Two Bad Calls And An Unexpected Pleasant One

It's weird how one little event can set off an avalanche of repercussions. We were losing last night in the top of the 9th, down 1-0. We'd had no hitting. In fact, we were being no-hit. One baserunner from a walk in the 5th. Other than that, zippo. Then, the little event occurred.

Nobody on base, one out. The Tucson pitcher, Daryl Ryan, who'd been nearly perfect, throws an inside slider to our 17 year old Rey Marcos. Rey jumps out of the way, getting pretty dirty, then gets right back into the box. Ryan does it again, knocking Rey down. 2 and 0 count. Now I know Rey pretty well by now, and he's got this competitive fire inside that's hard to duplicate. You either have it or you don't. He's got it. He dug in once more in the box. A third pitch, way inside, hits Rey on his right shin. (Daryl pitches from the right side, Rey bats from both.) After some gentle prodding from his teammates and the home Tucson crowd that had been becoming less gentle ever since the first brushback pitch, Rey took the advice of someone and charged the mound.

I don't want to take full credit. Partial is fine. A week or so ago I explained to Rey, who calls himself my prodigy son, that he's going to be a target this year, and for a number of years, because of his youth and incredible skill. Lots of guys, both on his team and all the other teams, are going to be jealous/envious of him. And he's going to have to fight back every time. Don't take it, I said. But don't dish it out unless you absolutely need to.

Rey didn't take it last night.

He reached Daryl Ryan in front of the mound and, since this is the minor leagues, they had a moment to really go at it before anyone attempted to break it up. When the dust, and there was a lot of it, settled, Daryl had to leave the game - his first no-hitter! - with an injury to his foot (from trying to kick Rey in the same shin he'd thrown at) and Rey was booted. No big deal for us. A pinch runner took over for Rey at first base. Me.

So Ryan made the first bad call of the night, to pitch inside one too many times to our fiery rookie and future mainstay of the New York infield. The second bad call was coming up.

I took my lead off of first (I'm neither a very fast or very smart baserunner, but manager Dusty Graves had utilized nearly every bench option due to two players having the flu, two being too sore to play, and the rest already being used.) and dove back on what I thought was a throw over by the new Tucson pitcher. Of course, he didn't throw over. He just stepped off the rubber to tie his shoe. I made a couple of thousand people laugh. Always lovely to be the butt of a good joke.

I took another lead. This guy's first pitch is wild. I take off for second and make it without a throw. It's not a stolen base (I've never had one) but I pretend it is by pulling the base oout of the ground and hoisting it up over my head. The crowd loves the move. Dusty is more than upset. We're trying to win the game and I'm fooling around. He yells something at me from the dugout, something that most newspapers wouldn't print, and an umpire tells me to settle down. I feel like I'm in kindergarten all over again.

The base back in its place, resting comfortably on the ground, I take my lead off of second. A pitch and ground ball to the right side send me with no throw over to third. Two outs. Still a no-hitter. We're still losing 1-0.

Third base coach Willie Fernandez, who you remember from his 40 HR season for us three years ago (and now 40 like me and out of the game for his second season due to two knees that will need to be replaced before he turns 50), pats me on the butt and calls me an idiot for lifting up 2nd base. He chatters to me about my lead. Don't be too conservative, he says. I take another step. C'mon, a little more, he says. I look at the bag, which is about six inches away, and realize a little more aggression won't hurt anybody. Two feet, three feet, four feet, five feet. Now I've got a decent, but still conservative lead.

The pitcher (I don't know all the guys down here at AAA) looks over and with the speed of some superhuman slips his right foot off the rubber and whips the ball over to the third baseman. I dive back and get my hand back under the tag. After a timeout for me to brush off my once sparkling gray road uniform and some unkind, unprintable words from Willie, I take my lead again.

Since I've hardly ever run the bases (my lifetime batting avg. is .141) and really haven't at all since September of 2006, I was a little rusty. But the pitcher in me got the wheels in my head churning. If I was protecting a one-run lead with two outs in the ninth and a not-so-good runner on third base, what would I do? I figured I'd concentrate on the batter and not the runner. At worst, the runner could score and tie the game. At best, the batter makes an out. Since between 7 and 8 times out of 10 a batter does make an out, the odds are nearly always on the pitcher's side (that's how I like to look at it, at least).

Thus, the pitcher does what I think he's going to do and starts to completely ignore me. My lead grows. Five feet. Six feet. He doesn't even look over. Seven feet. Eight feet. Willie tries to whisper as loud as possible that I'm getting into "stupid" territory and should stop. Nine feet. The guy goes into his windup, throws and...

The ball gets away from the catcher. I run. I run hard. The ball doesn't bounce away, nor does it roll very far. It kind of trickles away, not far, but far enough for me to make the play at home close. The pitcher races me to the plate. The catcher, realizing he's close enough to get me, ignores the pitcher (second time in seconds a pitcher had been ignored) and lunges for me just as I slide in, feet first. I completely miss the plate with my feet and feel the Thud! of a big leather catcher's glove slap my chest just as my left hand gets close enough to the plate to make it a photo finish. The umpire, in horrible position (which is why he's a minor league ump and not in a larger stadium with ten times as many people earning ten times the salary), calls me safe.

Our dugout goes wild. We've tied the game and still not gotten a hit. I slowly get up - had the wind knocked out of me from a 235 pound man slamming his glove onto my lungs - and am embraced by a bunch of very happy boys (most of them are still boys in AAA, especially when a 40 year old like me is telling the story).

Dusty gives me a bear hug and tells me I was out "by a country mile." I don't ask what the difference is between a country mile and an urban mile, but figure suburban sprawl has something to do with it. He tells me I'm a lucky man I didn't get hurt and orders me to drink some Gatorade and loosen up because I'm going to pitch the ninth.

So the umpire made the second bad call of the inning, the score is tied, and the game's karma is totally changed. We go on to suddenly knock the ball all over the place. By the end of the inning, we're winning 5-1 and the Tucson crowd is throwing things onto the field. Since it's Cactus Night at the stadium, hundreds of cacti are tossed. The game is delayed while the grounds crew, made up of teachers and off duty pharmacy clerks, tries to pick up the pointy plants. It takes a while because it hurts to get stuck with a cactus thorn. But they get it done, I come out for the bottom of the 9th and get three quick outs. Game over. Visiting Nashville Hounds win 5-1.

In the joyous clubhouse after the game, I got a phone call. It was Rick Churches, my NY manager who's been good to not speak to me since the end of spring training. He said plans have been changed. Our closer, Billy Weston, who's had finger problems on his pitching hand for almost a month, is being placed on the DL. I'm being called up and am to meet the team in Los Angeles, where the Vets are playing a 3-game series. I'm going to be the closer while Billy heals up.

Wow, is all I can think. I'm going to make it back. I'm going to make it back for real right away. No more waiting. I'm ready and the call, this one a good one, has been made.

I go into Dusty's visiting manager's office and tell him. He nods and said he'd just heard. He shakes my hand and asks me to wait for a second. I sit down while he leaves the office. Two minutes later, he calls my name. I go into the heart of the clubhouse to a standing ovation. The players, my teammates for the last 6 weeks, are applauding me. Then Dusty presents a gift. It's second base, the base I'd held up not too long before. I accept and hold it up high, smiling. My minor league career is over. I'm back to the bigs.

See you in LA!

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?

Learning To Brawl

"My" team, the Nashville Hounds (mine since my charity is part-owner now and also because I'm playing for them for the time being), has gotten off to a 1 and 6 start. We're not (including me) pitching well. We're not hitting well. We're not catching the ball well. It rained on Wednesday, which let us lose in 6 innings instead of the usual nine. That gave us more time to reflect on how to get better in all facets of the game of baseball.

My job here is to build up arm strength after last season's injury so that I can - to my surprise - be a relief pitcher with the big club in New York. In this role, which I've never done before, I need to be able to pitch two days in a row and at least 4 times a week. I've already pitched on the back-to-back timeframe, only I've pitched poorly overall. It's either my body that's still learning or my head.

For my teammates, the great majority are learning how to play the game. How to recognize a pitch as it pours out of a pitcher's hand. How to position one's self with runners on base. How to shorten a swing and protect the plate with two strikes. How to properly fight if a guy on the other team deserves to have his head pounded in.

That's right. Guys in the minor leagues also need to learn how to properly involve themselves in a baseball fight. I've put together a tutorial that I'll share with you that should properly show etiquette, style and strategy when fighting in baseball.

You've seen baseball fights before. Here's a boring one from a college game:



Not much happened here. This is, actually, the proper way for a baseball brawl to work. There's an inciting incident causing two opposing players "jaw" at each other, then both benches need to "empty" so that the two players don't end up alone in a steel cage death match.

The key to a baseball brawl is to not get hurt. Another important lesson is this: Don't make a fool of yourself, like this guy:



No, the one who should be embarrassed is not the pursuer. It's the one being pursued. Always remember: Both Benches Will Empty. Reinforcements are always - ALWAYS - on the way in a baseball brawl. There's no need to run away.

But what could the pitcher have done here? There's always the drop kick. Scroll up to 2:25 in the following example to see exactly how it's done:



For the kids reading this, until you get out of Little League, the proper way to battle on the field is on one leg:



As the aggressor in a fight, you can take a few lessons from the following video. Note the foresight on the batter as he takes care of the pitcher's first line of defense before going after the pitcher.



Unfortunately, his one error in judgement here was, for a brief moment, he was surrounded without the reinforcements, most probably because his teammates were so thrown off guard by the nontraditional attack on the catcher.

I hope this lesson brings joy into your homes and properly explained how to brawl on a baseball diamond. We return home tomorrow to play Iowa, not the entire state, just the Chicago AAA affiliate. We're hoping for a peaceful game.

Explosions, Ejections & Majick

I had some time today before having to make it to Brickyard Park here in Oklahoma City. So I took a cab to where the "Oklahoma City Bomber" did his thing on April 19, 1995, almost exactly 13 years ago. I saw all of the footage on TV when it happened, but since this is my first time to Oklahoma City, I wanted to see for myself what's there.

The Oklahoma City National Memorial & Museum is beautiful and terrible and heartbreaking and spectacular all at the same time. If you ever get down this way, or even if you don't, I recommend taking the tour and seeing for yourself what can happen when people go too far.

Which brings us to Monday night's game. Ninth inning, two men on, two men out and I'm pitching with a one-run lead. Then the crazy thing happened. I throw a 2-2 pitch and the batter makes contact (It was Marvin Majick, a pinch hitter). Before you know it, there are explosions. But it wasn't the war kind. It was fireworks. Somebody got a little switch happy and set off a full load of fireworks at the moment the ball met the bat. Needless to say, just about every soul in the ballpark was distracted. Our left fielder, Miguel Ramirez, would normally have caught what my dad, "Red" Scott, would call a "can of corn." Simple fly to left. The game should have been over.

But he missed the ball. You see, the sky was suddenly on fire.

Two runners scored by the time Miguel realized he'd missed the ball, the ball was in play, and he needed to throw the ball back to the infield. Well, his throw was far too late and we lost the game and I "blew" another save. Marvin Majick was a hero.

The story doesn't end there.

Our manager, Dusty Graves, went ballistic. You thought there were fireworks behind the outfield wall. You should have seen this. Dusty yelled and screamed. He pounded his fists. He got into the faces of ever umpire present. He kicked dirt. He lifted bases off the ground and threw them. It was a complete rampage.

We stood on the field, unsure if the game was over or not. Turns out it was. The umpires decided not to replay the final pitch, my final pitch; their decision made easier by Dusty's continuing craziness. Dusty was ejected, and a few of us wondered if it could be technically called an ejection since the game was already over.

When Dusty was "escorted" off the field by security, we followed him into the dugout and clubhouse. But just as I stepped into the on deck circle, one lone firework shot into the air. I turned to look. It was beautiful. I'd pitched poorly, our manager had humiliated himself, but looking at that one momentary glow in the air, I realized how unimportant this game can be sometimes. I thought for a moment of the victims of that terrible tragedy from 13 years ago in this city and promised myself I'd spread the word about the museum. Don't forget about the past. Those who died there deserve better.

Detours

Just like I'm taking a detour between injury and playing again for the big boys in New York by going to Nashville, I took a detour over the weekend between Florida and Nashville by going home to New Jersey. The plan had been for me to fly straight to Nashville, but plans change. I flew home with Vanessa and the girls on Friday and spent three nights back in my own bed. I don't expect to be home again until May.

I got to Nashville Monday afternoon and checked in with the club at their new stadium (Pepsi Field). Very nice place, much nicer than I ever played in when I was a minor leaguer. Then again, I'm a minor leaguer now (again) so I guess I'll get my chance now.

It was hard to get here from the airport because of road construction. It should normally be a straight shot of about 20 minutes, but it took about an hour. I drove myself (I'm renting a big Ford pickup truck, more on that later) and, because of the load I was pulling (more on that later), I had some problems getting up to speed. But I got here in one piece in time to sign in and check out my locker, which is considerably smaller than I'm used to. I was going to cry, but realized it's only a locker. I held back.

Seriously, I was going to cry. Getting here, I realized I haven't been this homesick since summer camp when I was 10 years old. Sometimes, you don't know how badly you don't want to be somewhere until you get there. I've been trying to put the best spin possible on playing a month in Nashville, and outwardly I seem well adjusted. On the inside, I'm a mess. That's why I went home instead of coming straight here. I was putting off the inevitable as long as possible.

But, I'm still a big boy. I have to suck it up. I would have made a horrible soldier, which makes me respect our troops in Iraq and Afghanistan that much more. I'd probably cry every day over there. Not because of fear. Because I'd miss my wife and darling teenage daughters (who were out when I left NJ so never said goodbye to me). Funny to hear this from a guy who routinely spends 50% of the time away from his family during the 6-month baseball season. Maybe I'm just getting old; either that or soft in my old age. (I turn 40 in less than 2 weeks.)

My living arrangements are set. No hotel. No basement of somebody's house. No rented home. Well, actually, I am renting a home, but it's not a house with a foundation. It's a mobile home. Specifically, it's a 2007 Rockwood Signature Ultra Lite 8293SS (http://www.alsmotorhomes.com/show.php?id=186). It's white, 29 feet long, and has two sinks in the bathroom. Because I'm rich, I arranged to have it and a new black Ford F-150 (http://www.fordvehicles.com/trucks/f150/) waiting for me at the airport. After a five minute lesson on how to drive the Ford and pull the Rockwood, I was off. I parked in a perfect spot: the parking lot of Pepsi Field.

I had someone install cable TV and wifi in the trailer. One of the clubhouse boys (they're actually boys for this team - like 16/17 years old vs. early to mid-twenties for NY) did my food shopping at a Whole Foods. He liked his $50 tip. (Vanessa told me not to overtip as a means of overcompensating for my homesickness. Don't tell her I gave the guy at the airport who gave me the driving tutorial $100.)

Our season starts here on Thursday against New Orleans. I've been anointed the temporary closer for the Nashville squad, and with continued finger pain for Billy Weston in NY, been also told to get my mind around possibly closing games for the Vets when I get called up. And to think I thought I'd be in their starting rotation today for their opening day in Florida. Instead, I take a strange way (to me) back to NY by coming here and pitching out of the bullpen, closing games.

My GM, Alvin Kirby, told me I could spend the opening series with the Veterans in Miami if I wanted and get here in time to be ready for Thursday's game, but I found myself surprisingly decline the offer. I needed to get to Nashville eventually. I need to sleep in this new bed. I need to get used to being here so I can throw a baseball like I need to do. (I've cried three times since starting this post. I'm like an old lady.) I need to get my head in shape, because I've realized it's a ways behind my body.

You can watch my games on the web if you want by purchasing a monthly subscription for $6.95. I know the team, and the league, is hoping to "move" a few thousand extra subscriptions because I'll be down here. I wish I could get a piece of that $6.95. I just tipped the cable guy $75 and hugged him for a little longer than he probably liked. If I don't run out of money before the season starts, I'll probably get arrested for not letting go of a hotdog vendor.

The State of Things

One week to opening day. Kind of exciting if you're me, very exciting if you're a fan. You, as a fan, should be excited because the team looks like it could possibly be the best team we've put on a field since 2000, coincidentally the last time we won a World Championship Series. Only a few questions marks:

1. Lyman Gaye's health - His auto accident last week was more scary than painful. If you think it looked rough on TV, double that if you were there. Strange how my family and I drove past his up-ended car last week on our way to Disney World and had no idea he was inside. He was back with the team over the weekend, but still stiff and sore. The coaching staff is looking at trying to get him into 1 or 2 spring training games by the end of the week. His fiance, who was driving the car, will not be around. Lyman filed a restraining order against her on Friday. Apparently, she was the cause of his injuries, not the accident.

2. Felipe Castro's presence - His mother is still in captivity somewhere in Venezuela. He has not reported to camp, but is expected this week. Rumors are flying around as to his physical shape. When I spoke with him in February, he admitted he wasn't close to being game-ready. I guess we'll know in the coming days.

3. Jimmy Scott's elbow - This is my elbow. Feels good. I still haven't pitched two days in a row. Everyone keeps telling me the bullpen, where I will work from this year, is the perfect place for me at this point in my career. I'll be in more games, be more active with the team... My head isn't there yet, however, which leads me to...

Me. If you're me and the new season is coming, here are some updates:

1. My lawsuit - Team psychologist, Dr. Henry Cohegans, and I settled his lawsuit very quietly last week. As he likes, the terms are under a confidentiality agreement. He also will no longer work with me. So I'm looking for another head-shrinker to help me fine-tune the rough edges of my psyche.

2. My Media Status - I've held pretty firm to my pledge not to speak on the record with the media. A few of my off-the-record comments have been printed, and attributed to me, which makes me pretty upset. I will say that the beat reporters around here have been very professional. These guys work their tails off and are, in nearly every case, people I can trust. Still, a few have tried to "do me in," as a teammate said to me a ways back. When I broke the story of Felipe being named captain and then was told I was off my rocker (meaning the story was untrue), I really had it out with the source who gave me the misinformation. As a result, I learned my lesson. I'm out of the scoop business. Unless I know it's true.

3. Connie - She finally - FINALLY - flew home on Saturday. There were a few days we thought she'd latch onto another family down here, but that was all wishful thinking. She was back to her parasitic ways by last Wednesday and Vanessa had to gently (over three days) negotiate with the woman to leave us along and fly back home. Tough situation. You want the woman out of your life, but she is your neighbor and she is a little off-center. In the movies, she'd come back and do something violent to us (maybe take me hostage and force Vanessa to save me). Just as my lawsuit with Dr. Cohegans was settled, I asked (free of charge) him if we had to worry about Connie. He said probably not. But he also said you never know. Truly helpful information. Somebody tell me if I just broke another confidentiality agreement with the man.

4. Nashville - The team is researching places for me to stay near the ballpark. It appears I will be in extended spring training for about 10 days then report to Nashville for the start of their season during the second week of April. The goal is once I can pitch 4 times a week (broken up as 2 days in a row, one day off, and 2 days in a row again), they'll call me up to New York. Meanwhile, I've thrown around the idea of living with a host family, preferably in their basement, instead of a hotel. The food might be better. And maybe they'll have a 12 year old kid who idolizes me and will make my ego soar to new heights. Or I'll just live in a trailer in the parking lot. You never know.