We had our first neighborhood watch meeting last night. Vanessa is great at organizing. She's the chief reason why we've been able to raise more than $35 million through the Jimmy Scott Foundation over the last 20 years. If she had been Secretary of Defense at the time we invaded Iraq, you can bet things would be in a lot better shape than they are now. She'd have been like Shane, remember him, from the movie? He put a stop to the bullying, helped the commonfolk, and rode into a beautiful western sunset.
But I digress.
We've lived in our current residence for the last 11 years, but we don't know our neighbors really well. Let me re-phrase: I don't know them very well. Julia and Grace are friendly with whatever kids live around here and Vanessa pretty much knows everyone too. I don't. I recognized faces tonight. Had no idea what their names were. Maybe I don't pay attention when introduced. It must be that. If you put all my neighbors in a police lineup after meeting with them all for 90 minutes last night, I'd get all their names wrong.
All but one. Connie.
Connie just moved in. She's not a shy woman. And she wants to be friends with Vanessa. Close friends. Not the lesbian kind. Get that out of your mind. I mean the best buddy/we'll be friends forever! kind.
I don't blame her. Vanessa has this thing about her. She's like a beacon in the summer. If you're a bug, you'd choose Vanessa's beacon over someone else's front porch light.
Connie moved in about three weeks ago. Got a good deal on her house, she said, because the market stinks right now. She might have even gotten the house through a foreclosure. But she's been around quite a bit. If she wasn't trying to be Vanessa's friend, I'd consider the woman a stalker. She calls first thing in the morning. She brings by homemade pies by lunch and comes back to pick up the pie dish right during dinner. She's asked Julia to babysit five times already, even though her son is 13. (Grace won't babysit for anyone. She's afraid of the liability.) Connie has tried to become a member of the family over the last 21 days. I met her for the first time last night.
I'm good at not being here when friends or neighbors stop in. By coincidence, I'm usually out at an event or rehabbing (or eating up to two weeks ago) or in my Entertainment Veranda figuring out how to Tivo a show that I already Tivo'd, just to make sure I never lose it and have it forever(!).
But I had to be here last night. My right wrist is wrapped up pretty tightly from my fall on the driveway, caused by the vandals who keep dropping by our house at night. Vanessa says that if I'd been better all along at being here when people drop by, maybe I would have caught the vandals myself and saved myself some pain. She's a funny gal, that wife of mine.
A Madison policeman was here to explain how to legally put a neighborhood watch program together. He told us all about the vandalism in the area, which has pretty much taken place 100% on my property. He told us to basically keep our eyes open, our outside lights on, our doors locked, our security systems engaged, and our pit bulls underfed. It makes them meaner, he said. (Just kidding about that last part. Although you know the old saying, a mean dog is a hungry dog.)
Connie volunteered to take the night shift watching our house. The very patient cop said that's not how it works. We are to go about our daily, and nocturnal, business like we always do. But if we see anything out of the ordinary, give them a call. I thought I heard Connie whisper something about taking matters into her own hands, but Vanessa said I was making that part up because I don't like her.
It's not that I don't like her. She's very sweet. I just think she's nuts. Where was her husband, the doctor? Apparently in surgery. But I don't believe it. I think he was out just to get away from her. I've seen it so many times. Type A personality wife marries Type A personality husband. Before you know it, Type A personality husband morphs into a Type D kind of guy. He grows long hair, becomes a vegetarian, and takes off with another woman and puts her kids to bed every night, ignoring his own.
Now you might think of me as Type A. I've been a driven athlete, vocal person, sometimes a little hyper. I wear my emotions on my sleeve. And my pant legs too. Nobody ever looks there. But I'm not Type A. I'm a reactor. I love baseball, so I played it so much I became really good at it. My body reacted to my love of the game. My life has been a reaction to being good at it. But if I'd never played baseball, I'd probably be working the stockroom of a Best Buy, out of the way of people and keeping to myself. See, that's why I'm never here when the neighbors are. I like to keep to myself. Grace is like me, although everyone thinks it's Julia who is. But Julia's a Type A like her mother. Grace and I - we're Type B+. We are who we are because of what's around us.
The meeting ended and Connie stayed to help clean up. She suggested we put the plastic ware into the dishwasher to use again. I told her the reason the spork was invented was to throw out half the plastic a person normally would, so, in effect, by supporting the spork we're supporting our environment. We're practically green without trying.
Oh, she laughed. My quip wasn't as humorous as she made it sound. That was a tip off to me. She's nuts and wants to adopt my family. I'm going to keep my eyes on her.
She left around eleven (two hours after the meeting ended) and took four pie plates with her. I surveyed her as she slowly crept down our driveway, her head darting back and forth, as if she was either in danger or was trying to catch the vandals before they struck again. But she saw nothing strange and was eventually on the street and gone.
We had a good night. No bad people came and threw cold water or toilet paper on our land. Shane didn't drift by to save us and kill the lead bad man, dressed in black. And Vanessa didn't secretly fall for Shane while staying with me. No, Connie is our Shane. And she's only armed with pie, not a gun. While she may try to steal my Vanessa from me, she'll never catch the bad guys who've vandalised my property. I have a feeling the bad guys and me will bump into each other one day and surprise the hell out of each other. That will be one interesting final scene before one of us rides off into the sunset, watched by the eyes of our neighborhood friends.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
Prayers For Mrs. Castro
Heard the startling news last night that Felipe Castro's mother had been kidnapped from her home in Venezuela over the weekend. I saw Felipe at Mrs. Delaney's party Saturday night and could tell he was worried about her as she hadn't flown in as expected earlier in the day. From what I've heard, he found out very early Sunday morning and took the first flight home.
This is a sad and scary story and one that we hope is not repeated. I know of other teammates from Central America who have basically moved their whole families into the United States for safety reasons. Remember, a hundred dollars here is almost a full year's salary in many developing nations. So imagine what goes through the minds of the bad seeds down there when they hear of ballplayers, like Felipe, pulling down $90 to $100 million.
We haven't heard of any ransom demands and, like you, will be following the events in Venezuela daily. Our thoughts and prayers go out to the Castro family today.
This is a sad and scary story and one that we hope is not repeated. I know of other teammates from Central America who have basically moved their whole families into the United States for safety reasons. Remember, a hundred dollars here is almost a full year's salary in many developing nations. So imagine what goes through the minds of the bad seeds down there when they hear of ballplayers, like Felipe, pulling down $90 to $100 million.
We haven't heard of any ransom demands and, like you, will be following the events in Venezuela daily. Our thoughts and prayers go out to the Castro family today.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
A Mighty Fall
I can't believe it's still technically autumn and we've already had well over a foot of snow. The temperature hovers in the twenties and thirties. It's dark more than it's light. Maybe spring will come early too.
I kind of wish I could leave for spring training right now. Yes, it's always too long and boring and repetitive. About three weeks of practice leads to a month of games that don't count and then six months of games that do and then, if you're lucky, a month of games that count more than any others you've ever played before. I love it when reporters asked me in championship seasons which post-season was my favorite. That's like asking which heartbeat is my favorite. Pretty much the most recent one. And I'm always glad to get to the next one as well.
Why this longing for sunny Florida now, a week before Christmas? Well, there's no ice in Florida, at least the kind that settles on your driveway overnight. Plus the press coverage isn't as intense as it is here. Although I remember 2004 and how the allegations of gambling hovered over us from Valentine's Day to opening day. You'd have thought we were the Beatles the way the press was EVERYWHERE. I'd go to the bathroom in the house we rented, look out the window, and see cameras aiming right back at us. It's a good thing I rarely snack in the nude.
Back to the ice. Ever since the toilet papering our house has gotten (three so far), I've begun turning on our outside lights before going out for my early morning run. I don't want to be surprised at sunup that I've been awake for almost two hours and just now noticed. I don't know about you, but running makes me have to go to the bathroom. I had a friend once who took toilet paper with her on every jog because she inevitably had to pee about two miles in.
No toilet paper today. A good sign.
I was fully stretched, so I began my run on the walkway. Made it to the driveway, took two strides and AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH! One long sheet of ice. I literally slid about fifty yards, thanks to its slight downhill slope. To cap it off, once my trajectory was complete, my paperboy in his 1996 Caravan did his drive-by and whipped three papers my way. He's such a loser. He only struck me twice.
I sat up, collected myself and surveyed the damage. No bones protruding from flesh. No trail of blood. A sore hip and some wrist pain. Yes, my throwing wrist. Even though I haven't thrown yet. But still, it's the thought that counts.
No ankle pain. That was the best sign. I've sprained ankles before. They heal so slowly. Do it in April and you're not the same until the playoffs, even though by then you're watching somebody else play because you sucked for the last six months because of your crummy ankle that wouldn't heal.
How did this happen? We had the driveway plowed on Sunday. Three times. There was both sand and salt spread out too. The temp never got above freezing yesterday, but there was blacktop there. I could swear it. No chance for there to be ice on the driveway, especially since there was no melting runoff.
Before I stood, somehow my view made its way up to my trees. I thought there had been no toilet paper. But I was wrong. There was just less than before. A lot less. One long strand of toilet paper, generic brand, hung from a low hanging limb, probably about six feet. I don't know how I missed it earlier. I got up and slid over to it. There were check marks on it. Black Magic Marker. Each sheet - and we know a "sheet" of toilet paper is about four inches long and can satisfy (maybe) a mouse's ass - had a hand-written check mark on it. I turned back and took another look at the driveway. The ice was perfect. One solid sheet spreading from the road all the way up to my walkway. Like a stream had frozen right on top of my driveway.
I left the toilet paper there and limped back inside. My hip was starting to shoot a little pain up my back. And my wrist began to ache too much for me to think it was nothing.
I woke up Vanessa and we called the police. They took the toilet paper in for testing. I don't know how they can test toilet paper. Maybe they have some cool technique a local cop developed in his free time while not patrolling the beat and catching killers, of which Madison has none. So he's got a lot of free time I guess.
The one thing that bothered me was the bucket. They found a large bucket, the ones you put a mop in. And water. It was under a pachysandra bush. I'd never seen it before. Neither had Vanessa or the girls. Evidence! Maybe whoever hung their check mark toilet paper left their bucket too. Vanessa told me the bucket was probably used to spread water on the driveway. That made sense. The perfect plan.
But why? Who's playing these little pranks on us? I upset a bunch of divorced ladies yesterday, but they wouldn't come to my house and do something like this. They're too busy trying to turn the media against me.
Grace has seemed to take this the hardest. She's spending more time in her bedroom than ever before. I tell her not to be afraid. These are just harmless pranks that, well, today caused a little harm. My right wrist is sprained. No baseball activity for three weeks. That's unfortunate. I'll work on my legs and core and see if I can find myself a bionic wrist to temporarily replace the throbbing one. It's not awful. I've had worse. I can still type this, although I've needed to rest it five times so far and employ my nose when using the Enter key.
Still, I'd like to know what's going on. We're installing security cameras around the property today and Vanessa is organizing a neighborhood watch program. We'll find the bad boys who've done this. And then I will exact my revenge!
Or I'll just beg them to stop.
I kind of wish I could leave for spring training right now. Yes, it's always too long and boring and repetitive. About three weeks of practice leads to a month of games that don't count and then six months of games that do and then, if you're lucky, a month of games that count more than any others you've ever played before. I love it when reporters asked me in championship seasons which post-season was my favorite. That's like asking which heartbeat is my favorite. Pretty much the most recent one. And I'm always glad to get to the next one as well.
Why this longing for sunny Florida now, a week before Christmas? Well, there's no ice in Florida, at least the kind that settles on your driveway overnight. Plus the press coverage isn't as intense as it is here. Although I remember 2004 and how the allegations of gambling hovered over us from Valentine's Day to opening day. You'd have thought we were the Beatles the way the press was EVERYWHERE. I'd go to the bathroom in the house we rented, look out the window, and see cameras aiming right back at us. It's a good thing I rarely snack in the nude.
Back to the ice. Ever since the toilet papering our house has gotten (three so far), I've begun turning on our outside lights before going out for my early morning run. I don't want to be surprised at sunup that I've been awake for almost two hours and just now noticed. I don't know about you, but running makes me have to go to the bathroom. I had a friend once who took toilet paper with her on every jog because she inevitably had to pee about two miles in.
No toilet paper today. A good sign.
I was fully stretched, so I began my run on the walkway. Made it to the driveway, took two strides and AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH! One long sheet of ice. I literally slid about fifty yards, thanks to its slight downhill slope. To cap it off, once my trajectory was complete, my paperboy in his 1996 Caravan did his drive-by and whipped three papers my way. He's such a loser. He only struck me twice.
I sat up, collected myself and surveyed the damage. No bones protruding from flesh. No trail of blood. A sore hip and some wrist pain. Yes, my throwing wrist. Even though I haven't thrown yet. But still, it's the thought that counts.
No ankle pain. That was the best sign. I've sprained ankles before. They heal so slowly. Do it in April and you're not the same until the playoffs, even though by then you're watching somebody else play because you sucked for the last six months because of your crummy ankle that wouldn't heal.
How did this happen? We had the driveway plowed on Sunday. Three times. There was both sand and salt spread out too. The temp never got above freezing yesterday, but there was blacktop there. I could swear it. No chance for there to be ice on the driveway, especially since there was no melting runoff.
Before I stood, somehow my view made its way up to my trees. I thought there had been no toilet paper. But I was wrong. There was just less than before. A lot less. One long strand of toilet paper, generic brand, hung from a low hanging limb, probably about six feet. I don't know how I missed it earlier. I got up and slid over to it. There were check marks on it. Black Magic Marker. Each sheet - and we know a "sheet" of toilet paper is about four inches long and can satisfy (maybe) a mouse's ass - had a hand-written check mark on it. I turned back and took another look at the driveway. The ice was perfect. One solid sheet spreading from the road all the way up to my walkway. Like a stream had frozen right on top of my driveway.
I left the toilet paper there and limped back inside. My hip was starting to shoot a little pain up my back. And my wrist began to ache too much for me to think it was nothing.
I woke up Vanessa and we called the police. They took the toilet paper in for testing. I don't know how they can test toilet paper. Maybe they have some cool technique a local cop developed in his free time while not patrolling the beat and catching killers, of which Madison has none. So he's got a lot of free time I guess.
The one thing that bothered me was the bucket. They found a large bucket, the ones you put a mop in. And water. It was under a pachysandra bush. I'd never seen it before. Neither had Vanessa or the girls. Evidence! Maybe whoever hung their check mark toilet paper left their bucket too. Vanessa told me the bucket was probably used to spread water on the driveway. That made sense. The perfect plan.
But why? Who's playing these little pranks on us? I upset a bunch of divorced ladies yesterday, but they wouldn't come to my house and do something like this. They're too busy trying to turn the media against me.
Grace has seemed to take this the hardest. She's spending more time in her bedroom than ever before. I tell her not to be afraid. These are just harmless pranks that, well, today caused a little harm. My right wrist is sprained. No baseball activity for three weeks. That's unfortunate. I'll work on my legs and core and see if I can find myself a bionic wrist to temporarily replace the throbbing one. It's not awful. I've had worse. I can still type this, although I've needed to rest it five times so far and employ my nose when using the Enter key.
Still, I'd like to know what's going on. We're installing security cameras around the property today and Vanessa is organizing a neighborhood watch program. We'll find the bad boys who've done this. And then I will exact my revenge!
Or I'll just beg them to stop.
Monday, December 17, 2007
A Cinderfella Story
I'm still dumbfounded. By now, you've seen or heard about how Vanessa and I made, not just the back pages, but the front pages of both the News and the Post. Let me be the million and sixth cover boy to state emphatically, "It's not what you think." I've heard people use this phrase in movies, on their second or third cell phones (athletes, once they get paid the big bucks, have one cell phone to speak with the wife and their other cell phones for girlfriends), even in the mirror (I do this when starting to feel more balding than the previous day). But when I state emphatically to you that "It's not what you think," you must realize that I'm telling the truth. Because I'm not like other guys (usually used by other guys at strip clubs).
Here's what happened. Vanessa and I got to baseball commissioner Elliott Pollock's townhouse on Saturday evening around 7:15. We weren't trying to be fashionably late. Traffic into Manhattan was ridiculous. It's Christmas. I usually drive us, but we splurged and hired a limo service to ferry us into NYC, from East Side to West Side, and then back home to New Jersey. Our driver was a pleasant man named Maceo. He says hi.
Elliott's party was fun. Great food. Many officials from the league and their families. I was the only player at first, which made Vanessa the only player's wife in attendance at first. There was dancing. So we danced a bit. I looked down at Vanessa's watch and it was 9:30. We had to leave to make it to Mrs. Delaney's party across town. Since Vanessa danced without her shoes, we spent twenty minutes looking for them. We found one. I could tell it was hers because it was made of glass and hers was the only foot in the kingdom that fit. We married three hours later, accompanied by a fairy godmother and a band of mice with Brooklyn accents.
The second shoe was lost, so we left, hopped into the Maceo Mobile, and sped toward a shoe store (name escapes me; college football was on the radio). Vanessa hopped out, bought a pair of pumps, and dove back in. We made it to Mrs. Delaney's by 10:45.
Needless to say, Mrs. Delaney was slightly miffed that we were three hours and fifteen minutes tardy for her party. I explained about the shoe, the mice and the bitter stepmother. She nodded and led us into her grand chalet. Beautiful place. Her townhouse is the size of Staten Island, only it wasn't built on top of industrial waste.
Kai Goto was there. We exchanged bows and we let some photographers take pictures of us pretending to Indian leg wrestle. Felipe Castro was there with his wife, Celia. His mother missed her plane from Venezuela, apparently, so she couldn't be there. Felipe was a little distressed, but Kai and I helped sooth him by helping him count the money in his wallet.
Around midnight, I started to list a bit. The wall held me up, but my tiredness remained. I grabbed Vanessa and made mention of Maceo turning into a lizard and his limo transforming back into a Dodge Dart if we didn't leave immediately. She was sympathetic, but wanted to head back to Elliott's to find her shoe. We bid Mrs. Delaney and other guests an adieu, told her her party was the best New York had to offer, and made a beeline for the car.
If you recall, the weather was pretty crappy Saturday night into Sunday. A mix of snow and freezing rain was falling when we asked Maceo to take us back to Elliott's. He sped through Central Park, hydroplaning only when the road wasn't in a straight line.
Back inside Elliott's, the party was jamming. It was about 12:40 or so. Vanessa searched for her shoe and I saw 4 or 5 retired players milling about. I'm not going to reveal their names because they specifically asked that I not tell anyone they'd been there. I asked if the other 65 people in attendance had also signed their confidentiality agreement. Humorless, they withdrew into the crowd and used Elliott's drapes as substitutes for napkins.
Somehow, Vanessa and I found ourselves dancing again. The D.J. was really good. But for the record, I do not wish that I had Jesse's girl. I have a woman like that. Unfortunately, Vanessa lost one of her new shoes. I swear, Elliott's place is like a washing machine/dryer combo that takes your pairs of socks and only returns one. At least Vanessa was back to owning a pair of shoes, one of which was in Maceo's possession in the limo.
Here's where it got a little strange. We left Elliott's after 40 minutes or so and made it downstairs. Vanessa told me not to let go of her as she hopped around. I responded emphatically that I would never do such a thing. The doorman winked at me as he opened the door. Outside, about twenty reporters with cameras, both the still and video kinds, were waiting. Out of surprise, I instantly dropped Vanessa's arm and she fell to the snowy, slippery sidewalk. People yelled things at us, mostly questions, and I helped her up. She snapped something at me pertaining to how she'd never ask me to hold a fishing pole while she tied the bait to the hook. I've never fished. Just because she did as a kid every Saturday with her dad doesn't make her better than me. So I told her I was sorry for dropping her to the snowy, slippery sidewalk, but if she had put GPS units into her shoes like I had suggested, she never would have needed me to hold her up in the first place. As she told me how ridiculous I sounded (I made the part of about suggesting she put GPS units into her shoes), Maceo pulled up. We slipped inside and drove off.
But wait. There's more.
The reporters were there because they'd been tipped off Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie were in the building for an event. Totally serious. I never saw them at Elliott's and apparently the reporters never saw them outside. Thus, rather than write off their stalk as pointless, they used their photo of Vanessa on the sidewalk and me looking down at her. Her face is of pain (it was cold, snowy and icy down there). Mine is of "Uh oh, I'm in trouble," which can look angry to passers-by with cameras, both the still and video kind. This photo eventually accompanied a special Sunday front page headline: Another Scott Down For The Count. This, of course, was in reference to when I spent the better part of last April 2nd on the grass in front of the pitcher's mound, writhing in pain after my angry elbow showed off its anger.
And if you think the photos made us look bad, I'm sure you read the accompanying articles which did not paint a flattering picture either. I swear, both the Post and News must employ the same reporters because both articles were basically the same thing. They told of how fat I'd gotten, how unhappy I was, and how witnesses at Elliott's party saw me talking to shadowy figures, probably female, near Elliott's drapery.
None of it was really a big deal, until I received a call directly from Mrs. Delaney around 11:00 AM Sunday morning asking what happened, how it happened, and what was I thinking. I explained the story to her, but she was still upset. At that point, I apologized for being late to her party and not going home from there but instead going to a rival party on the other side of town. I swore to her, and swear to her now as she actually reads this filth I call truth, that we only went back to Elliott's to find Vanessa's shoe. And so I could have one more little baked brie. Those things were really good.
I thought all was well until I received a call Sunday night from super agent Jack Perry. The team was asking me to apologize to a women's rights group which felt I had made fun of them by allowing my woman, who's my wife, to fall to a snowy, slippery sidewalk in the snowy, freezing rain on a very early Sunday morning. I explained to Jack that women fall all the time. Does Brad have to apologize to the plumbers and pipe fitters union every time Angelina slips in her tub? Jack said all I had to do was write a brief statement and he'd release it. I shook my head and told him I'd write a brief statement.
Here it is: Go away.
I am a team player, as Mrs. Delaney knows. I'll do anything to help my team win. But don't ask me to pander to a bunch of divorced women who focus their energies on the imaginary problems of others instead of focusing on their own. In the end, it will be they who shall apologize to me.
Fairy godmother was right. We should have just gone home at midnight.
Here's what happened. Vanessa and I got to baseball commissioner Elliott Pollock's townhouse on Saturday evening around 7:15. We weren't trying to be fashionably late. Traffic into Manhattan was ridiculous. It's Christmas. I usually drive us, but we splurged and hired a limo service to ferry us into NYC, from East Side to West Side, and then back home to New Jersey. Our driver was a pleasant man named Maceo. He says hi.
Elliott's party was fun. Great food. Many officials from the league and their families. I was the only player at first, which made Vanessa the only player's wife in attendance at first. There was dancing. So we danced a bit. I looked down at Vanessa's watch and it was 9:30. We had to leave to make it to Mrs. Delaney's party across town. Since Vanessa danced without her shoes, we spent twenty minutes looking for them. We found one. I could tell it was hers because it was made of glass and hers was the only foot in the kingdom that fit. We married three hours later, accompanied by a fairy godmother and a band of mice with Brooklyn accents.
The second shoe was lost, so we left, hopped into the Maceo Mobile, and sped toward a shoe store (name escapes me; college football was on the radio). Vanessa hopped out, bought a pair of pumps, and dove back in. We made it to Mrs. Delaney's by 10:45.
Needless to say, Mrs. Delaney was slightly miffed that we were three hours and fifteen minutes tardy for her party. I explained about the shoe, the mice and the bitter stepmother. She nodded and led us into her grand chalet. Beautiful place. Her townhouse is the size of Staten Island, only it wasn't built on top of industrial waste.
Kai Goto was there. We exchanged bows and we let some photographers take pictures of us pretending to Indian leg wrestle. Felipe Castro was there with his wife, Celia. His mother missed her plane from Venezuela, apparently, so she couldn't be there. Felipe was a little distressed, but Kai and I helped sooth him by helping him count the money in his wallet.
Around midnight, I started to list a bit. The wall held me up, but my tiredness remained. I grabbed Vanessa and made mention of Maceo turning into a lizard and his limo transforming back into a Dodge Dart if we didn't leave immediately. She was sympathetic, but wanted to head back to Elliott's to find her shoe. We bid Mrs. Delaney and other guests an adieu, told her her party was the best New York had to offer, and made a beeline for the car.
If you recall, the weather was pretty crappy Saturday night into Sunday. A mix of snow and freezing rain was falling when we asked Maceo to take us back to Elliott's. He sped through Central Park, hydroplaning only when the road wasn't in a straight line.
Back inside Elliott's, the party was jamming. It was about 12:40 or so. Vanessa searched for her shoe and I saw 4 or 5 retired players milling about. I'm not going to reveal their names because they specifically asked that I not tell anyone they'd been there. I asked if the other 65 people in attendance had also signed their confidentiality agreement. Humorless, they withdrew into the crowd and used Elliott's drapes as substitutes for napkins.
Somehow, Vanessa and I found ourselves dancing again. The D.J. was really good. But for the record, I do not wish that I had Jesse's girl. I have a woman like that. Unfortunately, Vanessa lost one of her new shoes. I swear, Elliott's place is like a washing machine/dryer combo that takes your pairs of socks and only returns one. At least Vanessa was back to owning a pair of shoes, one of which was in Maceo's possession in the limo.
Here's where it got a little strange. We left Elliott's after 40 minutes or so and made it downstairs. Vanessa told me not to let go of her as she hopped around. I responded emphatically that I would never do such a thing. The doorman winked at me as he opened the door. Outside, about twenty reporters with cameras, both the still and video kinds, were waiting. Out of surprise, I instantly dropped Vanessa's arm and she fell to the snowy, slippery sidewalk. People yelled things at us, mostly questions, and I helped her up. She snapped something at me pertaining to how she'd never ask me to hold a fishing pole while she tied the bait to the hook. I've never fished. Just because she did as a kid every Saturday with her dad doesn't make her better than me. So I told her I was sorry for dropping her to the snowy, slippery sidewalk, but if she had put GPS units into her shoes like I had suggested, she never would have needed me to hold her up in the first place. As she told me how ridiculous I sounded (I made the part of about suggesting she put GPS units into her shoes), Maceo pulled up. We slipped inside and drove off.
But wait. There's more.
The reporters were there because they'd been tipped off Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie were in the building for an event. Totally serious. I never saw them at Elliott's and apparently the reporters never saw them outside. Thus, rather than write off their stalk as pointless, they used their photo of Vanessa on the sidewalk and me looking down at her. Her face is of pain (it was cold, snowy and icy down there). Mine is of "Uh oh, I'm in trouble," which can look angry to passers-by with cameras, both the still and video kind. This photo eventually accompanied a special Sunday front page headline: Another Scott Down For The Count. This, of course, was in reference to when I spent the better part of last April 2nd on the grass in front of the pitcher's mound, writhing in pain after my angry elbow showed off its anger.
And if you think the photos made us look bad, I'm sure you read the accompanying articles which did not paint a flattering picture either. I swear, both the Post and News must employ the same reporters because both articles were basically the same thing. They told of how fat I'd gotten, how unhappy I was, and how witnesses at Elliott's party saw me talking to shadowy figures, probably female, near Elliott's drapery.
None of it was really a big deal, until I received a call directly from Mrs. Delaney around 11:00 AM Sunday morning asking what happened, how it happened, and what was I thinking. I explained the story to her, but she was still upset. At that point, I apologized for being late to her party and not going home from there but instead going to a rival party on the other side of town. I swore to her, and swear to her now as she actually reads this filth I call truth, that we only went back to Elliott's to find Vanessa's shoe. And so I could have one more little baked brie. Those things were really good.
I thought all was well until I received a call Sunday night from super agent Jack Perry. The team was asking me to apologize to a women's rights group which felt I had made fun of them by allowing my woman, who's my wife, to fall to a snowy, slippery sidewalk in the snowy, freezing rain on a very early Sunday morning. I explained to Jack that women fall all the time. Does Brad have to apologize to the plumbers and pipe fitters union every time Angelina slips in her tub? Jack said all I had to do was write a brief statement and he'd release it. I shook my head and told him I'd write a brief statement.
Here it is: Go away.
I am a team player, as Mrs. Delaney knows. I'll do anything to help my team win. But don't ask me to pander to a bunch of divorced women who focus their energies on the imaginary problems of others instead of focusing on their own. In the end, it will be they who shall apologize to me.
Fairy godmother was right. We should have just gone home at midnight.
Friday, December 14, 2007
I Am Santa
If you saw the news last night, you saw me dressed in full Santa Claus attire for the team holiday party, which had a sole purpose of celebrating area kids and their accomplishments. It's always fun to see a large group of 8 years olds laughing and singing, especially when they have no idea who we are. I could bet you $10 worth of team merchandise that 95% of the kids there never heard of Rick Churches, 96% have never gone to one of our games, and 97% don't like baseball. It's nothing against them. They're only eight years old. They got a free meal and their happy faces on TV. They sang and laughed, so they definitely had fun. But I question what the point is if we mean nothing to them. Do we invite these kids purely for the PR benefit? Do their school principals "know" someone in our organization well enough to get kids from their school invited, thus making the principal look good in the eyes of district parents and the superintendent? Could we have instead invited high school kids who may have been more impressed, more affected by a visit, but just don't happen to be as camera-cute as a bunch of inner city eight year olds in school uniforms? I guess it's none of my business. I show up, dress like Santa and try to pick caramel out of my molars with my tongue. I just think we could do a more targeted job of bringing joy to people. Eighteen year olds who would be more incentivized to go to our holiday party because they know they could meet members of the the team seem to be a better group, as they'd care and, therefore, you could get them to do positive things that would qualify them to see me lick my own mouth live and in person. It doesn't matter what I think. I'm just another cynical boy who thinks he knows everything every once in a while.
In other news, I got to have a nice lengthy sit-down with our new manager, Rick Churches, before we were introduced. He was a little upset that I was Santa and he was "my" elf. Because elves work for Santa, he felt the arrangement gave off the impression that he worked for me. Yes, he said this to me. I told him he was the only person in the entire borough of Manhattan who thought like that. He went on and on about how he's always been a lonely thinker and look where it's gotten him. I told him in that case not to look in a mirror. He'd be upset to see he was wearing a goofy beanie and silly green vest. I assumed he had tights on, but didn't want to bother him any more than he was. It's not good to have unhappy employees.
It was a pleasure to finally meet "The Jimmy Scott of Japan," Kai Goto. He was an elf and he didn't complain once. I think it's pretty clear to both of us that he's got a lot more left in the tank than I do, especially since he has a 6-year contract and mine is for one. So no lack of self-confidence there. He speaks a little bit of English, but we'll teach him all the finer points of the language in the clubhouse once spring training rolls around.
Felipe Castro also made a surprise appearance. I hadn't spoken to Felipe in a number of months and was happy to share a bear hug and ask how construction on his new house in Long Island is going. It's supposed to be something like 7500 square feet, this place. I told him his house will be nicer than our stadium, although he said he'd never invite 50,000 screaming strangers over to see.
And speaking of which, I chatted briefly with our owner, Mrs. Joan Delaney, who's campaigning very hard to get us a new stadium. She read of my conundrum in being invited to two parties tomorrow night, hers and commissioner Elliott Pollock's. She said not to worry, Vanessa and I can just go to Elliott's and have a great time. She was seeing me today. Because I have a mother who majored in guilt trips in college, I realized immediately that Vanessa and I should spend about 10 minutes at Elliott's party before rushing over to Mrs. Delaney's townhouse. Kai promised he'd sing karaoke. And Felipe was bringing his mother. Boy, that's going to be some shindig. I only hope Rick isn't too upset when we arrive and I ask him to hang up our jackets. Don't worry, Rick. We'll tip on the way out.
In other news, I got to have a nice lengthy sit-down with our new manager, Rick Churches, before we were introduced. He was a little upset that I was Santa and he was "my" elf. Because elves work for Santa, he felt the arrangement gave off the impression that he worked for me. Yes, he said this to me. I told him he was the only person in the entire borough of Manhattan who thought like that. He went on and on about how he's always been a lonely thinker and look where it's gotten him. I told him in that case not to look in a mirror. He'd be upset to see he was wearing a goofy beanie and silly green vest. I assumed he had tights on, but didn't want to bother him any more than he was. It's not good to have unhappy employees.
It was a pleasure to finally meet "The Jimmy Scott of Japan," Kai Goto. He was an elf and he didn't complain once. I think it's pretty clear to both of us that he's got a lot more left in the tank than I do, especially since he has a 6-year contract and mine is for one. So no lack of self-confidence there. He speaks a little bit of English, but we'll teach him all the finer points of the language in the clubhouse once spring training rolls around.
Felipe Castro also made a surprise appearance. I hadn't spoken to Felipe in a number of months and was happy to share a bear hug and ask how construction on his new house in Long Island is going. It's supposed to be something like 7500 square feet, this place. I told him his house will be nicer than our stadium, although he said he'd never invite 50,000 screaming strangers over to see.
And speaking of which, I chatted briefly with our owner, Mrs. Joan Delaney, who's campaigning very hard to get us a new stadium. She read of my conundrum in being invited to two parties tomorrow night, hers and commissioner Elliott Pollock's. She said not to worry, Vanessa and I can just go to Elliott's and have a great time. She was seeing me today. Because I have a mother who majored in guilt trips in college, I realized immediately that Vanessa and I should spend about 10 minutes at Elliott's party before rushing over to Mrs. Delaney's townhouse. Kai promised he'd sing karaoke. And Felipe was bringing his mother. Boy, that's going to be some shindig. I only hope Rick isn't too upset when we arrive and I ask him to hang up our jackets. Don't worry, Rick. We'll tip on the way out.
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.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
The Power of The Media
I was working out with Andy today when he began to sing. Here I am, ankles tied together with a 24-inch piece of rope, chasing a rooster in a back corner of the YMCA gym, when Andy breaks out into some bluesy number having to do with his sister and no rent and his baby and drinking and ladies and, basically, a total lack of income to support all of these women. I put my cock down and asked him why. Why does he insist on vocalizing every 45 minutes? Is it out of boredom? Is he trying to prove he's a better singer than me? Is it to distract me so I can re-learn how to focus on what's in front of me?
Andy sat down and pet Monique (the rooster). He began to tear up. It is rare that you see a monstrosity of a man who could pass as a middle linebacker for the Giants allow himself to be so emotionally naked. I didn't sit. The ropes were burning one of my Achilles tendons and I tried to get them off of me while Andy spoke.
Andy: I just want to sing.
Me: Do you have something sharp, like a knife?
Andy: That's all I've ever wanted to do.
Me: Or a shard of glass?
Andy: If only I could get people to listen.
Me: Soap could work; maybe I could slip out.
He complained for another 10 minutes before telling me to hit the showers. We were done for the day.
Let me tell you, I felt like a kid in school just let out early by the teacher. Some of Andy's training methods are strange (I don't believe bobbing for apples helps my core as much as he says it does), but they're all hard. When he told me we were stopping two hours early, I jumped up for joy and fell. The ropes were still burning.
The shower room at the Y is a steamy place. Don't take that the wrong way. The water is hot and creates a lot of steam. I like it because the steam can act like a natural camouflage and disguise my binge-laden fatness from anyone else who may decide to soap up. Probably three and a half minutes into my shampoo, it started again. The singing, I mean. Andy was somewhere in the shower with me. The good thing was he didn't try to share the same head. He's so big, I'd have had to rinse the soap from my semi-balding scalp in a toilet bowl.
Andy: My woman don't understand, she don't think I'm no a man.
Me: (clearing my throat, clearly uncomfortable)
Andy: She won't smile for a hundred miles, even though I think she can.
Me: You just stepped on my foot.
In the locker room I sat blow drying my towel. I hate to pack wet things in my duffel bag. Andy sat down next to me. The bench shook for a moment; I think a 7.6 on the Richter scale. He spoke.
Andy: Can you help me?
Me: Yes, your pants don't match your shirt.
Andy: I mean getting me a gig.
I had thought I was Andy's gig. But what he meant was that he really, truly wants to be a singer. For a job. It's in his blood, he said, in his DNA. If you ask me, he does have a good voice and he is an interesting looking dude. But could he make a living at it? And how was I supposed to help him?
Me: How am I supposed to help you?
Andy: Use your influence with the media.
Me: You mean go on ESPN and talk about your vibrato?
Andy: No. Your blog.
So the following is for Andy. This is my influential, media-savvy blog letting the world know I have a personal trainer who really likes working out with me, but would really really love to sing for you. He's free most nights, except Sundays (he's a big Simpsons fan). If you need a voice for your bachelor party or office Christmas party or as a form of communication between you and your girlfriend, then I have the guy for you. He's a very, very large man, so leave enough space in the living room for both he and his voice. And he's great with animals, so no need to lock the dog and cat in the bedroom. He'll work almost for free, but you need to pay him a little bit. I'm getting 15%, and 15% of nothing won't pay my landscapers. We can start at $200 and work up from there.
In the meantime, I'm looking for some scissors or something. I can't seem to get these ropes off of my ankles.
Andy sat down and pet Monique (the rooster). He began to tear up. It is rare that you see a monstrosity of a man who could pass as a middle linebacker for the Giants allow himself to be so emotionally naked. I didn't sit. The ropes were burning one of my Achilles tendons and I tried to get them off of me while Andy spoke.
Andy: I just want to sing.
Me: Do you have something sharp, like a knife?
Andy: That's all I've ever wanted to do.
Me: Or a shard of glass?
Andy: If only I could get people to listen.
Me: Soap could work; maybe I could slip out.
He complained for another 10 minutes before telling me to hit the showers. We were done for the day.
Let me tell you, I felt like a kid in school just let out early by the teacher. Some of Andy's training methods are strange (I don't believe bobbing for apples helps my core as much as he says it does), but they're all hard. When he told me we were stopping two hours early, I jumped up for joy and fell. The ropes were still burning.
The shower room at the Y is a steamy place. Don't take that the wrong way. The water is hot and creates a lot of steam. I like it because the steam can act like a natural camouflage and disguise my binge-laden fatness from anyone else who may decide to soap up. Probably three and a half minutes into my shampoo, it started again. The singing, I mean. Andy was somewhere in the shower with me. The good thing was he didn't try to share the same head. He's so big, I'd have had to rinse the soap from my semi-balding scalp in a toilet bowl.
Andy: My woman don't understand, she don't think I'm no a man.
Me: (clearing my throat, clearly uncomfortable)
Andy: She won't smile for a hundred miles, even though I think she can.
Me: You just stepped on my foot.
In the locker room I sat blow drying my towel. I hate to pack wet things in my duffel bag. Andy sat down next to me. The bench shook for a moment; I think a 7.6 on the Richter scale. He spoke.
Andy: Can you help me?
Me: Yes, your pants don't match your shirt.
Andy: I mean getting me a gig.
I had thought I was Andy's gig. But what he meant was that he really, truly wants to be a singer. For a job. It's in his blood, he said, in his DNA. If you ask me, he does have a good voice and he is an interesting looking dude. But could he make a living at it? And how was I supposed to help him?
Me: How am I supposed to help you?
Andy: Use your influence with the media.
Me: You mean go on ESPN and talk about your vibrato?
Andy: No. Your blog.
So the following is for Andy. This is my influential, media-savvy blog letting the world know I have a personal trainer who really likes working out with me, but would really really love to sing for you. He's free most nights, except Sundays (he's a big Simpsons fan). If you need a voice for your bachelor party or office Christmas party or as a form of communication between you and your girlfriend, then I have the guy for you. He's a very, very large man, so leave enough space in the living room for both he and his voice. And he's great with animals, so no need to lock the dog and cat in the bedroom. He'll work almost for free, but you need to pay him a little bit. I'm getting 15%, and 15% of nothing won't pay my landscapers. We can start at $200 and work up from there.
In the meantime, I'm looking for some scissors or something. I can't seem to get these ropes off of my ankles.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
