:20 (also in the AM timeframe), I was sitting in the Days Inn lobby (there's no Ritz Carlton for AAA players, even fading superstars like me, since there's usually no Ritz Carlton in the little cities where AAA players play) signing autographs for the staff of 2 when my taxi arrived to take me (or is it bring me?) to the airport.
Now I don't know Tucson at all. It's hot and dry. There. That about imparts to you my knowledge of this city. Don't ask me for directions anywhere, which is what the cabbie did. "Which way should we go to the airport?" That was her question. I told her I didn't know. The best way. The right way. The fastest way. You're the cab driver. You're supposed to know. She had already pulled out of the parking lot and started driving, so I couldn't jump out and call for a different cab. Instead, I signed loudly and shut my mouth.
5 minutes passed. 10 minutes. 15 minutes. At some point, I realized no signs mentioned the airport and the Days Inn where I'd slept and shaved and hummed not too long before was two blocks away. "Um," I said in my strong man-voice, "you don't know where you're going, do you?"
It appears that the driver was a substitute for her dad who needed the morning to "sleep in" after a late night riding a mechanical bull. "His back is kinda stiff," the girl said. When I write "girl," I mean it. Maybe she was 17. Maybe not. I'd say she reminded me of my own daughters, only I wouldn't hand the keys to the family business over to them at 15, 16 or 17, mechanical bull or not. I told her she should pull over at a gas station and ask for directions. I had a 9:45 AM flight (arrival at 11:10; I'd get to the ballpark by noon) and now it was 7:45. Plenty of time to make it to the airport, but I didn't want to sit in a cab with the windows open, my hair blowing everywhere but the part of my head that's quickly going bald. She pulled into a Lukoil! (I added the ! - it just seems that there's one logo that could use a !, remember the band Wham!?) She asked directions. She listened intently. I did not. Not my job. I was busy licking the undersides of my fingers and flattening out my hair over my bared scalp. We pulled away.
5 minutes pass. 10 minutes. I don't wait for 15. "You still lost?" I asked. She slowly nodded, not being able to talk because she was, I just realized, crying her eyes out. "Sorry," I said. "I meant we."
I sat back and thought. Cell phone. I had one (only one, since I don't have a girlfriend, thus there is no need to hide any calls from my lovely wife, Vanessa, who doesn't go through my bags looking for "something suspicious" and doesn't scroll through the phone numbers programmed into my cell [since I don't expect myself to memorize any] looking for evidence that I called some "Gina" or "Lola" or "Marla" or some other groupie one-night-stand name that ends with an A). I'm completely lost. Let me review all the stuff before the ( and )...
Okay. Back on track.
I whip out my cell (phone, not the microscopic thing that contains nuclei and cytoplasm and protoplasm) and called my super agent, Jack Perry.
Me: I'm lost.
Jack: Never get into a taxi that doesn't have GPS.
Me: I did.
Jack: In the future, don't.
Me: Okay.
Thus, we were basically done. I edited out the part where he said I should have flown out the night before like I was supposed to.
I called Vanessa.
Me: (hitting a pre-programmed number, since I don't memorize phone numbers)
Person: Hello?
Me: You're not Vanessa.
Person: No.
The line went dead. There was no instant dial tone like in the movies. Just silence on the other end for a handful of seconds.
I rifled through my carry on bag and pulled out a cheat sheet I'd made (actually, a cheat sheet I'd had made for me) of phone numbers. You know, the In Case Of Emergency Call... kind of thing. There, in three letters, was the name that I knew could help.
Me: Hi.
Mom: Where are you?
Me: Arizona.
Mom: Why aren't you in Los Angeles?
Me: I was sleepy.
Mom: I was sleepy when I went into labor with you, but I didn't go to bed until after I'd pushed you out.
Me: This is different.
Mom: How is it different?
Me: I was sleepy.
Mom: Then I can't help you.
I edited out the part in which she said I should have just flown out the night before.
My phone rang shortly after that. Well, it didn't ring. That Chingy song my girls had programmed as a ringtone started playing. I knew enough not to tell the girl cab driver to turn off the radio, since the radio wasn't on. Even though, as I lifted the phone to my ear, I could sense her boogieing a wee bit to that infectious Chingy beat.
Me: Hello.
Vanessa: Jack called and said you were lost.
Me: Yes.
Vanessa: You told me you were going to fly out last night.
Me: No, I said the team wanted me to fly out last night.
Vanessa: I'm assuming you felt your plan was better.
Me: I was sleep-
Vanessa: Jimmy, be quiet and listen very carefully. Look at a street sign. I am sitting at a computer and will tell you where you are and where to go. Now look up.
Me: (listening to the sound of my pride deflating like a Party City barmitzvah balloon)
Successfully, because she's more awesome than me in every way (she told me I had to write that as payment), Vanessa directed us to the airport. When the girl asked for an extra $10 to subsidize the extra gas she had to burn to get me to the airport, I told her to have her dad write it off as a business expense since, for cab companies, gasoline is a business expense. The girl drove off and didn't say thank you. No, she didn't remind me of my kids at all (sarcasm).
I peeked at my watch. 8:25. I had time to make it to my flight and still even stop somewhere for a cup of orange juice. Maybe even an everything bagel, except hold the sesame, onion and those little tiny black seeds that get stuck in between your teeth. Everything was going to be fine.
My plane was clean and my luggage was stowed away. I sat in first class and closed my eyes. I was suddenly a little bit sleepy. When the captain gave made his announcement, I knew my day was not going to improve.
"Sorry folks, but due to some problems with the engine, we're going to have to de-board and get ya another one."
So much for my plans. So much for my making it to the ballpark by noon.
I sat in a chair, surrounded by people who kept wondering if I was who I am and if that's my real hair, and watched CNN. A cyclone somewhere I'd never heard of killed maybe 100,000. Hillary and Barack are fighting over who's going to lead our nation through another four years. This person killed that person and some company was going to lay off 1000 workers because of the financial crisis. Yeah, I was comparatively pretty well off. The worst thing that could happen to me is that I'd fly in very late, miss the game and miss the flight home with the team, creating a greater wedge between Rick Churches, my manager who prefers to not like me, and me, who I like very much.
Guess what happened?
I was up early on Wednesday. You must give me credit for not sleeping late. By 7 AM, I was shaving my armpits and humming Streisand songs (both parts of the "You Don't Bring Me Flowers" duet). By 7:20 (also in the AM timeframe), I was sitting in the Days Inn lobby (there's no Ritz Carlton for AAA players, even fading superstars like me, since there's usually no Ritz Carlton in the little cities where AAA players play) signing autographs for the staff of 2 when my taxi arrived to take me (or is it bring me?) to the airport.
Now I don't know Tucson at all. It's hot and dry. There. That about imparts to you my knowledge of this city. Don't ask me for directions anywhere, which is what the cabbie did. "Which way should we go to the airport?" That was her question. I told her I didn't know. The best way. The right way. The fastest way. You're the cab driver. You're supposed to know. She had already pulled out of the parking lot and started driving, so I couldn't jump out and call for a different cab. Instead, I signed loudly and shut my mouth.
5 minutes passed. 10 minutes. 15 minutes. At some point, I realized no signs mentioned the airport and the Days Inn where I'd slept and shaved and hummed not too long before was two blocks away. "Um," I said in my strong man-voice, "you don't know where you're going, do you?"
It appears that the driver was a substitute for her dad who needed the morning to "sleep in" after a late night riding a mechanical bull. "His back is kinda stiff," the girl said. When I write "girl," I mean it. Maybe she was 17. Maybe not. I'd say she reminded me of my own daughters, only I wouldn't hand the keys to the family business over to them at 15, 16 or 17, mechanical bull or not. I told her she should pull over at a gas station and ask for directions. I had a 9:45 AM flight (arrival at 11:10; I'd get to the ballpark by noon) and now it was 7:45. Plenty of time to make it to the airport, but I didn't want to sit in a cab with the windows open, my hair blowing everywhere but the part of my head that's quickly going bald. She pulled into a Lukoil! (I added the ! - it just seems that there's one logo that could use a !, remember the band Wham!?) She asked directions. She listened intently. I did not. Not my job. I was busy licking the undersides of my fingers and flattening out my hair over my bared scalp. We pulled away.
5 minutes pass. 10 minutes. I don't wait for 15. "You still lost?" I asked. She slowly nodded, not being able to talk because she was, I just realized, crying her eyes out. "Sorry," I said. "I meant we."
I sat back and thought. Cell phone. I had one (only one, since I don't have a girlfriend, thus there is no need to hide any calls from my lovely wife, Vanessa, who doesn't go through my bags looking for "something suspicious" and doesn't scroll through the phone numbers programmed into my cell [since I don't expect myself to memorize any] looking for evidence that I called some "Gina" or "Lola" or "Marla" or some other groupie one-night-stand name that ends with an A). I'm completely lost. Let me review all the stuff before the ( and )...
Okay. Back on track.
I whip out my cell (phone, not the microscopic thing that contains nuclei and cytoplasm and protoplasm) and called my super agent, Jack Perry.
Me: I'm lost.
Jack: Never get into a taxi that doesn't have GPS.
Me: I did.
Jack: In the future, don't.
Me: Okay.
Thus, we were basically done. I edited out the part where he said I should have flown out the night before like I was supposed to.
I called Vanessa.
Me: (hitting a pre-programmed number, since I don't memorize phone numbers)
Person: Hello?
Me: You're not Vanessa.
Person: No.
The line went dead. There was no instant dial tone like in the movies. Just silence on the other end for a handful of seconds.
I rifled through my carry on bag and pulled out a cheat sheet I'd made (actually, a cheat sheet I'd had made for me) of phone numbers. You know, the In Case Of Emergency Call... kind of thing. There, in three letters, was the name that I knew could help.
Me: Hi.
Mom: Where are you?
Me: Arizona.
Mom: Why aren't you in Los Angeles?
Me: I was sleepy.
Mom: I was sleepy when I went into labor with you, but I didn't go to bed until after I'd pushed you out.
Me: This is different.
Mom: How is it different?
Me: I was sleepy.
Mom: Then I can't help you.
I edited out the part in which she said I should have just flown out the night before.
My phone rang shortly after that. Well, it didn't ring. That Chingy song my girls had programmed as a ringtone started playing. I knew enough not to tell the girl cab driver to turn off the radio, since the radio wasn't on. Even though, as I lifted the phone to my ear, I could sense her boogieing a wee bit to that infectious Chingy beat.
Me: Hello.
Vanessa: Jack called and said you were lost.
Me: Yes.
Vanessa: You told me you were going to fly out last night.
Me: No, I said the team wanted me to fly out last night.
Vanessa: I'm assuming you felt your plan was better.
Me: I was sleep-
Vanessa: Jimmy, be quiet and listen very carefully. Look at a street sign. I am sitting at a computer and will tell you where you are and where to go. Now look up.
Me: (listening to the sound of my pride deflating like a Party City barmitzvah balloon)
Successfully, because she's more awesome than me in every way (she told me I had to write that as payment), Vanessa directed us to the airport. When the girl asked for an extra $10 to subsidize the extra gas she had to burn to get me to the airport, I told her to have her dad write it off as a business expense since, for cab companies, gasoline is a business expense. The girl drove off and didn't say thank you. No, she didn't remind me of my kids at all (sarcasm).
I peeked at my watch. 8:25. I had time to make it to my flight and still even stop somewhere for a cup of orange juice. Maybe even an everything bagel, except hold the sesame, onion and those little tiny black seeds that get stuck in between your teeth. Everything was going to be fine.
My plane was clean and my luggage was stowed away. I sat in first class and closed my eyes. I was suddenly a little bit sleepy. When the captain gave made his announcement, I knew my day was not going to improve.
"Sorry folks, but due to some problems with the engine, we're going to have to de-board and get ya another one."
So much for my plans. So much for my making it to the ballpark by noon.
I sat in a chair, surrounded by people who kept wondering if I was who I am and if that's my real hair, and watched CNN. A cyclone somewhere I'd never heard of killed maybe 100,000. Hillary and Barack are fighting over who's going to lead our nation through another four years. This person killed that person and some company was going to lay off 1000 workers because of the financial crisis. Yeah, I was comparatively pretty well off. The worst thing that could happen to me is that I'd fly in very late, miss the game and miss the flight home with the team, creating a greater wedge between Rick Churches, my manager who prefers to not like me, and me, who I like very much.
Guess what happened?
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Selling Spit On eBay
I was told it had to happen, but I just don't think about these things. I'm busy getting my work in, making my right arm not fall off at the elbow. I'm busy traveling with this minor league team, my Nashville Hounds, wondering how much longer I'll have to play in AAA. I'm busy staring into a mirror and looking at the upper right part of my head, where the hair used to be but is slowly deteriorating into something horrifying to me that the scientific community calls "male pattern baldness." My father, the dreaded "Red" Scott, is not bald. And I heard my mother's father, whom we'll call Grandpa and is the one my biology teacher in high school said mattered the most when it comes to the condition of my follicles, still had hair in his forties (he died at 50, so we'll never know how his hair would have developed or regressed). So I stare at the mirror, finger the growing presence of flesh, and watch the final dismantling of my youth, almost like the Russians taking down some nukes aimed at small towns in Iowa, towns that just, by chance, happened to have nukes aimed at Russia. These are the things I think - some say worry - about. Not the presence of my DNA up for sale, by someone else, on eBay.
During the Hounds' last homestand in Nashville, a week ago, I had the pleasure of drinking from a bottle of water, Poland Spring, I believe, on my walk from the stadium clubhouse to my trailer in the Pepsi Field parking lot. Feeling hydrated, I was looking for a garbage can to dump the bottle and small amount of remaining liquid. That's when a stranger, whom we'll call Grandpa - just kidding; this was a woman who, from the look of her, enjoyed her Southern cooking - saw me, asked for an autograph (I obliged with my adopted Southern hospitality) and said she'd throw out my bottle for me. I didn't think twice as I handed her my bottle and thanked her.
Flash forward to yesterday (Wednesday). Here we are in Omaha, about to play the Cats, when, in response to the PA guy, about 3000 fans suddenly throw their bottles of water onto the field. While batboys and team employees scurry about, picking up the plastic containers, Hounds manager Dusty Graves comes over to me, pats me on the back, and tells me I'm now officially "green." I have no idea what he's talking about.
An Omaha Cats employee - could've been a marketing person, could've been an intern, could've been their GM (one minor league employee typically performs the tasks of 5 of their big league counterparts) - comes to our dugout and asks Dusty if it would be okay for me to join him (the employee, a very tall one - skinny too) on the field to mention something about Earth Day and recycling. Dusty laughs and shrugs. "Fine with me," he said. The employee comes over, shakes my hand, and asks me to follow him. I do, happy to have heard the subject matter Dusty had just agreed I would speak about.
There's a loud ovation. "Spit King" flashes on the board. I'm oblivious. The employee asks me to turn. Then I figure it out. eBay and Poland Spring have jointly sponsored the evening's game because of me, because of the bottle of water I let a fan throw out for me. There on the scoreboard is a scanned photo of the bottle. It's part of an eBay website page. It's up for auction. The most recent bid was for $467.55. All for a piece of plastic holding a half-ounce of my backwash. There were 16 hours and 33 minutes left before bidding would close.
I turn back and am told the ballpark is sold out. There weren't 3000 fans there (3000 bottles were thrown, but not every fan elected to throw their bottle), there were nearly 8000 fans. All there for Earth Day's "Spit King" festival, sponsored by eBay and Poland Spring.
I spoke into a microphone set up at home plate. "Baseball been berry, berry good to me." The older Saturday Night Live crowd, the ones who remember Chico Escuela, the former fake ballplayer played by Garrett Morris, laugh. That's about 150 people. Meaning my remark basically brought silence to the crowd. That's a real confidence booster.
I continued. "You know, Omaha, recycling is good, right?" Some hand claps. A whistle, probably aimed at a hot groupie or another man who had more hair. "I think Omaha should always recycle, especially on Earth Day. Right?"
Were they as bored as I was, I wondered. I was happy for the preparation time I'd been given. "Omaha, I've always loved you, as you are part of the Earth, Mother Earth, my Mother Earth, the planet that raised me from a wee pup."
A few more whistles. Some more clapping. Then, it hit me. There was one reason alone why I'd been forced into this situation. But it was nothing a little supply & demand economics couldn't cure. "Omaha, Nebraska, I have an idea. After the game, let's line up and I'll drink a little bit from your bottles of water. Then we can all go on eBay and make some money. Huh? What chu think 'bout dat, Omaha!"
I had them going. "Why should one kook make all the money when 8000 of you should have the same opportunity? Am I right, Omaha? Nebraska? Tell me I'm wrong and I'll just slip into something more comfortable and go to bed."
Now the cheers were there, supporting me, letting me be the dufus I've always had the ability to be. "So sell your Poland Spring bottles on eBay. Those left over, recycle them. Let's save our Mother Earth. Because she been berry berry good to us!"
Those 8000 fans had the power and fury of at least 8250. They were that loud.
Then what happened? Well, I spent 4 hours after the game sipping from water bottles. By 2Am, I was done. When I woke up this morning - extremely tired; being a dufus always comes back to haunt me - I went on eBay and saw not one, but 679 bottles of water featuring my DNA backwash up for bidding. The original bottle? Almost at $500, but no longer climbing at the speed of sound. I considered my idea a success. The large, crazy (yet probably very smart) Southern lady wasn't going to get the amount of money she thought she'd get from me, I had some new friends in Omaha, and Mother Earth could relax for one last day. Who knew that my spit could change the world?
During the Hounds' last homestand in Nashville, a week ago, I had the pleasure of drinking from a bottle of water, Poland Spring, I believe, on my walk from the stadium clubhouse to my trailer in the Pepsi Field parking lot. Feeling hydrated, I was looking for a garbage can to dump the bottle and small amount of remaining liquid. That's when a stranger, whom we'll call Grandpa - just kidding; this was a woman who, from the look of her, enjoyed her Southern cooking - saw me, asked for an autograph (I obliged with my adopted Southern hospitality) and said she'd throw out my bottle for me. I didn't think twice as I handed her my bottle and thanked her.Flash forward to yesterday (Wednesday). Here we are in Omaha, about to play the Cats, when, in response to the PA guy, about 3000 fans suddenly throw their bottles of water onto the field. While batboys and team employees scurry about, picking up the plastic containers, Hounds manager Dusty Graves comes over to me, pats me on the back, and tells me I'm now officially "green." I have no idea what he's talking about.
An Omaha Cats employee - could've been a marketing person, could've been an intern, could've been their GM (one minor league employee typically performs the tasks of 5 of their big league counterparts) - comes to our dugout and asks Dusty if it would be okay for me to join him (the employee, a very tall one - skinny too) on the field to mention something about Earth Day and recycling. Dusty laughs and shrugs. "Fine with me," he said. The employee comes over, shakes my hand, and asks me to follow him. I do, happy to have heard the subject matter Dusty had just agreed I would speak about.
There's a loud ovation. "Spit King" flashes on the board. I'm oblivious. The employee asks me to turn. Then I figure it out. eBay and Poland Spring have jointly sponsored the evening's game because of me, because of the bottle of water I let a fan throw out for me. There on the scoreboard is a scanned photo of the bottle. It's part of an eBay website page. It's up for auction. The most recent bid was for $467.55. All for a piece of plastic holding a half-ounce of my backwash. There were 16 hours and 33 minutes left before bidding would close.
I turn back and am told the ballpark is sold out. There weren't 3000 fans there (3000 bottles were thrown, but not every fan elected to throw their bottle), there were nearly 8000 fans. All there for Earth Day's "Spit King" festival, sponsored by eBay and Poland Spring.
I spoke into a microphone set up at home plate. "Baseball been berry, berry good to me." The older Saturday Night Live crowd, the ones who remember Chico Escuela, the former fake ballplayer played by Garrett Morris, laugh. That's about 150 people. Meaning my remark basically brought silence to the crowd. That's a real confidence booster.
I continued. "You know, Omaha, recycling is good, right?" Some hand claps. A whistle, probably aimed at a hot groupie or another man who had more hair. "I think Omaha should always recycle, especially on Earth Day. Right?"
Were they as bored as I was, I wondered. I was happy for the preparation time I'd been given. "Omaha, I've always loved you, as you are part of the Earth, Mother Earth, my Mother Earth, the planet that raised me from a wee pup."
A few more whistles. Some more clapping. Then, it hit me. There was one reason alone why I'd been forced into this situation. But it was nothing a little supply & demand economics couldn't cure. "Omaha, Nebraska, I have an idea. After the game, let's line up and I'll drink a little bit from your bottles of water. Then we can all go on eBay and make some money. Huh? What chu think 'bout dat, Omaha!"
I had them going. "Why should one kook make all the money when 8000 of you should have the same opportunity? Am I right, Omaha? Nebraska? Tell me I'm wrong and I'll just slip into something more comfortable and go to bed."
Now the cheers were there, supporting me, letting me be the dufus I've always had the ability to be. "So sell your Poland Spring bottles on eBay. Those left over, recycle them. Let's save our Mother Earth. Because she been berry berry good to us!"
Those 8000 fans had the power and fury of at least 8250. They were that loud.
Then what happened? Well, I spent 4 hours after the game sipping from water bottles. By 2Am, I was done. When I woke up this morning - extremely tired; being a dufus always comes back to haunt me - I went on eBay and saw not one, but 679 bottles of water featuring my DNA backwash up for bidding. The original bottle? Almost at $500, but no longer climbing at the speed of sound. I considered my idea a success. The large, crazy (yet probably very smart) Southern lady wasn't going to get the amount of money she thought she'd get from me, I had some new friends in Omaha, and Mother Earth could relax for one last day. Who knew that my spit could change the world?
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
When Going Public Backfires
The little spat my father, Vets announcer "Red" Scott, and I have had over the past few days grew larger last night. We beat Albuquerque in the afternoon and I pitched a 1-2-3 ninth inning, probably my best outing since the return of my healthy arm. The game ended around 3:45 and we were on plane flying to Omaha by 7:00 (what were 11-hour bus rides in AAA as recently as the 1990s are now 3-hour plane flights). I got to my lousy hotel room (what were lousy hotel rooms as recently as the 1990s are still lousy, only 10 years older) by 11:30 and, as I turned on my laptop, got a text message on my cell phone: "Jimmy, I'm going to kill you."
Now before you start thinking this is going to turn into a horror movie (I guess the demented serial killer with the manual miter saw would be waiting for me inside the box spring of my bed), you should know who wrote the text. No, not a fan who lost a bet on me (I have received death threats in the past, seriously, from guys who stood to owe lots of money to bookies if I pitched well on a particular night). My father wrote the text. And he isn't really going to kill me. He's just mad.
Because...
He said some dumb, untrue things about me on a couple of NYS broadcasts. I posted some true, but possibly dumb, things about him here. The media has printed and said plenty more, which he liked at first, since he's part of the media and I refuse to speak to them. His "brothers" were going to stand beside him. That's what he thought. Because I don't speak to the media, he thought the media would automatically side with him in this dispute, whether he was right or not. Only, he's starting to get skewered just as badly as me. He's starting to look as bad as me (even though I'm definitely going bald - I can just tell - and he's still got a full head of hair). The media have turned their backs to him.
So that has angered him. But it isn't the sole reason for the horror-inducing text message. There's more.
There were two voicemails on my cellphone that I didn't mention earlier. Both were from my super agent, Jack Perry. The first:
Jack: Jimmy, call me.
The second:
Jack: Call me now.
Jack's a no-nonsense kind of guy. If he needs you to call him right away, he's most likely got a very good reason for you to do so. I decided to eat before speaking to him.
Around midnight, just as I was stuffing my mouth with a piece of toast smothered in grape jelly (the kitchen in this dive of a hotel only makes breakfast for room service starting at 11PM in the evening), my phone went off. My girls stole my phone for a little bit last week and put on a bunch of ringtones. Now, if I receive a call, some hideous Hip Hop song bleats out of the phone's tiny speaker, reminding me of when the 19 year old guys come up to bat in these incredibly (compared to as recently as the 1990s) nice AAA ballparks. Thus, I had a piece of toast (rye) halfway down my throat when I hit Talk, instantly ridding the room, my ears, and the serial killer in my box spring of the hideous Hip Hop song.
Me: (unintelligible choking sound)
Jack: You didn't call me.
Me: (more choking)
Jack: Swallow, please.
I guess you can now tell Jack has heard me answer the phone with a neck full of food before.
Me: (after swallowing, taking a drink, the liquid going down the wrong tube, coughing and then clearing my throat, then having another drink and clearing my throat again) What?
Jack: You didn't call me.
Me: Yet. I hadn't called you yet.
Jack: Don't get all tense with me.
Me: You're funny when you make jokes about the English language.
Jack: Huh?
Great agent - a super agent. Terrible sense of humor. Just ask one of his three ex-wives.
Jack: Got a call from Mrs. Delaney tonight. She owns your team.
Me: I have heard of the woman.
Jack: She wants you and your father to make nice immediately or he's going to be suspended or fired.
Me: But nothing will happen to me?
Jack: You'll feel really guilty.
So it was now up to me. Either man up and speak with the father I wasn't speaking to so we could end our public squabble, or keep up the public squabble and see him removed from office in disgrace, eventually led away from a Chevy Caprice in handcuffs, a dark raincoat draped over his embarrassed head (that is less bald than mine even though it's 33 years older than mine).
It was 2 AM on the East Coast. I couldn't call Vanessa for her thoughts. She was busy asleep, probably dreaming of men with hair. I couldn't call my shrink since I don't have one anymore as a result of his lawsuit against me for breaking the terms of our confidentiality agreement. There was only one person I could call.
The phone rang. I heard a real ringing sound, not the latest hit by Chingy. The "Hello" was spoken clearly, the voice deep and respected.
"Dad," I said, "it's me. I'm sorry."
Public squabble over.
Now before you start thinking this is going to turn into a horror movie (I guess the demented serial killer with the manual miter saw would be waiting for me inside the box spring of my bed), you should know who wrote the text. No, not a fan who lost a bet on me (I have received death threats in the past, seriously, from guys who stood to owe lots of money to bookies if I pitched well on a particular night). My father wrote the text. And he isn't really going to kill me. He's just mad.
Because...
He said some dumb, untrue things about me on a couple of NYS broadcasts. I posted some true, but possibly dumb, things about him here. The media has printed and said plenty more, which he liked at first, since he's part of the media and I refuse to speak to them. His "brothers" were going to stand beside him. That's what he thought. Because I don't speak to the media, he thought the media would automatically side with him in this dispute, whether he was right or not. Only, he's starting to get skewered just as badly as me. He's starting to look as bad as me (even though I'm definitely going bald - I can just tell - and he's still got a full head of hair). The media have turned their backs to him.
So that has angered him. But it isn't the sole reason for the horror-inducing text message. There's more.
There were two voicemails on my cellphone that I didn't mention earlier. Both were from my super agent, Jack Perry. The first:
Jack: Jimmy, call me.
The second:
Jack: Call me now.
Jack's a no-nonsense kind of guy. If he needs you to call him right away, he's most likely got a very good reason for you to do so. I decided to eat before speaking to him.
Around midnight, just as I was stuffing my mouth with a piece of toast smothered in grape jelly (the kitchen in this dive of a hotel only makes breakfast for room service starting at 11PM in the evening), my phone went off. My girls stole my phone for a little bit last week and put on a bunch of ringtones. Now, if I receive a call, some hideous Hip Hop song bleats out of the phone's tiny speaker, reminding me of when the 19 year old guys come up to bat in these incredibly (compared to as recently as the 1990s) nice AAA ballparks. Thus, I had a piece of toast (rye) halfway down my throat when I hit Talk, instantly ridding the room, my ears, and the serial killer in my box spring of the hideous Hip Hop song.
Me: (unintelligible choking sound)
Jack: You didn't call me.
Me: (more choking)
Jack: Swallow, please.
I guess you can now tell Jack has heard me answer the phone with a neck full of food before.
Me: (after swallowing, taking a drink, the liquid going down the wrong tube, coughing and then clearing my throat, then having another drink and clearing my throat again) What?
Jack: You didn't call me.
Me: Yet. I hadn't called you yet.
Jack: Don't get all tense with me.
Me: You're funny when you make jokes about the English language.
Jack: Huh?
Great agent - a super agent. Terrible sense of humor. Just ask one of his three ex-wives.
Jack: Got a call from Mrs. Delaney tonight. She owns your team.
Me: I have heard of the woman.
Jack: She wants you and your father to make nice immediately or he's going to be suspended or fired.
Me: But nothing will happen to me?
Jack: You'll feel really guilty.
So it was now up to me. Either man up and speak with the father I wasn't speaking to so we could end our public squabble, or keep up the public squabble and see him removed from office in disgrace, eventually led away from a Chevy Caprice in handcuffs, a dark raincoat draped over his embarrassed head (that is less bald than mine even though it's 33 years older than mine).
It was 2 AM on the East Coast. I couldn't call Vanessa for her thoughts. She was busy asleep, probably dreaming of men with hair. I couldn't call my shrink since I don't have one anymore as a result of his lawsuit against me for breaking the terms of our confidentiality agreement. There was only one person I could call.
The phone rang. I heard a real ringing sound, not the latest hit by Chingy. The "Hello" was spoken clearly, the voice deep and respected.
"Dad," I said, "it's me. I'm sorry."
Public squabble over.
Friday, April 11, 2008
Saved!
It finally happened. Last night, I recorded my first save in a Nashville Hounds uniform. I looked online and also saw that in my 20 years of professional baseball, this was my first save ever. I looked harder and saw that, in my 20 years of professional baseball, I have pitched out of the bullpen (regular season) a grand total of 6 times, none since 1994.
Fans will say, "Oh, he's certainly a great looking guy, maybe going bald, but he'll still be a real hottie when all we'll see on his head is skin."
You, as readers, will say, "What's the previous quote have to do with anything?"
I, as me, will say, "Helps my ego."
Back on point: Fans will also say, "He gets paid millions of dollars ($9 million guaranteed this year - I can't forget that), he should be able to do whatever they tell him."
Here's where you're right and wrong at the same time (I feel like I'm talking to my wife, the lovely Vanessa Scott). Yes, for the money they pay me, I should jump when they say "How high?" without asking any questions. Did that make sense? Let me rephrase for those of you playing the board game at home. For the wads of cash the team gives me to line my pockets made of gold, I should have the ability to pitch in the first, fifth or thirteenth innings, bunt a runner over to second base with less than two outs, or spit a macadamia nut casing up to six feet out of my mouth if they tell me to. Yes, fans, I should be able to do that.
But I can't. I'm a baseball player, and baseball players are screwy. A leadoff hitter has trouble hitting down at seventh in the order. The situations as a seventh place hitter are completely different from the situations leading off a game. Thus, the leadoff hitter freaks out and can't do it. The starting pitcher must pitch every fifth day. If you put him out there with three days rest, or six days, his mind is mud. He can't do it. The closer must come into a game with a small enough lead that he still gets the save, or the score tied. He can't come in with a 5-run lead and not give up 2 or 3. Likewise, he can't come into a game down by 10 and be expected to pitch a 1-2-3 inning. Our heads may be handsome, although in the intermediate stages of balding, but our minds are fragile, vulnerable, sensitive globs of goo. Don't ask us to do what we're not accustomed to doing. We'll fail 9 times out of 10.
So how am I adjusting to my new role as closer for a AAA minor league team when I've been a big league starting pitcher for the last 19 years? On the outside, I appear fully confident. I've said to friends (my mother's dog, Lando), family (my mother) and anyone else who's not a member of the press that "I'll do whatever it takes to help the team." I'm happy to have had the opportunity to spew the cliche out of my mouth. We all say it. We also say, "That's what we're paid to do," even though our minds are the aforementioned globs of goo when you ask us to do what we don't expect to be told to do. Like close games in AAA when you thought you'd be starting games in New York.
In other words, I'm trying to get my head around the fact that I'm being told (nobody ever asked, by the way) to pitch out of the bullpen this year. Yes, it's been almost a month since this stunning pronouncement by my favorite manager, Rick Churches. But you can't put a free man in solitary confinement and ask him to feel good about it after only 3 weeks.
I have needed help. My former shrink, Dr. Henry Cohegans, won't be my current shrink (hence the "former" attribute) because of the lawsuit he filed against me for breaking our confidentiality agreement. While we settled, he won't pick us up where we left off. So I've been searching for a replacement shrink. The big club gave me a list of local people (local to Nashville), but I need someone who can do it over the phone. I won't be in Nashville very long and don't want to develop a relationship with a new psychiatrist only to break it off after a short time. I'd think he or she would feel used.
Enter Dr. Carol Lindstrom-Oates. She's New Jersey-based and let me call her Dr. Lindstrom-Oates. A fine doctor of the mind, we had our first call yesterday:
Shrink - Tell me about yourself.
Me - I feel bad about the recession.
Shrink - It's a tough time in this economy.
Me - No, I mean my hair. It's receding.
She's a very serious doctor who's serious of doctoring. I told her of my problem dealing with my new "role" as a baseball player. Here's what she said:
Shrink - You mean they pay you all that money and you can't do it? What, are you nuts?
Dr. Carol Lindstrom-Oates is not my shrink anymore.
Meanwhile, I pitched a 1-2-3 9th last night. Maybe I simply cured myself.
Fans will say, "Oh, he's certainly a great looking guy, maybe going bald, but he'll still be a real hottie when all we'll see on his head is skin."
You, as readers, will say, "What's the previous quote have to do with anything?"
I, as me, will say, "Helps my ego."
Back on point: Fans will also say, "He gets paid millions of dollars ($9 million guaranteed this year - I can't forget that), he should be able to do whatever they tell him."
Here's where you're right and wrong at the same time (I feel like I'm talking to my wife, the lovely Vanessa Scott). Yes, for the money they pay me, I should jump when they say "How high?" without asking any questions. Did that make sense? Let me rephrase for those of you playing the board game at home. For the wads of cash the team gives me to line my pockets made of gold, I should have the ability to pitch in the first, fifth or thirteenth innings, bunt a runner over to second base with less than two outs, or spit a macadamia nut casing up to six feet out of my mouth if they tell me to. Yes, fans, I should be able to do that.
But I can't. I'm a baseball player, and baseball players are screwy. A leadoff hitter has trouble hitting down at seventh in the order. The situations as a seventh place hitter are completely different from the situations leading off a game. Thus, the leadoff hitter freaks out and can't do it. The starting pitcher must pitch every fifth day. If you put him out there with three days rest, or six days, his mind is mud. He can't do it. The closer must come into a game with a small enough lead that he still gets the save, or the score tied. He can't come in with a 5-run lead and not give up 2 or 3. Likewise, he can't come into a game down by 10 and be expected to pitch a 1-2-3 inning. Our heads may be handsome, although in the intermediate stages of balding, but our minds are fragile, vulnerable, sensitive globs of goo. Don't ask us to do what we're not accustomed to doing. We'll fail 9 times out of 10.
So how am I adjusting to my new role as closer for a AAA minor league team when I've been a big league starting pitcher for the last 19 years? On the outside, I appear fully confident. I've said to friends (my mother's dog, Lando), family (my mother) and anyone else who's not a member of the press that "I'll do whatever it takes to help the team." I'm happy to have had the opportunity to spew the cliche out of my mouth. We all say it. We also say, "That's what we're paid to do," even though our minds are the aforementioned globs of goo when you ask us to do what we don't expect to be told to do. Like close games in AAA when you thought you'd be starting games in New York.
In other words, I'm trying to get my head around the fact that I'm being told (nobody ever asked, by the way) to pitch out of the bullpen this year. Yes, it's been almost a month since this stunning pronouncement by my favorite manager, Rick Churches. But you can't put a free man in solitary confinement and ask him to feel good about it after only 3 weeks.
I have needed help. My former shrink, Dr. Henry Cohegans, won't be my current shrink (hence the "former" attribute) because of the lawsuit he filed against me for breaking our confidentiality agreement. While we settled, he won't pick us up where we left off. So I've been searching for a replacement shrink. The big club gave me a list of local people (local to Nashville), but I need someone who can do it over the phone. I won't be in Nashville very long and don't want to develop a relationship with a new psychiatrist only to break it off after a short time. I'd think he or she would feel used.
Enter Dr. Carol Lindstrom-Oates. She's New Jersey-based and let me call her Dr. Lindstrom-Oates. A fine doctor of the mind, we had our first call yesterday:
Shrink - Tell me about yourself.
Me - I feel bad about the recession.
Shrink - It's a tough time in this economy.
Me - No, I mean my hair. It's receding.
She's a very serious doctor who's serious of doctoring. I told her of my problem dealing with my new "role" as a baseball player. Here's what she said:
Shrink - You mean they pay you all that money and you can't do it? What, are you nuts?
Dr. Carol Lindstrom-Oates is not my shrink anymore.
Meanwhile, I pitched a 1-2-3 9th last night. Maybe I simply cured myself.
Monday, March 3, 2008
Remembering A Best Friend
I've gone back to doing something I haven't done in years - carrying a baseball with me wherever I go. I stopped when I began to feel stupid. People would see me and think I was looking for attention. Or they'd ask me to sign it and hand it over. One guy at a sushi joint in LA even tried to steal it from me. But now I'm allegedly more mature. I remembered how holding the ball all the time helped me (except when driving). It created a feeling of "oneness." Not sure if I'm explaining myself well. Let me reboot.
There are days, not just during spring training, when players go through a "dead arm" period. There's no injury. It's mainly fatigue. Your body hasn't caught up with all of the things you want to do, so it rebels. You lift your arm and it feels like it's 500 pounds. This can screw up your legs, your mechanics, your head... It's best, during this period, to slow down, take a few days, and recharge.
I used to never get dead arms because of how I always held a ball. I'd take it everywhere with me, to workouts, to meals, to meetings, even to bed. For years I did this. And for years a baseball was like a second skin. It felt as natural in my hand as hair felt on my head. Now that I am in the full out process (and hopefully drawn out process) of going through male pattern baldness, hair on my head is no longer necessarily the most natural feeling. (ed. note: I took a break at this point to spend 20 minutes in front of a mirror, trying to push my scalp forward. Of course, all that did was wrinkle my forehead and nose and shift the impending baldness to the back of my neck. I looked like an insecure bulldog.) Uh, trying to get back on track. Hmm. Okay, I figured it out. Basically, I didn't get dead arms because of how a baseball felt in my hand. Something about how the muscles in the hand and forearm were always being used; something about my grip being employed so often the arm was pretty much in shape 365 days out of the year. And since I wasn't throwing much in the off season, the muscles were kept strong without the stress of an additional 4000 pitches.
Then I stopped. And guess what? The dead arms began.
I never missed a scheduled game in my whole career until last year, when I missed 34 of my possible 35 starts. Was this because I'd stopped with the year-round baseball exercise? Had all of my muscles atrophied enough that they never came back, allowing my UCL to fray and eventually snap?
I've thought about this a lot over the last month or so. No doctors have told me there's any medical evidence to support my theory. Yet, they also said that going back to holding the ball all the time couldn't hurt me. In fact, since I didn't really hold one at all from last April to this December, it would probably help my mind become familiar once again with my best friend, especially since I have a new elbow that wasn't introduced until recently.
The lesson for all of you out there? If something works for you, don't stop. Don't let your mother or your spousal equivalent or your pals convince you you're bananas. Who cares if people think you're a little quirky? Keep it up.
For me, it's nice to know I still have a healthy relationship with a piece of cowhide, some tightly wrapped string, and a handful of stitches. (FYI - don't try licking a baseball. There's no chocolate center.) Like any best friend, it has answered my call and been there for me when I needed him the most.
There are days, not just during spring training, when players go through a "dead arm" period. There's no injury. It's mainly fatigue. Your body hasn't caught up with all of the things you want to do, so it rebels. You lift your arm and it feels like it's 500 pounds. This can screw up your legs, your mechanics, your head... It's best, during this period, to slow down, take a few days, and recharge.
I used to never get dead arms because of how I always held a ball. I'd take it everywhere with me, to workouts, to meals, to meetings, even to bed. For years I did this. And for years a baseball was like a second skin. It felt as natural in my hand as hair felt on my head. Now that I am in the full out process (and hopefully drawn out process) of going through male pattern baldness, hair on my head is no longer necessarily the most natural feeling. (ed. note: I took a break at this point to spend 20 minutes in front of a mirror, trying to push my scalp forward. Of course, all that did was wrinkle my forehead and nose and shift the impending baldness to the back of my neck. I looked like an insecure bulldog.) Uh, trying to get back on track. Hmm. Okay, I figured it out. Basically, I didn't get dead arms because of how a baseball felt in my hand. Something about how the muscles in the hand and forearm were always being used; something about my grip being employed so often the arm was pretty much in shape 365 days out of the year. And since I wasn't throwing much in the off season, the muscles were kept strong without the stress of an additional 4000 pitches.
Then I stopped. And guess what? The dead arms began.
I never missed a scheduled game in my whole career until last year, when I missed 34 of my possible 35 starts. Was this because I'd stopped with the year-round baseball exercise? Had all of my muscles atrophied enough that they never came back, allowing my UCL to fray and eventually snap?
I've thought about this a lot over the last month or so. No doctors have told me there's any medical evidence to support my theory. Yet, they also said that going back to holding the ball all the time couldn't hurt me. In fact, since I didn't really hold one at all from last April to this December, it would probably help my mind become familiar once again with my best friend, especially since I have a new elbow that wasn't introduced until recently.
The lesson for all of you out there? If something works for you, don't stop. Don't let your mother or your spousal equivalent or your pals convince you you're bananas. Who cares if people think you're a little quirky? Keep it up.
For me, it's nice to know I still have a healthy relationship with a piece of cowhide, some tightly wrapped string, and a handful of stitches. (FYI - don't try licking a baseball. There's no chocolate center.) Like any best friend, it has answered my call and been there for me when I needed him the most.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Here We Go Again
You probably saw in the notes section of your paper today that Mike Murphy, who was signed to a 4-year deal 3 years ago and has pitched in 27 games (he was projected to have started 90+) suffered another setback yesterday. After showering, Mike used his hair dryer (I wish I still had the need for one) on high. Apparently, he was talking to someone and lost track of time. By holding the dryer with his right (pitching) arm cocked in place for too long, as if he was holding a gun, his hand and elbow stiffened up on him. Apparently, they had to pry the still-running dryer (couldn't anybody find the off switch?) out of his hand with, no joke, a pair of pliers and a screwdriver. His hand turned out to have a minor cramp, but his elbow - connected to his arm which is connected to his two-time surgically repaired shoulder - suffered severe swelling. After an MRI came back, it was announced that Mike had torn his UCL and would miss the entire season.
I feel horrible for the guy, who wanted to live up to his $56 million contract in the worst way. He'll never throw another pitch for us. It's a shame.
Mike is an example of all that has gone wrong for this team since we last won a championship in 2000. Terrible injuries (his, mine), age (me again), male pattern baldness (not valid for this discussion, but me again), underperforming superstars (I won't raise my hand for fear of damaging a shoulder), rookies out of their league, poor management... Across the board, we have made mistake after mistake while suffering from more than our fair share of bad luck.
I could tell the mood around here wasn't that of a winning, optimistic atmosphere after the latest Mike Murphy injury. Even our new high-ceiling guys - Kai Goto, Lyman Gaye - showed concern. This is part superstition, yes. But when superstition crawls into your psyche, it's damn hard to shed it and play as well as you're capable of playing.
There's not a lot a person can do to combat superstition. Manager, and my new buddy in detente, Rick Churches, has since banned hair dryers from the clubhouse, which will probably negatively affect GE stock for the next 12 months.
But there's superstition and there's also just bad, or in Mike's case, dumb luck. The worst injury of this sort that I know of happened to Yancy Breckman about ten years ago. That off season, he was dating a deaf girl and desperate to take things (you know what I mean) as far as they could go in the relationship. He tried to teach himself sign language and, in a bout of enthusiasm, poked himself in his right eye, damaging his cornea. The (then) lifetime .300 hitter didn't ever play a full season again and never hit higher than .220.
If manager back then, I wonder if Rick would have banned fingers from the clubhouse.
As for me, I'm scheduled to throw off a mound tomorrow for the first time. Nothing crazy. I'm not throwing all of my pitches yet. But my core and lower body feel great; honestly, better than they've felt in years. I've pulled back from three-a-day workouts to two-a-days. Our strength & conditioning coach Will Twain wants me to think full season now. He's concerned that I'll be exhausted in August.
We're 0 and 2 so far this spring, which doesn't mean anything. However, our owner, Mrs. Joan Delaney, is scheduled to be here this weekend. I just hope she's careful on her plane. We don't want her to strain her back getting up out of her seat.
Rick would probably ban air travel from the clubhouse for the rest of the season.
I feel horrible for the guy, who wanted to live up to his $56 million contract in the worst way. He'll never throw another pitch for us. It's a shame.
Mike is an example of all that has gone wrong for this team since we last won a championship in 2000. Terrible injuries (his, mine), age (me again), male pattern baldness (not valid for this discussion, but me again), underperforming superstars (I won't raise my hand for fear of damaging a shoulder), rookies out of their league, poor management... Across the board, we have made mistake after mistake while suffering from more than our fair share of bad luck.
I could tell the mood around here wasn't that of a winning, optimistic atmosphere after the latest Mike Murphy injury. Even our new high-ceiling guys - Kai Goto, Lyman Gaye - showed concern. This is part superstition, yes. But when superstition crawls into your psyche, it's damn hard to shed it and play as well as you're capable of playing.
There's not a lot a person can do to combat superstition. Manager, and my new buddy in detente, Rick Churches, has since banned hair dryers from the clubhouse, which will probably negatively affect GE stock for the next 12 months.
But there's superstition and there's also just bad, or in Mike's case, dumb luck. The worst injury of this sort that I know of happened to Yancy Breckman about ten years ago. That off season, he was dating a deaf girl and desperate to take things (you know what I mean) as far as they could go in the relationship. He tried to teach himself sign language and, in a bout of enthusiasm, poked himself in his right eye, damaging his cornea. The (then) lifetime .300 hitter didn't ever play a full season again and never hit higher than .220.
If manager back then, I wonder if Rick would have banned fingers from the clubhouse.
As for me, I'm scheduled to throw off a mound tomorrow for the first time. Nothing crazy. I'm not throwing all of my pitches yet. But my core and lower body feel great; honestly, better than they've felt in years. I've pulled back from three-a-day workouts to two-a-days. Our strength & conditioning coach Will Twain wants me to think full season now. He's concerned that I'll be exhausted in August.
We're 0 and 2 so far this spring, which doesn't mean anything. However, our owner, Mrs. Joan Delaney, is scheduled to be here this weekend. I just hope she's careful on her plane. We don't want her to strain her back getting up out of her seat.
Rick would probably ban air travel from the clubhouse for the rest of the season.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
My Arm
On Monday I had a checkup with the team's physician, Dr. Stanley McGee. He put my right arm, the one I throw with and, coincidentally, the one that was operated on by the aforementioned doctor last April 15th. Nine months and 14 days. I feel like an on-the-wagon alcoholic, counting the days since my last drink. Only I'm counting the days since my last operation. On the day of month ten, I report to spring training. As my mother used to say when she saw me bat in Little League games, "How queer."
Dr. McGee gave a positive report. All is well. He turned the arm and twisted the arm and stomped on the arm with a pair of lead boots. No pain. He squished it in a metal vice and stretched it like a noodle and bit on it with the jaws of a crocodile. No pain. "Strong as an ox," he said. Then he stuck his head out of room and said, "Next!" It was my turn to be examined.
Just kidding.
The examination went well. He gave me a clean bill of health and suggested implants for my semi-balding scalp. Since he's not a psychiatrist, I ignored his comments and decided to crawl into the fetal position on his examination table and suck my thumb. He's a good man.
Afterward, it was a meeting at the stadium with GM Alvin Kirby and new manager Rick Churches. They asked how the exam went, fully knowing since Dr. Stanley's report had been faxed over already and was sitting on Alvin's desk. But I played along. "Amputation scheduled for Thursday. I hope they chop off the right arm. Literally." We laughed. Well, I did. Rick doesn't laugh much. He's always been serious, but now, since he's our manager, he's intense. There are managers who are "players managers" and managers who are "field generals" and managers who don't know who the hell they are. I've played for all three. As long as the team wins, it doesn't matter who the old guy n the funny outfit is at the end of the bench. A manager rarely affects the outcome of a game. But they're lots of fun to criticize!
Being a starting pitcher all my life, I am generally up for criticism once every 5 days. A manager is available to have his ego dragged through the mud 7 days a week. It's not a job I would want, especially with my hair thinning on top. My ego is fragile without the public criticism.
It was a pleasant "sit down" at first, the meeting between Alvin, Rick and me. They asked how my rehab was progressing, asked if I planned on coming to spring training... I stopped them on that. What did they mean, did I plan on coming to spring training? Yes. I have a contract. I'm going to pitch. Then this exchange happened:
Alvin: We're not sure if your arm will be ready for the season.
Me: Dr. Stanley thinks it will be.
Rick: Does he?
Me: Does he? (I made fun of Rick's voice right there. Once again, he didn't laugh.) Of course. he told me himself.
Alvin: We have a second opinion that thinks your arm won't last a bullpen session.
Rick: No shot.
Alvin: You might want to consider retiring.
At this point, I was somewhat angry. Retire? Hadn't we been through all of this in December? We had a little contract trouble, but we worked it out. Then I started working out. I feel good. What were they doing.
Me: I think my agent should be here for this.
Rick: He doesn't have to be here.
Me: Neither do you. (That line pissed him off. It was so cool.)
Rick: I'm the manager of this team.
Me: One you're trying to break it up. Good job, skipper.
Rick: Shut the hell up -
Let me cut in and state some nasty words were used at this point by various parties, including a woman who came in to empty Alvin's ash tray (he's a chain smoker). Alvin asked her nicely to shove the ashes up her poop shoot.
With that in mind, the woman left and we continued with this shocking meeting.
Me: I feel like you guys are ambushing me. No agent. No warning that you now want me off the team. I'm not going to retire and give up the $9 million plus bonuses you're going to pay me.
Alvin: Then insurance will cover everything.
He held up Dr. McGee's report and said it, along with this phantom "second opinion," would be sent to the insurance company. I was welcome to come to spring training and "test out" my arm, but they expected me to spend the year on the disabled list. The insurance company would subsidize the cost of my contract. The team would pay nothing.
We didn't end the meeting on good terms. I stormed out when Rick started talking about team chemistry. The guy probably failed high school chemistry, and now he wants to talk about how he's going to motivate 25 guys to piss where and when he tells them to. I don't think so, Ricky.
I didn't make it 10 feet down the hall before I got a call from Jack Perry, super agent.
Me: Did you hear?
Jack: Mrs. Delaney told me.
Me: This isn't right.
Jack: I'm already filing a grievance with the players association.
Me: My arm is fine.
Jack: I'm sure it is.
We were done. I made it to the parking lot and tried to pull the car key out of my pocket. I couldn't. It was my right arm. Suddenly, I couldn't bend it.
With my good arm, I called Dr. McGee. This wasn't good.
Dr. McGee gave a positive report. All is well. He turned the arm and twisted the arm and stomped on the arm with a pair of lead boots. No pain. He squished it in a metal vice and stretched it like a noodle and bit on it with the jaws of a crocodile. No pain. "Strong as an ox," he said. Then he stuck his head out of room and said, "Next!" It was my turn to be examined.
Just kidding.
The examination went well. He gave me a clean bill of health and suggested implants for my semi-balding scalp. Since he's not a psychiatrist, I ignored his comments and decided to crawl into the fetal position on his examination table and suck my thumb. He's a good man.
Afterward, it was a meeting at the stadium with GM Alvin Kirby and new manager Rick Churches. They asked how the exam went, fully knowing since Dr. Stanley's report had been faxed over already and was sitting on Alvin's desk. But I played along. "Amputation scheduled for Thursday. I hope they chop off the right arm. Literally." We laughed. Well, I did. Rick doesn't laugh much. He's always been serious, but now, since he's our manager, he's intense. There are managers who are "players managers" and managers who are "field generals" and managers who don't know who the hell they are. I've played for all three. As long as the team wins, it doesn't matter who the old guy n the funny outfit is at the end of the bench. A manager rarely affects the outcome of a game. But they're lots of fun to criticize!
Being a starting pitcher all my life, I am generally up for criticism once every 5 days. A manager is available to have his ego dragged through the mud 7 days a week. It's not a job I would want, especially with my hair thinning on top. My ego is fragile without the public criticism.
It was a pleasant "sit down" at first, the meeting between Alvin, Rick and me. They asked how my rehab was progressing, asked if I planned on coming to spring training... I stopped them on that. What did they mean, did I plan on coming to spring training? Yes. I have a contract. I'm going to pitch. Then this exchange happened:
Alvin: We're not sure if your arm will be ready for the season.
Me: Dr. Stanley thinks it will be.
Rick: Does he?
Me: Does he? (I made fun of Rick's voice right there. Once again, he didn't laugh.) Of course. he told me himself.
Alvin: We have a second opinion that thinks your arm won't last a bullpen session.
Rick: No shot.
Alvin: You might want to consider retiring.
At this point, I was somewhat angry. Retire? Hadn't we been through all of this in December? We had a little contract trouble, but we worked it out. Then I started working out. I feel good. What were they doing.
Me: I think my agent should be here for this.
Rick: He doesn't have to be here.
Me: Neither do you. (That line pissed him off. It was so cool.)
Rick: I'm the manager of this team.
Me: One you're trying to break it up. Good job, skipper.
Rick: Shut the hell up -
Let me cut in and state some nasty words were used at this point by various parties, including a woman who came in to empty Alvin's ash tray (he's a chain smoker). Alvin asked her nicely to shove the ashes up her poop shoot.
With that in mind, the woman left and we continued with this shocking meeting.
Me: I feel like you guys are ambushing me. No agent. No warning that you now want me off the team. I'm not going to retire and give up the $9 million plus bonuses you're going to pay me.
Alvin: Then insurance will cover everything.
He held up Dr. McGee's report and said it, along with this phantom "second opinion," would be sent to the insurance company. I was welcome to come to spring training and "test out" my arm, but they expected me to spend the year on the disabled list. The insurance company would subsidize the cost of my contract. The team would pay nothing.
We didn't end the meeting on good terms. I stormed out when Rick started talking about team chemistry. The guy probably failed high school chemistry, and now he wants to talk about how he's going to motivate 25 guys to piss where and when he tells them to. I don't think so, Ricky.
I didn't make it 10 feet down the hall before I got a call from Jack Perry, super agent.
Me: Did you hear?
Jack: Mrs. Delaney told me.
Me: This isn't right.
Jack: I'm already filing a grievance with the players association.
Me: My arm is fine.
Jack: I'm sure it is.
We were done. I made it to the parking lot and tried to pull the car key out of my pocket. I couldn't. It was my right arm. Suddenly, I couldn't bend it.
With my good arm, I called Dr. McGee. This wasn't good.
Thursday, December 13, 2007
Setting The Record Straight
Vanessa spent some time yesterday reading through my blog entries and came away - what was the word she use? Ah. Unfulfilled. Not the first time she's used that word as it pertains to our relations. But back on point, the general consensus she came up with was that much of the information I have conveyed in my blog has been either full of "factual errors," whatever that means, or "highly glossed over truths." I asked her nicely to put her English degree away and give it to me straight.
Vanessa: It's horseshit.
So today I have decided to clean up some inconsistencies and bring you up to date on all of the details of my life, sponsored by The Boring Foundation: Putting Americans To Sleeps Since 1968.
MY CONTRACT
It did get sticky and threats of lawsuits did fly by night, but here's the deal on my deal (Special thanks to super agent Jack Perry's special assistant to the president, Ryan, for letting me know how much money I'll be making this year.): $16 million player option opted, by me, this past November. Subsequent Team and Player (moi) restructuring led to my $7 million salary in 2008 and $5 million paid out over 10 years beginning in 2010, with interest. $4 million personal services contract over 3 years beginning in 2009. However, this option to be superceded by mutual Team/Player (moi) $10 million 2009 playing option, in which case the 2009 personal services option will be delayed until 2010. Full no trade clause. Personal trainer and personal chef thrown in for the helluvit.
In other words... Let's just say I'm playing in 2008, maybe 2009, but no matter what, I'm on the TV or radio team the first season I'm no longer an active player.
THE ROOSTER
Andy, my team-paid personal trainer, does not make me chase Monique the rooster around a YMCA gym with my ankles tied. It's a rubber chicken. And his name's Jerome.
MY RELATIONSHIP WITH MY WIFE
I love Vanessa. I love Vanessa. I love Vanessa. I love Vanessa.
MY RELATIONSHIP WITH RICK CHURCHES, OUR NEW MANAGER
Rick has been around the game a long time and I believe he'll make some lucky team a wonderful manager someday.
MY RELATIONSHIP WITH "RED" SCOTT
"Red" is my father.
SERIOUSLY
Fine. To be honest, he missed most of my childhood. He was a ballplayer, like me now, and then a broadcaster. But he never got hurt and therefore got to spend a full year with me the way I've been able to do with my kids since my injury. What I have with them now is something he'll never have with me. And that's probably something we'll both always (secretly) regret.
THE PEPSI ENDORSEMENT
What I wrote about this was almost all true. Except Grace has since opted out. She says she'll be too busy. So Julia and I will film this the first week of January.
ON GOING BALD
Watch me in my first post-game, post-shower press conference. You'll see the large gap between the top of my eyebrow and tip of my hairline. Then tell me I'm crazy.
REHAB
It's going better than I've reported. I've lost 6 pounds since Thanksgiving and need to lose another 10. At 39, it's harder to lose 16 pounds than it was when I was... Wait. I've never had to lose 16 pounds before. So, in general, it is a difficult thing. But I'm running 5 days a week, about 45 minutes per run. I'm working out with Andy 6 hours a day, 5 days a week. I'm eating better and have become more self-conscious of my receding hairline than one-time expanding waistline. I'm not throwing yet because I don't really need to. There's no pain in my elbow or shoulder and both areas are getting stronger after 7 months of inactivity I like to call "rest." I will toss off flat ground January 1 (going to do it at 12:01 AM - bring your cameras!) and should be throwing off a mound by February 1. I'll be a little behind in spring training, but barring any setbacks, should be game-ready by mid-April or May 1.
One final note: Last week, I mentioned how my local paperboy threw three newspapers at me. At the time, I wrote how two were New York Times papers and one was a Newark Star Ledger. I lied. One was a Morristown Daily Record. Since it's more local than the others, I didn't think it featured the pedigree of a Times or Ledger, which used to get lots of play in The Sopranos. My apologies to you, the staff of the Daily Record, the people of Morristown, and my paperboy, who thinks I'm a cheap holiday tipper.
There you have it. All the news that's fit to type, right in front of you. Let me know if you have any questions. I'll be glad to have Vanessa answer them for you.
Vanessa: It's horseshit.
So today I have decided to clean up some inconsistencies and bring you up to date on all of the details of my life, sponsored by The Boring Foundation: Putting Americans To Sleeps Since 1968.
MY CONTRACT
It did get sticky and threats of lawsuits did fly by night, but here's the deal on my deal (Special thanks to super agent Jack Perry's special assistant to the president, Ryan, for letting me know how much money I'll be making this year.): $16 million player option opted, by me, this past November. Subsequent Team and Player (moi) restructuring led to my $7 million salary in 2008 and $5 million paid out over 10 years beginning in 2010, with interest. $4 million personal services contract over 3 years beginning in 2009. However, this option to be superceded by mutual Team/Player (moi) $10 million 2009 playing option, in which case the 2009 personal services option will be delayed until 2010. Full no trade clause. Personal trainer and personal chef thrown in for the helluvit.
In other words... Let's just say I'm playing in 2008, maybe 2009, but no matter what, I'm on the TV or radio team the first season I'm no longer an active player.
THE ROOSTER
Andy, my team-paid personal trainer, does not make me chase Monique the rooster around a YMCA gym with my ankles tied. It's a rubber chicken. And his name's Jerome.
MY RELATIONSHIP WITH MY WIFE
I love Vanessa. I love Vanessa. I love Vanessa. I love Vanessa.
MY RELATIONSHIP WITH RICK CHURCHES, OUR NEW MANAGER
Rick has been around the game a long time and I believe he'll make some lucky team a wonderful manager someday.
MY RELATIONSHIP WITH "RED" SCOTT
"Red" is my father.
SERIOUSLY
Fine. To be honest, he missed most of my childhood. He was a ballplayer, like me now, and then a broadcaster. But he never got hurt and therefore got to spend a full year with me the way I've been able to do with my kids since my injury. What I have with them now is something he'll never have with me. And that's probably something we'll both always (secretly) regret.
THE PEPSI ENDORSEMENT
What I wrote about this was almost all true. Except Grace has since opted out. She says she'll be too busy. So Julia and I will film this the first week of January.
ON GOING BALD
Watch me in my first post-game, post-shower press conference. You'll see the large gap between the top of my eyebrow and tip of my hairline. Then tell me I'm crazy.
REHAB
It's going better than I've reported. I've lost 6 pounds since Thanksgiving and need to lose another 10. At 39, it's harder to lose 16 pounds than it was when I was... Wait. I've never had to lose 16 pounds before. So, in general, it is a difficult thing. But I'm running 5 days a week, about 45 minutes per run. I'm working out with Andy 6 hours a day, 5 days a week. I'm eating better and have become more self-conscious of my receding hairline than one-time expanding waistline. I'm not throwing yet because I don't really need to. There's no pain in my elbow or shoulder and both areas are getting stronger after 7 months of inactivity I like to call "rest." I will toss off flat ground January 1 (going to do it at 12:01 AM - bring your cameras!) and should be throwing off a mound by February 1. I'll be a little behind in spring training, but barring any setbacks, should be game-ready by mid-April or May 1.
One final note: Last week, I mentioned how my local paperboy threw three newspapers at me. At the time, I wrote how two were New York Times papers and one was a Newark Star Ledger. I lied. One was a Morristown Daily Record. Since it's more local than the others, I didn't think it featured the pedigree of a Times or Ledger, which used to get lots of play in The Sopranos. My apologies to you, the staff of the Daily Record, the people of Morristown, and my paperboy, who thinks I'm a cheap holiday tipper.
There you have it. All the news that's fit to type, right in front of you. Let me know if you have any questions. I'll be glad to have Vanessa answer them for you.
Thursday, November 22, 2007
Last Weekend Leads To Today
SATURDAY
I woke up hung over with tiredness due to the intense nature of Friday's press conference, interviews, owner meeting and charity event. Saturday was much the same. Got up early (sun was up, thank God) and ate a scrapple sandwich on multi (2) grain bread. Olivia Newton-John's "Xanadu" played on the radio. She was my first love. I had her Greatest Hits LP as a kid and had to hide it from my big brother so he wouldn't make fun of me for being in love with a beautiful blonde woman who could sing. Funny the things that used to embarrass us.
Such as one time liking the song "Xanadu." But I've gotten off topic.
Vanessa, Julia, Grace and I had to be back in the City for an 11:00 AM meeting at Macy's. Yes, as you read this, you'll have already no doubt seen me on television in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade. But this is pre-parade that I'm talking about, so hang tight.
The meeting was to take place at the Herald Square Macy's. Because of the Broadway strike, our float was, at the last minute, being transformed from the "Legally Blonde" float into a New York Baseball Thru The Ages float, sponsored by Preparation H. Ten Hall of Fame ballplayers and their families were to join us on the float. None of them were at the meeting - all were scheduled to fly or drive in the Wednesday before. I asked when they were going to meet with the lady we were meeting with, a Mrs. Santana (she didn't give us her first name). She said they wouldn't. It would be up to us to tell them what to do. I didn't think that was fair, considering I wasn't planning on listening to Mrs. Santana's instructions in the first place.
Not that what she wanted us to do would be hard. Just stand, wave and smile. "No singing, right?" I said. I have a horrible voice. It carries well, like if I'm in the dugout and the umpire is behind home plate and, since I've already been taken out of the game because of his horrible, inconsistent calls, he can hear me call him various names over the cacophony of 30,000+ fans in the stadium (unless we're in San Juan, then it's 15,000+). Mrs. Santana looked at me. "No singing," she said. While relieved, I was somewhat insulted by the way her eyes slapped me across the face. I wanted to belt out, right in front of her, the closest song to my brain right then and there, just to prove her wrong. But I don't know all the words to "Xanadu." Humming wouldn't have had the same effect.
Stand, smile and wave. It hit me. They called us all the way into the City to tell us three things. They could have just as easily emailed my agent, who could have then passed it along to one of his three assistants, who could have had one of Jack's 47 "junior" agents pass along the message to one of their assistants, who could have called us and left a message on our voicemail. Mrs. Santana could have saved us a whole lot of effort.
Her last comment was for us to wear clothes with "earth tones." I asked her what she meant. "Be organic." I asked her what she meant. "This will be a green parade. Think green." I nodded and thought green.
We left after about 40 minutes. I signed some autographs for a bunch of nice people working behind the scenes (they began planning this year's parade two years ago). Many pictures were taken. Then, it was off to a nice little lunch at Carmine's (I like their large family portions) where I could load up on carbs for my afternoon run. I really loaded up. Couldn't run later. Too full.
Which brings us to today's parade. You saw me on the float with the one other man. Where was everybody else? Vanessa and the girls are sharing a nice little flu, so they stayed home to throw up. The other New York Hall of Famers missed planes, or had cancelled flights, or couldn't make it in time because of all of Wednesday's rain and fog and Thursday's fog. Too bad. It was the first 65 degree New York Thanksgiving I can remember.
I showed up at Columbus Circle wearing green pants, a green tie, and a green team cap that we wear on St. Patrick's Day at spring training. I was only 20 minutes late. Pretty good for me. I wiped some sleep from my eye as Mrs. Santana, in a rush, explained I was all there was.
Me: There must be someone else.
Mrs. Santana: Don't pressure me. I haven't slept.
Me: I'm going to look like an idiot. It's a really big float. I'm still not going to sing, right?
Mrs. Santana: Fine!
I haven't seen her since, but I guess she made some calls. I had no idea what a big deal the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade is, because not 20 minutes later (so, in effect, I could have been 40 minutes late and been okay), one Elliott Pollock shows up. Not wearing green. He wore a blue Armani suit. Cufflinks. We were some pair all right, the Jolly Green Giant and his business manager.
This was my first face-to-face meeting with Elliott, our new league commissioner. He's pretty much what I've read: young (32), charming, smart, and good looking. We shook hands and he said he was a big fan. Of the parade. Not sure if he knows my background, but I've pitched some pretty good games for "his" league. He can thank people like me for that last 6 year $2 billion TV contract from FOX and ESPN. But I didn't say anything. I told him I was more comfortable with the kind of balloon animals that I can fit in my hands. Imagine if a clown came to your kid's birthday party and blew up a balloon animal so big fifty people with ropes would have to keep it from sailing off? That would be one fun party.
Elliott is very serious. Here's our very first exchange:
Elliott: I've read your blog.
Me: Me too.
Elliott: I don't get it.
Me: You can stop reading then.
He told me that we should go out for lunch after the parade, just he and I. Since I didn't want to watch my loved ones throw up at home, I said sure. I loved the family portions at Carmine's.
We stood, smiled and waved. Rascal Flatts was behind us and every once in a while I could hear them sing. Made me a little jealous. We had some pictures taken after the parade. They're big baseball fans. They asked Elliott if a team would ever move to Nashville. He gave no comment. I like a commissioner who has nothing to say.
So we went to lunch. Seafood. I'm good with all kinds of food, so that which comes from the sea is fine with me. We were actually able to walk to the Blue Fin in Times Square without too many of the 3 million+ people asking me how my arm felt. Since I'm me and Elliott is charming, smart and good looking, we got a table pretty quickly.
He asked me what I felt about the upcoming labor/management negotiations. Our labor contract expires at the end of the next season, and both sides are starting to ramp up the public relations. I didn't want to say too much since I'm no longer top player on the union side. After my injury last year, I even gave up being player rep for the team. If I'm not there, I can't help. So I've been a little out of the loop. That's what I told Elliott. He sat back and looked at me. I sat back and looked at him. I should have been looking down, because that was the same moment I was breaking open an Alaskan King Crab leg. Those suckers are hard and sharp. SLICE! My thumb began to bleed. "Excuse me," I said.
The bathroom is very cool at the Blue Fin. If you're ever in Times Square in New York City, use the Blue Fin bathroom. You never want to leave.
I couldn't leave because of the blood. My thumb was really bleeding, and I looked at the floor and saw a trail of blood behind me. Reaching for some paper towels, I began to wipe the floor. More blood flowed out of my thumb. The blood oozed out of the towel I was using as a tourniquette, creating more mess. I washed the cut. Nice gash. The floor still had blood. The sink had blood. The counter had blood from when I reached for the towels. Somehow, both the mirror and walls had some blood. The damn bathroom looked like a murder scene. I half expected a crew from Law & Order to barge in and start to film. (Writers strike. Dumb thought.)
I don't like to panic. Especially when I'm bleeding. So I tried to stay cool and think of something else. Like how the commissioner for the big leagues is sitting at my table waiting for me. No. That led to anxiety. Funny how I can stand alone in front of 55,000 people who are yelling nasty things at me and I can feel entirely comfortable. But if I'm alone, bleeding, in the very cool bathroom of the Blue Fin, I'm about to fall to the ground and have convulsions just because I haven't ever had one before and this would be the perfect time to try. So I let my brain take over. New subject. Find a new subject. I look up at the mirror and see myself. Oh God. I notice something I don't like. My hair. It's... It's not as thick as it once was. Not as full. Yes, it's got some strands of gray. But that's cool. Soon I'll look like a college professor. I can grow out my beard and wear cardigan sweaters; hold a pipe and wave it around like a banana. But it can't go gray if it's not there. My God. I'm going bald.
It worked. My bleeding extremity suddenly didn't seem like such a big deal. The charming, smart and good looking Elliott Pollock sitting outside waiting for me didn't seem like such a big deal. My hair, or sudden lack of, did. I shook my soon-to-be-naked head, wrapped a few more towels around my thumb, and left the mess for some underpaid attendant to clean up. I had other matters to worry about.
Needless to say, Elliott, who'd been waiting for about 15 minutes for me, couldn't stay long. He had to get to a Thanksgiving dinner. I shook his hand and watched him leave. He's so cool. I had no idea until he was gone that he'd stiffed me on the check. So much for the "giving" part of the day.
I sit in my large home now, thumb stitched six times with dissolvable stitches, wondering how they dissolve and where they go. Hopefully not in my pizza. Vanessa told me her feet will be ready to kick me at 5:17 tomorrow morning. I asked her if her flu would preclude her from doing such a horrible thing. She looked at me and slapped me across the face with her eyes.
I've got a lot to be thankful for. Especially that this day is now over.
I woke up hung over with tiredness due to the intense nature of Friday's press conference, interviews, owner meeting and charity event. Saturday was much the same. Got up early (sun was up, thank God) and ate a scrapple sandwich on multi (2) grain bread. Olivia Newton-John's "Xanadu" played on the radio. She was my first love. I had her Greatest Hits LP as a kid and had to hide it from my big brother so he wouldn't make fun of me for being in love with a beautiful blonde woman who could sing. Funny the things that used to embarrass us.
Such as one time liking the song "Xanadu." But I've gotten off topic.
Vanessa, Julia, Grace and I had to be back in the City for an 11:00 AM meeting at Macy's. Yes, as you read this, you'll have already no doubt seen me on television in the Macy's Thanksgiving Day parade. But this is pre-parade that I'm talking about, so hang tight.
The meeting was to take place at the Herald Square Macy's. Because of the Broadway strike, our float was, at the last minute, being transformed from the "Legally Blonde" float into a New York Baseball Thru The Ages float, sponsored by Preparation H. Ten Hall of Fame ballplayers and their families were to join us on the float. None of them were at the meeting - all were scheduled to fly or drive in the Wednesday before. I asked when they were going to meet with the lady we were meeting with, a Mrs. Santana (she didn't give us her first name). She said they wouldn't. It would be up to us to tell them what to do. I didn't think that was fair, considering I wasn't planning on listening to Mrs. Santana's instructions in the first place.
Not that what she wanted us to do would be hard. Just stand, wave and smile. "No singing, right?" I said. I have a horrible voice. It carries well, like if I'm in the dugout and the umpire is behind home plate and, since I've already been taken out of the game because of his horrible, inconsistent calls, he can hear me call him various names over the cacophony of 30,000+ fans in the stadium (unless we're in San Juan, then it's 15,000+). Mrs. Santana looked at me. "No singing," she said. While relieved, I was somewhat insulted by the way her eyes slapped me across the face. I wanted to belt out, right in front of her, the closest song to my brain right then and there, just to prove her wrong. But I don't know all the words to "Xanadu." Humming wouldn't have had the same effect.
Stand, smile and wave. It hit me. They called us all the way into the City to tell us three things. They could have just as easily emailed my agent, who could have then passed it along to one of his three assistants, who could have had one of Jack's 47 "junior" agents pass along the message to one of their assistants, who could have called us and left a message on our voicemail. Mrs. Santana could have saved us a whole lot of effort.
Her last comment was for us to wear clothes with "earth tones." I asked her what she meant. "Be organic." I asked her what she meant. "This will be a green parade. Think green." I nodded and thought green.
We left after about 40 minutes. I signed some autographs for a bunch of nice people working behind the scenes (they began planning this year's parade two years ago). Many pictures were taken. Then, it was off to a nice little lunch at Carmine's (I like their large family portions) where I could load up on carbs for my afternoon run. I really loaded up. Couldn't run later. Too full.
Which brings us to today's parade. You saw me on the float with the one other man. Where was everybody else? Vanessa and the girls are sharing a nice little flu, so they stayed home to throw up. The other New York Hall of Famers missed planes, or had cancelled flights, or couldn't make it in time because of all of Wednesday's rain and fog and Thursday's fog. Too bad. It was the first 65 degree New York Thanksgiving I can remember.
I showed up at Columbus Circle wearing green pants, a green tie, and a green team cap that we wear on St. Patrick's Day at spring training. I was only 20 minutes late. Pretty good for me. I wiped some sleep from my eye as Mrs. Santana, in a rush, explained I was all there was.
Me: There must be someone else.
Mrs. Santana: Don't pressure me. I haven't slept.
Me: I'm going to look like an idiot. It's a really big float. I'm still not going to sing, right?
Mrs. Santana: Fine!
I haven't seen her since, but I guess she made some calls. I had no idea what a big deal the Macy's Thanksgiving Day Parade is, because not 20 minutes later (so, in effect, I could have been 40 minutes late and been okay), one Elliott Pollock shows up. Not wearing green. He wore a blue Armani suit. Cufflinks. We were some pair all right, the Jolly Green Giant and his business manager.
This was my first face-to-face meeting with Elliott, our new league commissioner. He's pretty much what I've read: young (32), charming, smart, and good looking. We shook hands and he said he was a big fan. Of the parade. Not sure if he knows my background, but I've pitched some pretty good games for "his" league. He can thank people like me for that last 6 year $2 billion TV contract from FOX and ESPN. But I didn't say anything. I told him I was more comfortable with the kind of balloon animals that I can fit in my hands. Imagine if a clown came to your kid's birthday party and blew up a balloon animal so big fifty people with ropes would have to keep it from sailing off? That would be one fun party.
Elliott is very serious. Here's our very first exchange:
Elliott: I've read your blog.
Me: Me too.
Elliott: I don't get it.
Me: You can stop reading then.
He told me that we should go out for lunch after the parade, just he and I. Since I didn't want to watch my loved ones throw up at home, I said sure. I loved the family portions at Carmine's.
We stood, smiled and waved. Rascal Flatts was behind us and every once in a while I could hear them sing. Made me a little jealous. We had some pictures taken after the parade. They're big baseball fans. They asked Elliott if a team would ever move to Nashville. He gave no comment. I like a commissioner who has nothing to say.
So we went to lunch. Seafood. I'm good with all kinds of food, so that which comes from the sea is fine with me. We were actually able to walk to the Blue Fin in Times Square without too many of the 3 million+ people asking me how my arm felt. Since I'm me and Elliott is charming, smart and good looking, we got a table pretty quickly.
He asked me what I felt about the upcoming labor/management negotiations. Our labor contract expires at the end of the next season, and both sides are starting to ramp up the public relations. I didn't want to say too much since I'm no longer top player on the union side. After my injury last year, I even gave up being player rep for the team. If I'm not there, I can't help. So I've been a little out of the loop. That's what I told Elliott. He sat back and looked at me. I sat back and looked at him. I should have been looking down, because that was the same moment I was breaking open an Alaskan King Crab leg. Those suckers are hard and sharp. SLICE! My thumb began to bleed. "Excuse me," I said.
The bathroom is very cool at the Blue Fin. If you're ever in Times Square in New York City, use the Blue Fin bathroom. You never want to leave.
I couldn't leave because of the blood. My thumb was really bleeding, and I looked at the floor and saw a trail of blood behind me. Reaching for some paper towels, I began to wipe the floor. More blood flowed out of my thumb. The blood oozed out of the towel I was using as a tourniquette, creating more mess. I washed the cut. Nice gash. The floor still had blood. The sink had blood. The counter had blood from when I reached for the towels. Somehow, both the mirror and walls had some blood. The damn bathroom looked like a murder scene. I half expected a crew from Law & Order to barge in and start to film. (Writers strike. Dumb thought.)
I don't like to panic. Especially when I'm bleeding. So I tried to stay cool and think of something else. Like how the commissioner for the big leagues is sitting at my table waiting for me. No. That led to anxiety. Funny how I can stand alone in front of 55,000 people who are yelling nasty things at me and I can feel entirely comfortable. But if I'm alone, bleeding, in the very cool bathroom of the Blue Fin, I'm about to fall to the ground and have convulsions just because I haven't ever had one before and this would be the perfect time to try. So I let my brain take over. New subject. Find a new subject. I look up at the mirror and see myself. Oh God. I notice something I don't like. My hair. It's... It's not as thick as it once was. Not as full. Yes, it's got some strands of gray. But that's cool. Soon I'll look like a college professor. I can grow out my beard and wear cardigan sweaters; hold a pipe and wave it around like a banana. But it can't go gray if it's not there. My God. I'm going bald.
It worked. My bleeding extremity suddenly didn't seem like such a big deal. The charming, smart and good looking Elliott Pollock sitting outside waiting for me didn't seem like such a big deal. My hair, or sudden lack of, did. I shook my soon-to-be-naked head, wrapped a few more towels around my thumb, and left the mess for some underpaid attendant to clean up. I had other matters to worry about.
Needless to say, Elliott, who'd been waiting for about 15 minutes for me, couldn't stay long. He had to get to a Thanksgiving dinner. I shook his hand and watched him leave. He's so cool. I had no idea until he was gone that he'd stiffed me on the check. So much for the "giving" part of the day.
I sit in my large home now, thumb stitched six times with dissolvable stitches, wondering how they dissolve and where they go. Hopefully not in my pizza. Vanessa told me her feet will be ready to kick me at 5:17 tomorrow morning. I asked her if her flu would preclude her from doing such a horrible thing. She looked at me and slapped me across the face with her eyes.
I've got a lot to be thankful for. Especially that this day is now over.
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