Terms of Endearment

"Just when I thought I was about to make a clean getaway..." Great line by Jack Nicholson at the end of Terms of Endearment, the only movie that made me cry in 1983 (it was E.T. in '82).



Jack had just paid a visit to Shirley MacLaine, whose daughter was dying. Jack and Shirley had had a little affair together earlier in the movie, and as she drops him off at the airport, she tells him she loves him. Jack continues on, poised to walk into the terminal, when she shouts out to him, asking if he heard her. It's then that Jack says, "Just when I thought I was about to make a clean getaway." Remember his answer? Scroll to the bottom.

Thus, my story today begins with that line. Well, the line it really begins with is one of my final lines of Friday's post, in which I alluded to our front office personnel as "vermin." I don't actually know what vermin are. I just know they're probably yucky. My use of the term was not one anyone could consider endearing.

I didn't think much of my use of that word. It was hidden inside a paragraph and it just flowed out of me. That's what I told my wife, Vanessa.

Me: Like water from a river.
Vanessa: Like stupidity from an idiot.
Me: I like my simile better.
Vanessa: Do you ever think before you do these things? Or do you just hope nobody notices?

You see, Vanessa read my post. She doesn't usually read them, claiming not to have "the time." Somebody in the front office read my post, because that somebody told others in the front office. Of course, the media caught hold at some point during this process, which spread to newspapers, television, the internet... I can't think of any other media. Billboards. No, nobody's going to reprint portions of my blog posts on a billboard yet. They'd need my permission. But I digress. Lots of people ended up reading my comment about the front office being composed of "vermin." Vanessa eventually became one of the "lots of people" and her frustration with me was proof.

I didn't answer her questions, by the way. Still in search of the perfect psychiatrist/psychologist mix, I don't feel I can answer anything deep without consulting with someone who'll give me the right answer to repeat to people like my wife.

So, of course, I'm not speaking to the media, which makes my line blow up even more. And more questions are raised: Do I think all people in the front office are vermin? Even the interns? Even the people from the cleaning service who empty trash cans after 8PM? Or was there one or two specific folks I considered vermin? Either way, didn't I owe an apology to the entire front office, including interns and cleaning service people?

To me, it was clear, if you read the entire post, which most people probably didn't, that I was not calling interns, cleaning people, assistants, assistants to assistants, or the DHL guy, vermin. Those are fine people who don't need to be offended because they should know I was not referring to them. Still, I'll be a big man and apologize to them, their families, their ancestors and their descendants. The front office people who make the front office run are not vermin. They're very nice people with fancy haircuts and nice shoes.

It is clear I was referring to our General Manager, Alvin Kirby, who's been called a lot worse than "vermin" by a lot worse people than me (or is it I?). Alvin is a big boy who can handle a rogue player like me call him a name. Sticks and stones, right? The line it was a little quip I embedded into a much larger post that might have stung a little, from Alvin's perspective, but he's got much bigger problems, such as the sexual assault lawsuit, his pending divorce, the fact that the Vets are 14 and 16. I mean, if he hadn't tried to screw around with my super agent, Jack, and me a week ago, none of this would have ever happened. Needless to say, I apologize to Alvin for the public mockery of his title. He is a respectable man who has overcome a lot, especially racism, to become the first black GM of the Veterans and one of only two black GMs in baseball over the past 6 years. He should be proud of himself. I write that not to patronize, but to point out a point. I'd be damn proud if that were me.

However, the firestorm was in full swing by Saturday night. We blew away Salt Lake at home and were feeling good after winning two games in a row. I pitched an inning, gave up a hit but struck out two. Nice effort, if I do say so myself (and I say it a lot lately). After the game, I showered and walked back to my trailer in the parking lot with Andy, my personal trainer turned security liaison. Guess who's waiting there?

Alvin: Hi, Jimmy. Am I vermin?
Me: Not literally.
Alvin: I'm upset with you.
Me: I guess I can tell, since the team is in Phoenix, your office is in New York, it's Saturday night and you're standing in a Nashville parking lot with somebody who insulted you.
Alvin: Everything's a joke to you, isn't it? Wait, don't answer.
Me: Not answering.
Alvin: May I see this famous trailer of yours?

I bid Andy a good night but told him to stick close in case he hears me scream in terror. Then he could run away.

Alvin followed me inside. He commented on my accommodations, but I couldn't tell if he was insulting me or not. What do you think "small like your pea brain" means? Then he got right down to it. He flew into Nashville that day, a planned trip, to see me pitch and check out some of the team's AAA prospects. He thought I pitched well, better than the reports he'd been getting. I told him I'd been pitching better than the reports he'd been getting for a while. That's why he shouldn't have negotiated to have me play in Nashville for two more weeks. He told me I was $1 million richer because of those negotiations. I agreed and told him I would have settled for $250,000. He smiled. "I would have paid $2 million." I made a mental note to fire my super agent.

Alvin: You've got to stop making controversy with your blog.
Me: You've got to stop doing controversial things to me with the power of your position.
Alvin: I could release you in a heartbeat. Then you'd have nothing to look forward to this year, no seeing your wife and kids after home games, no rapport with the fans who've supported you for 14 years.
Me: It's not good to make decisions like that purely on emotion.
Alvin: Which is why you should think before releasing your stuff.
Me: I see you've been speaking to Vanessa.

We argued a little bit more, but it wasn't really too intense. He knew he was right and I knew he was right. I also knew that I'd probably make the same mistake again.

Alvin: Why can't you learn from your mistakes?
Me: I can as a baseball player. Hit a grand slam off of me and I'll know to throw high and tight to you for now on. But as a human, I am merely mortal.
Alvin: Most people know, eventually, that if they hurt others with their words that they shouldn't do it anymore.
Me: Okay. I won't bring up how you've tried to screw me and my contract twice in the last six months.
Alvin: Good. I won't bring up how you didn't rehab for the first six months after your injury.
Me: I was depressed.
Alvin: I was angry.
Me: As an aside, I'm not going to kiss you when we get to the make-up stage.

Alvin smiled at that. He really has had a rough go of it personally since February, and I assume since before then. Like me, he's made mistakes and probably said some inappropriate things in her non-baseball life. And like me, he just wants to put that behind him and win a world championship this year. If he doesn't, this is probably his last as our GM. And if I don't pitch well, it's probably my last year as a player. Vanessa won't like that. She thinks the controversies I'm going through this year are a direct result of my fear of the future. If I'm driving her crazy now, what's our life going to be like when I'm home every day for the rest of my life?

Alvin Kirby left around midnight. He was going to fly to Phoenix first thing Sunday morning. I had a game Sunday afternoon (we won again, I pitched another shutout inning). Today, Monday, we have another one of those 10:30 AM games. Weird timing. But today is also Halloween Day at Pepsi Field. Show up in a costume and get a free hot dog, courtesy of Ballpark Franks. Looking forward to seeing you at the ballpark today.

Oh, I found out what vermin are: Animals or insects, like cockroaches or rats, that are annoying and destructive.

No wonder nobody considered that a term of endearment.

Jack Nicholson's answer: "I love you too, kid."

The Sound Of Silence

Sorry for the blog blackout this week. Very sensitive negotiations were going on that just concluded last evening. For my career over the past year, this has proven to be a typical negotiation. But instead of jawing about it, or writing about it here, I used some decent judgement and kept a lid on my thoughts until all was through. Had I lifted a finger toward my keyboard, you know I would have been unstoppable. That's not good when you're negotiating with management.

Let me start from the beginning of this particular saga. I had an agreement with the team that I would be called up from Nashville on May 1st. No ifs, ands or buts. On May 1, I am in New York with the Veterans. My super agent, Jack Perry, received an email - not a phone call, an email - from GM Alvin Kirby last Friday, April 25th. The team, looking for more consistency from me, wanted me to stay with the Nashville club for an extra two to three weeks. Jack, a reasonable man, did not forward the email to me on account of my most likely making it public seconds later. Instead, Jack called Alvin and ripped into him for wanting to break an agreement and not being professional enough to call Jack about it. Apparently, someone hung up on someone, because the story didn't end there.

I received a call from Jack on Saturday (not an email) and was filled in on the new development. I called QVC and had my new luggage order put on hold while I sat on my hands and waited. Well, I didn't sit on my hands because I pitched Saturday night. My head, which as you know has not been as clear as it should be for someone being paid many millions of dollars for throwing a piece of dead cow at someone holding a dead tree, clouded over even further as I took the ball on the mound in the 9th inning. Before I walked off the mound 39 pitches later, our 2-run lead had somehow turned into a loss by three runs (in other words, I gave up five runs). Thank goodness we were in Omaha. I could pretend the cheers for the three run home run by what's his name rehabbing for K.C. were for me and not what's his name rehabbing for K.C.

I got back to my hotel room and starting posting a furious post in this space about how the team is screwing with my head and has been ever since this winter, when they offered me an extra buyout so I wouldn't opt into my contract; how I've been, in my head, demoted to relief pitcher, picked on by the front office, and languished in the minor leagues for a month with a (finally) healthy arm. And now I'm told the team wants to extend my stay in AAA by two to three more weeks.

Vanessa, my rock, my steady influence, my counselor, the one who will only enable me if what I'm trying to do is good for the greater good of society, our family, and me (not always in that order), told me to immediately delete the post. Do not upload it, no matter what. After arguing about it for ten minutes, I acquiesced to her wishes and threw my laptop out a second story hotel window in Omaha (just because I was mature enough to listen to her doesn't mean I was mature enough to like the decision).

We had a day game on Sunday. I didn't pitch because I'd thrown too many pitches on Saturday. So I sat, grumbling and mumbling and stewing, in the dugout. My Nashville Hounds manager, Dusty Graves, tried to cheer me up by letting me manage the 8th and 9th innings. Under my direction, the team blew a 2-0 lead and turned it into a 3-2 loss. By the time we'd made it onto the bus to the airport, I was no longer the only man over the age of 40 who was grumbling and mumbling and stewing.

I hit rock bottom on Monday. Back "home" in Nashville, I was booed by the 5000+ fans who came to see me pitch on what was supposed to be my final three games with the Hounds. We were losing 9-0 in the top of the 9th when I only needed to throw five pitches to get us to the bottom of the inning. The cheers I heard after that effortless half inning were sarcastic. I've been so inconsistent, the lack of pain I've felt (a good thing) has been outweighed by the fact that some nights I'm great and some I'm awful. Down by 9 runs, the fans are thinking, what pressure is there for a guy to throw a meaningless 1-2-3 inning? Answer: On this night, all the pressure in the world. Because...

By this point, Jack had gotten the Players Association involved. Legally (not in the real world, but in the baseball world), the team had to call me up on May 1. I've been down here on a minor league rehab assignment. The maximum number of days a player can play under those terms in the minor leagues is thirty. 28 days were complete and the team didn't want to call me up. Because of issues on the big league roster, they didn't want to cut another player because they had to call me up. They wanted two more weeks to "evaluate" the team (at that point, the Vets were 11 and 14) before making decisions. Their pitch to the PA was that I was still injured. I physically couldn't play in New York. My 1-2-3, 5-pitch inning on Monday kind of proved the flaw in their thinking.

But I stayed quiet. I was furious - still am - but didn't say anything to Dusty or you or any teammates. "Let Jack deal with this," I said.

I shouldn't have sent the email to Alvin Kirby. You don't tell yourself you're going to let your super agent fix a situation and then go behind his back and email your GM about what a jerk he's acting like. But I did it. Alvin, this time acting professional, didn't respond to me. He went to Jack. Called him. Apparently, they went at it pretty good. Just like Vanessa and me when I told her about what I'd done. (I would reprint the email here, but cooler heads have convinced me to delete it from the hard drive of my (then) new computer, which was found the following day in a dumpster behind the stadium hotel in a condition the police would later state as "mangled beyond recognition.")

Tuesday comes. Nothing. No news. I hate that. Just when you need to hear something - anything - you hear nothing. I think in this case, Jack and Alvin purposely kept me in the dark as punishment for the email. While that would be unprofessional, I wouldn't put it past either man. Because when you hear no news, you become paranoid. By Tuesday night, I was more paranoid than a serial killer at a detectives convention.

Wednesday drops by. It's now April 30. Do I stay or do I go? We have a very weird 10:30 AM game time. Stadium still sold out. I pitch the 9th inning, us down 3-2, and get out of a man on third, no outs jam by striking out three consecutive Mountain Men (on 11 pitches). Standing ovation as I leave the mound (this ovation for real; no sarcasm). Yes, they all believe I'm done in Nashville, my beyond-the-bleachers, Pepsi Field parking lot trailer home to be auctioned off with the proceeds going to a local food bank. They love that I was here and are probably happy that I'll be gone (just because the team has been horrible this April). I don't know whether to smile or cry. Where will I be on Thursday?

I found out an hour later (while taking a taxi to a Best Buy to get myself a new laptop). Finally. A deal was made. After the game, I was removed from the DL, called up, and placed back on the DL. While the Vets had to make a corresponding roster move for the thirty seconds that I was up on the team - a move they hadn't wanted to make - they got their ultimate wish for me to stay in AAA for 15 more days.

What did I get? The Players Association approved my receiving a "special bonus" for my troubles, a bonus of $1 million. Jack, my super agent, never budged from that ridiculous sum of money. All along, the team wanted to pay me nothing extra. So I went from two weeks at my base pay to two weeks for $1 million. I can't cry over the deal. After all, it's a million dollars.

Thus, I began my official final two weeks for AAA Nashville by pitching a second day in a row Thursday night, my Hounds down 5-0 already, and mowing down the Mountain Men in order. My head has cleared somewhat. My wallet has bulged quite a bit (don't get all upset, after taxes and commissions, I'm donating the full amount to the same Nashville food bank that's receiving the proceeds from the auctioning off of my trailer). I know for sure now that with my health and this final 15 (now 14 and not the 21 the team was insisting on) days with the Hounds, I'll be that much better for the Vets. I can feel it.

As per my relationship with the NY front office? It stinks. But you know what? That's why I have a super agent. Let Jack deal with the vermin who run the Vets. I'm a player. The clock is ticking down to my first appearance in a year with NY. I think you're going to be happy to see me. Lord knows, I'll be happy to see you.

In Stitches

It took 11 stitches to close the injury to my forehead. The doctor performing the procedure told me it looked like the cut was either caused by glass or scissors - very clean but kind of deep. He led me to believe my cut was worse than I had believed, if you can believe that. Vanessa took me home and I couldn't sleep. Horrible night of pain, headache, nightmares...

Meanwhile, I understand the team put Corey Belle on the restricted list first thing this morning. He can't come anywhere near the team and will not be paid. I'm sure he's going to get cut, but my kind of cut will still be worse than his. He'll easily get picked up by another team. I'll have this scar for the rest of my life.

Alvin suffered a broken nose. He was in the complex today with a big white splint-type thing on his face. His eyes were starting to get blackened. He didn't talk to reporters or, as a matter of fact, any of us. He's had a tough go this spring, with the sexual assault charges, the hearing that's scheduled to take place in a few weeks, the public ending of his marriage, and now the Corey Belle fiasco. I hope for his sake it doesn't get any worse.

As for Rick, he was here at 7AM this morning, arm in a sling. He's got a dislocated shoulder and a bunch of cuts and abrasions. Nothing terribly bad, but still, who expected one of his own players to attack him like that?

A few others - Lyman Gaye, Willie Cordero - came in today with cuts, black eyes, etc. Nobody had to take the day off. But this Corey Belle thing was a major distraction. First, he's probably going to hit 40 home runs this year for somebody, we're pretty sure not us now. And when something of this magnitude happens to a team, it's takes a little while to get over it. Getting into a fight is a traumatic event for someone. A freakin' all-out brawl offers ten times the trauma. That it happened twice... well, multiply the second number by a whole lot more.

We're still unsure if Rick or Alvin are going to press charges. The police were here today and questioned everyone. I told them I wasn't going to be responsible for sending a teammate to jail. He does need some pretty serious anger management classes, however. I mentioned to the cops that I was going to officially give Corey the silent treatment "for some time." They didn't know what to make of that, so they moved on. You could kind of tell these guys thought it was pretty cool to be talking to all of us on the team. They were very professional, but you could still sense they were a little in awe.

I didn't do any drills or working out today. My head still hurt and I had no energy. I hung around and chatted and ate a bit. The team breaks camp after a final game tomorrow. The timing is good. We're ready to get out of here.

Vanessa, Alyssa & Grace fly home today. The girls can't wait to go back to their "own" school. Vanessa's looking forward to sleeping in our own bed again too. Her only trepidation is Connie, the stalking neighbor, who keeps calling Vanessa's cell. Vanessa's probably going to get another one. She'll have two and be like some of the guys here who have one cell for their wives and the other for their girlfriends. Only Vanessa will have one for Connie and the other for the rest of the world.

I take off for Nashville on Sunday. My living arrangements are just about set, but I don't want to reveal them until I'm confident that I'll actually do it. My first game with our AAA squad will take place on Thursday. I haven't pitched in the minor leagues since 1988. Can't say I've missed it, but I'll try to make the best of it. That's all we can do when we have no control. I only hope Corey Belle turns his situation into something positive as well.

A Farewell To Arms

It's been a somewhat tumultuous spring training for me personally, but until the Corey Belle/Lyman Gaye incident the other day, the rest of the team has been fairly sedate. That the Belle/Gaye incident is all anyone will remember from this spring is good in that we didn't have any major injuries (even Lyman escaped his car accident in one piece) and had a winning record (we're 18 and 10 with 3 games left). It's bad because, well, that means everybody's going to remember the day Corey Belle and Lyman Gaye, teammates, got into a fight.

As you all know by now, the fight escalated a bit yesterday. (I say "a bit" sarcastically.)

At this point in spring training, doing drills is a thing of the past. Players are still working on some things, but mostly we're all about starting the season. We've been down here since Valentine's Day and it's time to go home. At least that's what I think. Only I'm not going home, I'm going to Nashville to start my season. My arm strength is improving and I'm hoping to spend only a couple of weeks there instead of a month. I think Rick and Alvin are set on the latter, but I'm going to try to convince them otherwise.

Which leads me to yesterday's simulated game. Wait, before that... Before yesterday even started, the team announced a 10-game suspension for Corey Belle to start the season. Personally, I was hoping for about three times that, just to make a point, because 10 games will be reduced to 4 or 5 after Corey appeals. But it's still something, and I credit manager Rick Churches and GM Alvin Kirby with willing to risk losing our best hitter for the first two weeks of the season.

Turns out they were risking a little bit more.

Back to the fake - sorry - simulated game. I didn't want to travel 2 hours by bus to Daytona to play the Commons, so I found myself on a back field with Willie Cordero, Diego Munoz, Steve Pond and a handful of minor leaguers, pitchers who were about to be sent to their own camp. We were going to get some work in and face mostly minor leaguers. Lyman Gaye was part of the offensive squad so he could get 8 to 10 ABs and work on his timing.

Rick didn't make the trip to Daytona either. He wanted to get a good look at Willie and me and a couple of other guys coming off injury and trying to make an impact as soon as possible. Alvin, as always, was floating around the complex too.

I guess it was the fifth inning. I was on the mound and Lyman was at the plate. Funny to me, since Lyman was the guy at the plate last April when I blew out my elbow. That made this a good test for me. Could I overcome my demons? Could I overcome my recent past? Would I have a bad, superstitious feeling and be unable to perform?

The questions have yet to be answered.

I toed the rubber and looked down at Lyman as he dug into the box. The ball was hidden in my glove and I began my motion. But then something caught my eye and ears. It was Corey Belle, in streetclothes (not fatigues like a few places reported), jawing away. Apparently, he'd gotten the memo about his suspension and wanted to speak about it. He was yelling, "The Belle tolls, mother******! The Belle tolls, mother******!" I was sort of a Hemingway buff in college and pleasantly (under the circumstances) surprised at Corey's literary reference. (Later I was told he'd heard it from a rap song by Lil' J. I have a call into Lil' J's reps for comment.)

Normally, a pitcher can work through this kind of distraction. I've pitched while 50,000 fans (not mine) have booed me. I've pitched while drunken fans brawl in the loge level. I've pitched while The Kissing Thief has run onto the field to make out with a good looking shortstop. But simulated games are different. No matter how hard anyone tries to make them appear real, they're not. So I didn't have my regular intensity. I didn't have the focus I usually have on the mound. That's why, when Corey came barrelling onto the sidelines, I stopped and didn't throw my pitch to Lyman. Instead, I watched.

Corey went straight for Rick. "You ballheaded me, man! You turned it off!" Rick, who had been sitting in a foldout chair in front of the dugout, stood up, not in any threatening manner, just like one would stand when guests came over for brie and crackers. Corey didn't stop. He walked right into Rick. Rick told him to back away. Corey said nothing (finally) and attacked. He threw a punch at Rick's face, made contact, and followed up by starting to strangle (not choke) him. Rick was down on his knees in less than a second (remember these are two very big men, one who hit 40+ HRs last year and one who did 15 years ago).

Corey was now involved in his second fight in three days with a member of his team. The worst part about this one is he was beating up, and apparently trying to kill, his boss. Not a smart move.

By now, Lyman had joined the two-man fray. He made a running tackle of Corey, who didn't release Rick from his grip. The three men rolled. I started to hear the sound of staggered, struggling breathing. Sweat and spit were shooting into the air. A little red, the red of blood, was joining the colors of the men as they battled.

The pile grew. Everyone was trying to get at Corey, who was determined - it seemed - to either kill or send a very pointed message to his field manager.

I had not become involved in the melee. While I've been in my share of on field fights (usually involving some hard playground-type shoving and calling one another's mother nasty names), I've never been in one while rehabbing from an injury. I won't say that wasn't on my mind. I've seen guys get injured during fights and I've seen guys get re-injured during fights. While my first reaction was to join in, my other, somehow mature reaction was to hold off.

To my credit, Willie Cordero, coming off shoulder surgery, was trying to stay out of it as well. I could see him through the bodies, sitting in his chair in the dugout, watching the action like it was the WWE. Steel cage match.

Complex security made it to the scene rather quickly. Two guys in shorts, polo shirts and sunglasses (that's Florida spring training security for ya) jumped in, soon joined by another couple of guys. They succeeded in pulling people away and holding onto Corey (while on the ground).

Rick was up now. So was Lyman. Our on duty trainer was looking at Rick's neck, which was bleeding, and his upper lip, which was bleeding. His uniform was torn and muddy (we had rain last night). Lyman took a knee so he could catch his breath. From where I stood, still on the mound, he was unharmed.

Corey was escorted away after a couple of minutes. Still upset, still yelling stuff, it felt safe to say we weren't going to see Corey again for a long time.

The game was called before I got to throw my pitch. Rick needed some medical attention and everyone else had had their workout. So we retired to the clubhouse, which is a five-minute stroll away.

We were a pretty quiet bunch, even the minor leaguers who must have been in total awe about what they'd just seen. Rick was taken to the training room in the clubhouse and most of us either hit the showers or sat in front of our lockers feeling kind of weird. That was no baseball fight. That was assault and battery and, to most of us, attempted murder. This was the kind of thing that guys get arrested for; that guys go to jail for. There were 20+ witnesses. Corey didn't have a chance.

I showered and just stood under the water. I hadn't lifted one finger for the day (besides my personal morning workout, which doesn't count here) and was exhausted. The hissing of multiple shower heads in action, the heat of the water on my semi-balding skull, it was just what I needed. It was like yoga. Relaxing.

"MOTHERFU****!"

I knew the voice. My stupor was jolted back into the real world. My reaction was to run, not away, but toward the voice. Three or four other guys, also showering, did the same thing. (In retrospect, it must have looked kind of funny to see four wet, grown (one with a good lather on his head) athletic men slipping and sliding around the locker room naked.) We had to find Corey before he found Rick. This was bad.

It got worse.

By the time we got into the training room, Corey was already there. He was in Alvin's face though, not Rick's. Before we could get in between them, Corey attacked. He shoved his forearm into Alvin's face (broke his nose) and pushed him into a cabinet, which shook. You could hear the stuff inside falling about, some glass breaking, some metal objects clanging together.

I was the first one on Corey this time. I grabbed his jaw and pulled upward. Some other guys went for his midsection. We all fell together onto the cold tile floor, Alvin included. I was now at the bottom of the pile. My grip was gone and I was at this point trying to protect what a jock strap was invented for (never fight in the nude, you're not as effective as if you'd been wearing, oh, let's say a suit of armor). Bodies shifted violently. Voices roared. I felt like I was in the middle of the kitchen while a tornado was striking the house. Scared the hell out of me.

And then, suddenly, all of the bodies were off. I layed (or lied?) on the tile, hands covering "down there," legs trying to remember the fetal position I recall I liked so much in my mother's womb. Somebody threw a towel onto me. The action had moved into the locker room, only it was just voices now, Corey's voice and Alvin's voice and Rick's voice and a number of other ones, all yelling insults, screaming some terrible things. The noise moved further away from me and I got up.

The trainer's room was a complete shambles. I had to watch my step as I left. Medical supplies were everywhere. A table was on its side. Chairs were upended.

In the locker room, I could tell things had improved. Corey was definitely gone now, literally and figuratively. His voice carried away quickly and was finally muted for good. Really for good this time.

I wiped the sweat off my brow with the towel and went to my locker and put on some underwear. "You got sometheen on your head, man" Willie Cordero said. He was walking by, a pretty large welt growing under his eye.

I wiped some more sweat and looked for a mirror. Then I saw The Cut. "Oh boy," I said, but not in those words. It wasn't a Cut. It was a Wound. The kind you need to go to the hospital for. Actually it was a Gash (not a Wound) on my forehead. I wasn't sweating, I was bleeding. I looked at the towel in my hand, I guess for the first time. It was stained red with blood. My blood.

I returned to the trainer's room, now being repaired by two clubhouse boys (each in their early-twenties), and found some gauze. I slapped it on my forehead, went to my locker, threw on some clothes, and drove home. I had had enough. I was tired. And I wanted some extra special attention. Vanessa would give it to me. She'd ask what happened and drive me to the doctor and hold my hand and tell me how brave I was. And I'd hold her hand back and be glad that she felt that way about me. Then I'd go home with her and sleep. I wanted to get Corey Belle out of my head once and for all. The Belle tolled today. It tolled for him.

Looking For The Same Page

We're not on the same page. The "we" in this case is me and the management of the New York Veterans. It seems that just as we start getting into a good groove, just as we begin to get along, or learn how to co-exist on the same earth together, something else happens. Admittedly, I've been the cause of the "something else" more than once. But this time, I had nothing to do with it.

Over the last few days, I've started hearing little pieces of gossip about me. Baseball gossip, which is different from personal "did you hear Jimmy's going to buy a toupee" gossip. Generally, the baseball gossip is more serious (nope, I have not purchased a toupee, just a larger hat). The gossip I've been hearing is that GM Alvin and manager Rick have spoken with each other about my possibly returning to the team sooner, but in the bullpen. Not necessarily a bad thing. Whatever brings me back to the team the quickest, I'll do (how's that for a tired cliche?).

But it gets better.

Rick has a weekly show on WTEM - Sports Radio ("The Team!"). He spoke before last night's game with Jock & Jerry about various aspects of the team, including my status. I wasn't listening because I'm in Florida and The Team! is in New York, plus I don't know Rick's personal schedule. I think he gets paid $100,000 or so to do this every-Wednesday afternoon gig. On the show, Rick made a sort of announcement about me that he hadn't yet talked to me about. Not a good thing.

More on that in a moment.

We played Cleveland last night, one of the small handful of night games on our spring training schedule. Closer Billy Weston's middle finger was still stiff, so they tell me around the 4th inning that they'll bring me in in his scheduled spot in the 6th inning (they put the veteran relievers who've made the team in the game earlier so they don't have to stick around until the end of the game) "just to get some light work in." Fine, not a big deal. I'd rather pitch in a real game than on a back field to a few young minor leaguers who can still grow hair on their scalps.

Only Rick didn't bring me in for the 6th. Or the 7th. Or the 8th. I'm sitting around for an hour waiting to be told to warm up. No communication at all. Quite frankly, I wanted to be home by the end of the game. I got here early in the morning, worked out hard for a few hours, watched video for a while, and expected to be in bed by 10 pm. Instead, at 9:15 I was told to finally run out to the bullpen to warm up. I was going in for the 9th.

I shook my head and ran out. Began to throw to Johnny Mathis, who looks like will be our opening day backup catcher. Man, Johnny can talk. Nice kid. Loves to talk though. But who am I to criticize?

So I'm warming up with Johnny, he's chattering away, and the fans start gathering close to the bullpen area, which isn't really a pen, it's a strip of grass with mound and plate near the right field line. The fans start yelling things, like how am I going to get to 300 wins if I'm a reliever or if I'd get as many saves as victories and stuff like that. One guy told me I was ugly and going bald. I reminded him that I was rich too, so I had a leg up on him. Shut his mouth right away.

The 9th inning starts. We're ahead by 1 run. I'm not pretending, like I did a few days ago, that this is the World Championship Series. I'm pretending this is spring training and I just want to get my pitches to work so I can build up arm strength and be back in the rotation by May 1. I don't get the chance. First pitch fastball = ground ball out. Next batter (anyone know #97 on Cleveland?) hits my second pitch a mile high straight up. Johnny loses it in the lights but makes a last-second basket catch. 3 pitches, 2 outs. I throw a ball one to the next guy, but on my next pitch he grounds the ball to me. I toss to first and my day is over. 5 pitches, game over.

Only my day wasn't over.

While I haven't spoken to reporters in a couple of months now, they still speak to me. A hundred of them (not really) crowded around my locker after the game. "Did you hear, Jimmy?" "What did Rick tell you, Jimmy?" Blah, blah, blah. I told them Rick didn't tell me anything, so I have nothing to say to them. As I'm wondering if I broke my vow not to speak to the press by speaking to them, another one says that Rick, on The Team! before the game, said I was going to pitch strictly out of the bullpen this year. Plus, I'd still start the season in Nashville, but build myself to the point where I could pitch on back-to-back days, maybe three in a row if possible.

I smiled. Nodded. This was news to me. I've been under the assumption, since this is what they'd told me, that I was going to Nashville to pitch every fifth day. I'd only be in Nashville on game days and be back in the rotation by May 1. Apparently, they changed their minds.

Without telling me.

I went into Rick's office, furious. I didn't care that his door was shut, or that the entire New York media crew was watching, or that I didn't have any pants on. I was furious to care.

Rick seemed to be waiting for me. He was in the office with Alvin, bench coach Chazz Waters and pitching coach Bobby Spencer. Seemed like they were all waiting for me. So I started gently. "Jes*s fu*cking Chri*st, Rick! You don't make a fu*king announcement like this to the g*ddam* fuc*ing media without tell me first, you f*cking ignoramus!"

Rick hadn't just been waiting for me to come in. He'd also been waiting to apologize. Seems he made a mistake by telling the media about his new plan before telling me. And Alvin and Chazz were in there explaining the media world to Rick, interesting since Rick was part of the media up until last October. But new jobs, new perspectives sometimes blind us to what's right. What Rick did was wrong. And Alvin and Chazz were there (before me) to let him know this.

Bobby was the first to jump in. He stood up and said, "Jimmy, you want to go get some pants?"

"No! I don't need any fu*king g*ddam* pants!" I was still a little upset. (FYI - I did have on underwear. Don't want you to get the impression that I'm... oh forget it.) Bobby sat down.

"Jimmy," Alvin said, "we're sorry you heard it this way."

"Heard what?" I said. "Tell me what I'm hearing, then tell me if it's true."

Bobby popped up out of his chair again. "I think you'll make a great 8th inning guy. You hit 91 on the gun tonight. Did you know that? Your pitches are moving all over the place, then ending up in the strike zone. At this point in your body's physical career, you'll be better off pitching four or five innings a week over 7 days rather than five and a third every 5th." Then he sat down.

"Rick," I said, "why are you so quiet?"

"Because I don't want to upset you any more than I already have."

This was strange. Rick has been a giant tumor growing inside of me since he took this job. Now he's suddenly apologetic? Now he's being sensitive with me? Now he cares about my feelings?

"To tell you the truth," Rick said, looking at Alvin and then back at me, "we thought you were washed up. We thought you were dead weight pulling down lots of money and mouthing off at every opportunity to save your job."

"We knew you were working hard," Alvin said.

"No you didn't," I said.

"Yes we did. We just didn't think you were getting any results."

All they had to do was watch, I told them. Instead, we went to arbitration over my contract, over my health and their misconception about it, over their desire to send me out to pasture to chew on grass all day. They should have known I'm not an outfielder.

"You're getting results now," Chazz said. He smiled. Chazz was my manager here for six years, back when I was winning 20 games a season, the team was winning back-to-back world championships, and he was manager of the year three times. He knows me better than anyone in this organization. "If you want to keep making a sh*tload of money and playing ball, you'll see that this will extend your career longer than you could have imagined."

"That's my problem," I said. "I imagined I'd play this year, pitch at the beginning of games, win 10 or 15, and be done with a little over 300 for my career and another championship for us."

"You're a part of this team," Rick said. "And maybe not for just one year."

Again with the sensitivity.

They then told me I'd be in Nashville for between 2 weeks and a month. But I'd have to be with the team the whole time, the Nashville team. No trips to New York on days I didn't pitch. They wanted me to get to the point where I could throw an inning three days in a row.

"You can do it," Bobby Spencer said, once again standing up. "Your body, as it stands (I was standing, as a matter of fact), is built better for this than what you wanted, or expected." Once again, he sat down.

My head was spinning. I walked out and didn't commit to anything. I just walked out. Still not wearing pants.

The media pounced the moment I re-entered the locker room. Was I mad? Was I prepared to pitch from the pen? Could I adjust to this new situation? Where was I going to live in Nashville?

The last question got to me. I didn't know. I didn't know about anything. I thought I'd be home with Vanessa, with my girls. I wanted that. I expected that. Then a weird thing happened. I got a giant lump in my throat knowing I'd be living by myself for a month. A 10-day roadtrip, that's one thing. 30 days away, that's another. The only thing I knew as I blew off the media at my locker and pulled on a pair of jeans was that I was going to miss my family more this year than ever. And even worse, what if Bobby and Chazz were right? What if I was better off in this new situation? What if the pull of success, of winning, made me change my mind and want to keep playing for another 2, 3 or 4 years? That hasn't my family plan ever since the injury. But suppose I wanted to change it? Suppose my future success altered my present perspective?

I drove home to tell Vanessa so she wouldn't hear the news from the media first. I suddenly had a lot to say, but no idea what needed to be said. The lump in my throat grew larger as I pulled out of the players' parking lot and turned on the radio. The local sports station was on. Apparently, I was headed for the bullpen.

18 Holes of Darkness

On Sunday, Mrs. Joan Delaney celebrated the one year anniversary of her majority ownership of the team and regional sports network, NYS. I think her purchase price was in the $800 million range, of which she accounted for about 60% on her own. She comes from political stock; my dad says he would have voted for Mrs. Delaney's father's Massachusetts senate campaign back in the 1960s, but he wasn't the type to vote back then. Not sure if he is today, for that matter.

The group of investors she put together to fund the remaining 40% ranged from the Hip Hop star KC9 (we see him the most during the season) to her husband, Anthony DiMaeo, a Queens-based real estate developer. Mr. DiMaeo is a fixture here this spring, constantly bringing clients around the various practice fields to meet with various players, take a hack in the cage, or just absorb the scene around our Fort Pierce complex. A couple of the guys have complained about the quality of Mr. DiMaeo's clientele, like how things wind up missing from the locker room after one of his "backstage" tours. But he's an owner. What's ours is kind of his, to a degree, so there's not a lot we can do without causing a major uproar.

On Sunday, Mrs. Delaney took the team for a golf outing. While it sounds nice, another minor uproar flared up since the outing took place after a noon game in which we were clobbered 16 to 2. (We're 1 and 5 right now, if you're keeping track, even though the games don't count.) Most of the guys wanted to spend the rest of the afternoon with their families, or away from each other. But, as I said before, she's an owner. The majority owner. There was a little pressure on us to go.

There are 60 players in camp this spring. Because some can't walk or move, 47 of us went on the outing. It was at a place called the Brystal Springs Golf Club in St. Lucie, about half an hour away. We weren't able to tee off until 4:30. The name of the game was Rush. From when a team teed off, they had one hour to play all 18 holes. Not the way most of our resident golfers liked to play, but it was the only way to finish before dark. A couple guys grumbled that we should have played next Sunday, after daylight savings time starts. But I assume Mrs. Delaney had to be somewhere else then.

My team consisted of Mrs. Delaney, GM Alvin Kirby, manager Rick Churches, and me. I'm a horrible golfer and even worse around authority figures. And since I've had nothing but trouble with two of these three authority figures since November, I found the composition of our team somewhat interesting.

Mrs. Delaney is a great golfer. She told us how she was one of the top female amateur golfers in the country while growing up. Her hole-in-one on the fifth hole reminded us of this fact.

I am a terrible golfer. Like bowling, the game of golf fools around negatively with some of the muscles I use for baseball, so I rarely play and, when I do, don't take it seriously.

Before our group teed off - we were the last of 15 groups to go (Mr. DiMaeo brought 2 groups of his own to our "team" outing and KC9 had a group) - I told my team that I stink. I specifically asked them, "Are you going to take this seriously?" They shook their heads. No, was the consensus. There were just out to have a good time.

By the second hole, I could tell they were lying. Rick was swearing up and down the green. Alvin did the opposite and wouldn't speak at all. Mrs. Delaney was doing well, so she agreed to be the designated driver of the cart. I fell into an early hole (pun intended) and was 17 strokes behind Mrs. Delaney by the fifth.

It was around the eighth hole that things bubbled over a bit. Rick missed a birdie and threw his club at the ball, sitting about half an inch from the cup. I laughed. Because I suck, didn't care that I sucked, and didn't care about the score, I had that ability. "Shut the f**k up, Jimmy," Rick said. Mrs. Delaney told him to hush. She's got a pretty salty mouth of her own, but she could tell the acid in Rick's stomach was reaching his tongue.

Alvin, who as a general manager needs to keep his emotions in check at all times, fell apart at the tenth hole. A simple three-inch put veered a hair to the left. Alvin took his putter and snapped it in two over his knee after that.

A second hole-in-one by Mrs. Delaney on the thirteenth cemented her victory, with 5 holes to go. The sun was setting and I'd more than given up twelve holes before. By now, I was more spectator than player, swinging wildly, missing balls, and cheating when possible. Rick went berserk at one point, running after a ball I'd thrown about 25 yards and bringing it back to me. He said I either play by the rules or get off his team. There was a double-meaning there that I chose to ignore. I swung my club like a baseball bat and hit the ball into a sand trap. If it wasn't almost night, I would have made a castle or two, but we were now battling the fading light as well as each other. There wasn't time to play in the sand.

On the 18th hole, I sent Rick and Alvin into a tantrum and muted frenzy, respectively, by coming closest to the hole with a hole in one of my own. Mrs. Delaney told me of a "kinship" she felt with me, the way I'd come back from adversity to succeed. There was a double-meaning there that I chose to embrace. "Thank you," I said. "You inspire me." The whites of Rick's eyes literally turned red and the top of his skull blew off from a cranial steam explosion, just like a cartoon. If it wasn't so dark, I'd have taken a picture.

We had a team dinner to follow. Like with the golf game, significant others weren't invited, so there was quite a bit of quiet discontent. Our Sunday had become a complete washout, what with workouts, the baseball game, and this team outing. But many of us are millionaires; we'll be able to afford plenty of time with our families once we're done with our baseball careers. Mrs. Delaney, who's close to a billionaire, mentioned to me during our game that some people in life need to remember where they came from, while others need to know where they are. As I stood next to Rick, who was playing a game of Rush with a shot of something strong at the bar, I repeated Mrs. Delaney's words. He looked at me and told me to go to hell.

There was no double meaning there. I chose to ignore him anyway.

The Cosa Nostra Sit-Down

Since I beat the team through arbitration in my grievance with them on Monday, I had zero contact with anyone in management since - until today. I read the things Alvin said in the paper, which wasn't much since he was just coming back from his, what turned out to be, self-imposed suspension after the allegations against him of sexual assault. Reporters beat him down with questions about that (to which he could only answer a scant few) before someone brought up our grievance proceeding. I give him credit for using his sense of optimism. "If the worst news for me this year is Jimmy Scott playing for this team at half of who he used to be, I'll be having a pretty good year."

It was nice to hear him say something like that. Neither he nor Rick Churches have supported me very much since last season ended. I think part of that had to do with the way last season ended, with the controversy around (former) manager Larry Picketts and his criticism of the organization (peppered with some unprintable language - unprintable in any language). Spring training always brings hope for a new season. Maybe Alvin caught of whiff of hope and felt like spreading some goodwill toward his men.

Rick's another story. His first year at the helm here, and first year out of the broadcast booth in the last 18, Rick is trying to be part Marine drill sergeant and part teddy bear with everyone down here. His approach varies depending upon the situation, and I laud him for being flexible. The only person he hasn't been flexible with is...me.

I don't really know why.

Last week, in a rare moment of us being in the same room together for longer than it takes to sneeze, I asked him if he was upset that my father replaced him in the TV booth and now he had two different Scotts in two different forums available to skewer him when he makes a mistake. I meant it as a joke. My father, "Red" Scott, doesn't criticize from the TV booth. Like Alvin in spring training, "Red," when on the air, finds a piece of good in almost every event pertaining to a baseball game. There's virtually nothing Rick can do to face the wrath of "Red" Scott. And it's not my place here to openly Monday Morning Quarterback his every move.

He didn't think my joke was funny.

So when I beat the team on Monday, nothing from him. Nothing Tuesday or Wednesday. A couple of unnamed teammates (they have names, we all do, but I am just choosing here not to release them to the public without accepting monetary bribes first) told me, peppered with Larry Picketts-style bad language, that I should do something to fix this standoff. Rick's Marine drill sergeant act was wearing thin and they would soon take their frustration out on me (unless I offered them monetary bribes first).

So I called super agent Jack Perry and asked him to set up a meeting, an old fashioned, mob-style, Cosa Nostra sit-down, between Rick, Alvin and me at Morton's, a steakhouse in Ft. Pierce not far from our complex. No agent present. No assistant GMs jockeying for a seat closest to Alvin. No cameras or reporters.

They had one objection. They claimed I'm a reporter. What the f*ck, I said to Jack. I'm no more reporter than they are Marines. "Then stop blogging," Jack said. I conceded the point for the sake of team unity. They could invite one reporter to attend. But he had to be objective, I said. I'm sure they laughed at that one. An objective baseball columnist is as common as a four leaf clover in Baghdad. They chose Steve Guttman from the New York Independent.

I like Steve as a person. He's written some nice things about me in the past. In the more recent past, he hasn't. But his agenda is readership. Not skewership.

As I'm not talking to the media, I told Steve when we all sat down that everything I said was off the record. Immediately, Rick and Alvin objected. They said I couldn't post anything they said then. Our sit-down had become a standoff.

Steve suggested he call his editor, Mark Patton, who has covered the NY sports scene for almost 40 years. "Mark's seen everything," Steve said. "Let him reconcile this."

After arguing whose cell phone to use (nobody wanted to pay for the long-distance call), Steve said he'd use his. He put it on speaker and talked. Mark laughed for about 90 seconds before he told us how ridiculous we all were. Rick intervened and said we called for advice, not an intervention. Mark apologized through what sounded like a wide smile and said I should allow Steve to print my comments, as long as he slanted the comments in terms of a conversation he heard, not a direct interview with me. That kind of made sense, although I knew Mark's allegiance was to his paper and Steve before it was to me and my "cause." His suggestion was as slanted as his viewpoint. I quick-called super agent Jack Perry for his counsel and he told me to just do it and to stop calling him so he could do some work. I disagreed with everyone but knew I was outmanned and had been outflanked. I realized I should have thought about the issue before agreeing to having a reporter present. But, as Vanessa, my lovely and occasionally encouraging wife, knows I'm not one to think things through before acting. Case in point: This blog.

Steve took out a recorder and put it on the table. I told him to turn it off. Notes only. My voice would not be recorded. "Stealing your soul, Jimmy?" Rick said. I smiled and said no. I just didn't want him to get his fat hands on it to play for the world in a press conference the next day. Steve pulled it away and began writing furiously.

Alvin asked if we could start. I agreed and called over the waiter. It was time to order. Rick complained he hadn't had time to look at the menu. I told him we were at Morton's. They served steak. Order a f*cking steak. Steve wrote furiously, breaking the tip off of his pen and looking for a sharpener. Alvin patted Rick on the shoulder and told him to settle down. I asked for the NY sirloin, medium rare, and a water.

We all ordered, Steve got a new pen, and had our privacy back (we were in a meeting room, not the general dining room which was filled with early birds having dinner at 2:30 in the afternoon). The words began to fly from Alvin.

Alvin's a good man. Allegations aside, I know when it comes to baseball and our team, he wants us to win. He's willing to deal with the 25 personalities on a ballclub, as well as the personalities of the coaching staff, the front office staff, ownership, and the other 29 GMs trying to beat him. It's a tough job that I would never want to attempt, even for a day.

He spoke eloquently about the problems we've had with each other, going back to November. He addressed some miscommunication between his staff and my agent. He addressed their frustration at my "duplicitous" nature - allegedly agreeing to retire, then not, then turning toward this public forum and turning away from traditional media. He explained that, at the time, they believed their tact of using a second opinion from a doctor who never even examined me to force me to retire was the right move, even though, yes, it came back to embarrass the team. And he apologized for Rick's stubbornness throughout the entire affair.

In my rebuttal, I explained I was upset the moment they approached me about not invoking my personal option to play this year, about pushing their "youth movement" stance that led to them signing 3 free agents older than 33. I said that if any party had been "duplicitous," it had been them; that their "miscommunication" with my super agent was what led them to believe I was "duplicitous," and since he admitted to a "miscommunication" with Jack, in turn, Alvin should also admit that I had not been "duplicitous" at all.

"We're getting caught up in tiny details," Alvin said. "Let's move on."

"Sure," I said. "As long as you stop bringing up tiny details."

He didn't say anything. I turned to Rick, my new field manager, the man at the table who, going forward, really held the power. I had my roster spot. I was going to play this year. Alvin was committed to my being on the team at some point. But Rick - he was the one who either would or would not put me in the game. And he knew this. That's why he was sitting up straighter than anyone else, wearing the smirk he bought in the off season to show off to me.

"You hate me," I said to him, hoping to jump start a dialog.

Rick said nothing. Steve stopped taking notes and watched. Then, there was this exchange:

Alvin: Rick doesn't hate you.
Me: Yes he does.
Alvin: No he doesn't.
Waiter: How is everything?
Rick: Get the f*ck out of here.
Me: See? He's not a happy man when I'm around. Alvin, you'll have to leave an extra-large tip because of Rick's outburst. He's already cost you a loss in my arbitration. If he keeps this up all year, the team won't be able to afford to pay for its dry cleaning bill.
Rick: I don't hate you.

It was strange. At that moment, I could tell that he didn't hate me. At that moment, maybe he didn't. But moments pass, replaced by new ones. I stayed on my toes in case a bad moment was around the corner.

Rick: I despise you. I loathe you. I can't stand you. But I don't hate you.
Me: You getting this, Steve? He can repeat it if you need him to.
Steve: I get the gist.
Me: We just don't want you to misquote him.
Steve: As long as you don't.
Me: I'm wired. We're cool.

It was right about here that Rick flipped out. The moment had definitely passed.

Rick jumped up from the table and approached me very quickly, yelling about how I probably was wired and the whole tape recorder discussion half an hour before was a sham, how everything about me was a sham, how my whole career had been a scam.

I commented on the rhythm of his rhyme scheme while Alvin stood between us. Then I said I wasn't wired. He be better off if he didn't listen to conversations other people wee having.

Alvin told me it was okay to climb out of the fetal position I had coiled into under the table. We all sat back down and tried to have a civilized conversation.

Rick: Don't undermine me. That's all I ask.
Me: Why would I do that?
Rick: Because you hate me back.
Me: You realize you just admitted that you hated me.
Rick: I do now.

The moment really had passed.

Me: No, I don't want to undermine you.
Alvin: No breaking news before we release a statement. No comments on personnel without running it through me. No criticisms of anyone sitting at the table.
Me: Should I ask Congress to revoke the entire first amendment?
Rick: Don't be a wise ass all the time.
Me: Don't try to control something you have no control over.
Rick: You have no idea the pressure a manager is under.
Me: I don't.
Rick: Just cut me some slack.
Me: Promise you won't try to hit me?
Rick: No.
Me: You have to leave your paranoia at your bungalow before coming to the ballpark each day. I'm not out to get you. I'm not out to get Alvin, or Steve, or anyone else. I want to get healthy, play baseball, and have a little control over my life.
Rick: You're talking from both sides. You complain that we're too controlling then you claim you want control.
Me: Yes. I'm a control freak. I'm due back at the circus in ten minutes, so let's wrap this up.

One of my problems is my nervous energy. If I don't have a baseball in my hand, I don't deal with the my internal goings-on too well. I sound like a wise ass. Unlikable. Unfriendly. Deep down, or not so deep, I know I'm just as insecure as Rick. I've just won more games than him, that's all.

I apologized then. A flat out, straight-from-the-heart, truly sincere apology. No sarcasm. No witty remarks. I said I was sorry. I told Rick that he did have a high-pressure job. And even though neither one of us, obviously, believed either one of us should be in the shoes we stand in, we should each step back and try to start fresh. I promised to be objective in my comments about team management. No, I wouldn't submit my posts to Alvin's office for editing. But I'd do a responsible job of self-editing. I wouldn't break news unless it applied to me, because, frankly, the team had a pretty lousy track record of late when it came to making announcements about me. I said I'd be more open with them about my rehab progress, but they had to be more open with me (through super agent Jack Perry, of course) about their feelings.

Then the strangest thing happened. Rick offered to shake my hand. I never thought I'd see it. This man, who admitted to hating me, reached out to me. At that moment, he was a better man than me. I shook it, knowing that moments pass into the next. Tomorrow, he may change his mind again. Maybe even sooner. But I promise it won't be because of me. For now on, if somebody's going to hate me, I'm going to have nothing to do with it.

And The Winner Is...

Me. Just got word that the arbitrator, Benezir Sutton, ruled in favor of me in my grievance against the team. I don't owe them the $500,000 fine for writing this blog ("conduct detrimental to the team, its stakeholders and fans") for the month of November (plus an additional $100,000 per month for December, January and February). And I can now participate 100% in all drills with the team, since they can't force me to retire and they can't force me to sit on the sidelines so they can collect on the insurance.

The team, of course, said they would try to work something out anyway with the insurance company, but that makes no sense to me since I'll be playing baseball this season. Not sure what they expect the men in suits to do for them. But Nick Curtis, Assistant GM, has been running the team for the last two weeks and he said that to the press. Maybe it was the wrong thing to say, because not two hours after we get word of our victory, we heard that the team reinstated GM Alvin Kirby. The sexual assault charges against him are pending, but these things take months, sometimes a year or two, to get resolved. I guess the team thought there's no harm in letting somebody who's qualified work for them rather than sit on his ass and watch cartoons all day.

So, in effect, the team made two transactions today: 1) Jimmy Scott (me in the third person) is back (and not being forced to sit on my ass and watch cartoons all day) and 2) Alvin Kirby is back. I've requested a slumber party to celebrate, but I don't think Alvin would be interested in hanging out with me right now. Although I do think a pillow fight may have been a better way for us to work out our differences than going to a full arbitration panel.

With that behind me, I feel like a weight has been lifted off of my shoulders. That burden is gone. I can just concentrate on playing baseball now and am truly excited.

Now if I could just get over this cold I caught from one of our clubhouse guys. Then I wouldn't have to worry about sneezing on all of the hands that I want to shake and be able to hold my head up high as a winner.

Day 3

Because we completed my arbitration hearing today, and because of leaks, arbitrator Benazir Sutton told me the gag order was lifted. I can now fill you in, from my perspective, on what happened on Days 2 and 3 of my arbitration hearing.

Remember this all boils down to one thing: Money. The team was upset when I opted to accept my contractual player option for the 2008 season. We almost had a lawsuit in November over some sticky he said/he said points. We renegotiated my contract to lower the burden on the team's salary structure for this year while guaranteeing me a little more money over the next five. Win/Win people in the business world call it.

But since then, this forum you are reading has bothered (now suspended) GM Alvin Kirby and manager Rick Churches to no end. Thus, they fined me $500,000 last month (which I did not report) and said they'd fine me $100,000 for every month I continued to do this. We tried to handle the fine behind closed doors.

But then...

They told me three weeks ago that my elbow would not ever be in playing shape again and that I should retire. I had just come from a doctor's appointment, one in which the doctor cleared me for spring training. They claimed a second opinion (one I had no knowledge of) told them I was done. Kaput. Finito. Chop off the arm and count the rings to see how old I really am. In this case, they want to collect insurance on my contract and not pay me out of the team's own pocket.

They just don't want to pay me. It's as simple as that. And in the case of this High & Tight blog, they want me to pay them.

Not gonna happen.

Alvin's Assistant GM Nick Curtis filled in yesterday (since Alvin was holed up with his lawyer all day fighting the sexual assault charges brought against him Monday night.) Nick is a good man and really didn't have much to do as, on Day 2, Alvin attacked me (bad choice of words considering the charges against him). Alvin presented his case against me on Day 2. Day 3 was super agent Jack Perry's turn to refute all allegations and turn the tables. I thought he did a great job.

Bottom line: We're fighting for the right for me to play this year on the active roster. I did push ups for the board and Jack showed video of me throwing to Andy, my personal trainer. I'm up to the low-80s on the radar gun. We proved it. The team had said I'd never even pick up a ball again.

If the glove fits, you must acquit. I wore a nice new leather Rawlings. It slipped onto my hand like egg whites.

Arbitrator Sutton said she'd give her decision in 2 to 3 weeks. In the meantime, I am to report to Spring Training and proceed as if nothing was going on. The team thought that wasn't fair. What if I injured myself? She laughed and said, since they said I was already injured beyond repair, what's it matter? As I said, Nick is a good guy, but, like me, probably should keep his mouth shut more often than not.

Thursday is packing day and we fly down first thing Friday morning. You can bet I'm bringing my new glove along for the ride.

A Bizarre Turn of Events

Yesterday was Day 2 of my arbitration hearing with the team. They want me to retire or sit on the disabled list all year so they can collect on insurance to pay my contract. I tell them I can play, and will play, this year. While I still haven't been given the go-ahead to discuss what happened between the two parties (it was no party when I was being "deposed," I'll tell you that) during the hearing, nobody said I couldn't comment on the news that broke after we left the building.

You probably saw it or heard about it on Sports Radio 810 - The Team! last night. Alvin Kirby, the GM who was verbally assaulting me all afternoon, was suspended by the team pending a police investigation into a breaking and entering and sexual assault claim by a woman Alvin allegedly conducted a 5-year affair with.

By no means am I gloating. While I believe Alvin is making a mistake with the actions he's followed against me, in the long run I wanted everything else he did to be perfect. Why? Because then the team wins. For me, winning is what I want. I have more money than you can shake a stick at (I don't know what that means). I've won 3 championships already, but a fourth would be even sweeter. I want Alvin to be a great general manager. I want his handpicked field manager, Rick Churches, to be a superior leader. I want my team to win.

I had no idea, nor, apparently, did Alvin's wife, of the affair he had going on. I don't know what happened that night 2 weeks ago when he allegedly broke into the woman's house (He smashed a door down with his shoulder? He's a small man. I didn't think he was that strong.) and attacked her. You can read the rest of the alleged sordid details on The Smoking Gun if you like. All I know is that yesterday morning and afternoon, Alvin's mind was not on any pending litigation against him. Just the litigation against me.

What does this mean for the team and me? Not sure. I know my super agent Jack Perry talked to Mrs. Delaney, my owner, last night and was going to talk to her again this morning to try to settle everything. We did not go in for Day 3 today since Alvin can't function with the team right now. The team needs to figure out what it's going to do in terms of my arbitration hearing and on the day-to-day.

I offer my best wishes to Alvin Kirby. I hope this turn of events unfolds fairly for both sides and gets settled amicably (don't ask me how). With spring training just days away, I think we all can agree this is one hit the team never expected to face.

A Time Of Grieving

The first day of testimony between the team and I began this morning. As we all know by now, the team is looking to void my contract because of an injury that took place last season. In addition, and this went unreported by them and me, I was fined $500,000 for this blog, the writing of which is considered "conduct detrimental to the team." My grievance states they can't void my contract and the fine should be voided too.

The grievance process is interesting if you're not one of the parties involved:

• There's me, who attended Day 1 along with Jack Perry, my super agent, and two "witnesses," former players who can state good things about me. We make up the cool party. Stop on by for some good music and pigs in blankets.
• There's the team, which was represented by GM Alvin Kirby and Rick Churches, my esteemed manager.
• There's the arbitration board, on which sat commissioner Elliott Pollock, Players Association head Howard Phillips, and an independent arbitrator, Benazir Sutton.

The "prosecution" began with Alvin Kirby's opening remarks, which explained last year's injury, my poor rehabbing schedule until the fall, my going back on a verbal agreement to accept a "lucrative" buyout offer of my contract from the team, and the "heinous, slanderous remarks" I have written on this blog about him, Mr. Churches and Mrs. Joan Delaney, our owner. Alvin said he'd provide medical witnesses who will prove my right arm will never be usable again on a professional level.

Jack gave the defense argument, that coming back for the 2008 season was my decision (a player option that I, as player, contractually enjoyed) and that I, the player, never signed or stated to the team an acceptance of their buyout offer. He admitted to my poor rehab "attitude" but stated a psychiatrist would testify that I was depressed, that professional athletes go through periods of inner emptiness after major injuries. But, he said, I did recover mentally and for the last three months have gone through the most rigorous workout program of my entire amateur and professional career. My personal trainer Andy, employed by the team, is set to testify in my favor (Unless he turns on me because of economic pressure from the team - meaning they'll fire him if he so much as shows up. I can see that movie before it's even made.)

In terms of this blog, Jack talked about my second amendment rights, until I corrected him and said the second amendment was the right to bear arms. The first amendment is freedom of speech. Jack broke up the room (my side and Mrs. Sutton, at least) stating the mistake was on purpose. This whole problem is based upon my arm and I have the right to use it on a mound this season. He's a shrewd fellow, that Jack Perry.

We broke for lunch. A two-hour lunch. I was done after fifteen minutes and walked around midtown Manhattan. Lots of Jimmy Scott fans out there. I used my cell phone to make a video of fans telling me they were on my side. Maybe I'd use it in court. Or just show it to Vanessa next time she gets mad at me.

After lunch, Mrs. Sutton asked Jack and Alvin to meet with her in private to try to mediate the dispute before spending any more time dragging each other through the dirt. I was wearing my overalls, so I was fully prepared for a good old fashioned dirt dragging. But Jack agreed, as did Alvin, and they disappeared for 45 minutes.

Union head Howard and commissioner Pollock spent that 45 minutes arguing about something in the back of the room, which was not a courtroom with mahogany walls and microphones, jury box and a bailiff named Rusty. We were in a 28th floor conference room with no windows. My chair could swivel 360 degrees, so I passed the time getting dizzy. Rick watched me with disgust and occasionally shook his head. He's no fun at all.

When Jack, Alvin and Mrs. Sutton returned, she said we were through for the day. It was just about 3:00 and we didn't have time to press ahead into the seriousness of "these matters" on a Friday afternoon. We adjourned until Monday.

You're dying to know what Jack, Alvin and Mrs. Sutton did/said behind those closed doors, aren't you? I was too. Unfortunately, I am not at liberty to tell you right now. This is called a "gag order." In other words, I can't write publicly about the hearing until it's over. Jack thinks team management is afraid public pressure, caused by what you're reading, will be too strong for them to lay out their case with impunity. I just nodded, not know what "impunity" meant. I'll look it up tonight after lying in bed for three hours and not falling asleep. After this posting is done, I'll write about other stuff until the gag order is lifted.

We reconvene Monday at 9:00 AM sharp. Mrs. Sutton told us to plan for two days of testimony. Her ruling will probably come within two weeks after we wrap up.

Ironic reminder: Single-game tickets go on sale Sunday morning at 9:30. I should be back in May, so I suggest you start there with your purchases. Don't listen to Rick and Alvin. They're just jealous they didn't think up this blog thing first.

See you in May!

Fanatic Festival...

...or Fan Fest, as most call it. We've held it every year for the past seven. I think they took two or three years off before that and the fanatics went fanatical, so they reinstated this New York Mardis Gras for baseball fans. Held at the Jacob Javits Center, it's impossible to get to. Parking stinks. No subway. Right on 11th Avenue, which is a busy street. And I hear the City wants to spend something like a billion dollars to expand the place. I wonder where the common sense goes once somebody gets elected into office...

...or is named manager of a professional baseball team. Rick Churches, our leader, is supposed to direct our on-field activities. Yes, he's in charge of the clubhouse too. But Fan Fest? He ran the show, so to speak. One person related to the team (an intern - my team leads the league in interns) said Rick arrived at Fan Fest yesterday just after 5AM to make sure everything was in its proper place. Later, on WTEM's "Jock & Jam Show," Rick would say he had to vacuum the carpets, which had lots of dirt. He made it sound like a joke. Still...

...it's hard to imagine the manager of a baseball team, who's earning a million dollars this year, arriving so early just to make sure the team signs weren't cockeyed. Anyway, my writing these past days has turned quite sour due to my "issues" with Rick and his boss, GM Alvin Kirby. Unfortunately, we had a face-to-face meeting today. I'm still sour. Thank goodness this little get together was behind a curtain in an area where the players (the ones who showed up) could relax and get away from the fanatics who paid upwards of $50 for a day of standing in line for autographs, paying more money to buy memorabilia, and eating "stadium style" concessions (which meant they overpaid for hot dogs too). But my meeting with Rick & Alvin...

...no Chipmunks jokes. Although Alvin does have a pretty high-pitched voice. Enough. My super agent, Jack Perry, couldn't attend Fan Fest because, well, I'm not his only client. Arbitration hearings are coming up soon and he overprepares. I had requested Jack send someone very tall and thick in his place to keep Alvin & Rick, or Rick & Alvin, away from me. Jack sent Tina. His wife. Tina is 5 foot 4 and about 97 pounds. She's sweet as hell and beautiful. Not what I had in mind, however. I wasn't on the showfloor for more than 5 minutes before the "altercation" (what the papers have described it) occurred. It went something like this...

...I was shaking hands with new third base coach Willie Fernandez when a third hand grabbed my shoulder and spun me around. It sure as hell wasn't Tina's hand. The following exchange took place:

Rick: Cut the sh*t, a**hole!
Me: Huh?
Rick: You heard me you piece of sh*t! Cut the sh*t!
Me: If I'm a piece of shi*t and you want me to cut the sh*t, that means you want me to harm myself. My contract won't pay me if I do that. It says so on page -
Rick: Get out of here!
Alvin: Jimmy, we'd like you to leave.
Me: (here's where I showed them) Why?
Alvin: You're on suspension.
Me: Why?
Rick: For being an a**hole!
Alvin: That's not the reason.
Me: Thank you.
Alvin: A number of comments you've made on your blog that have criticized the organization were uncalled for. Comments about me. Your manager. We're suspending you without pay for two weeks.
Me: It's the off season. You're not paying me yet.
Tina: Should I call Jack?
Rick: Yeah. You can tell that piece of sh*t that I said -
Me: Rick, lay off her.
Rick: (pushing me) What are you gonna do about it, a**hole?
Alvin: Excuse us, Jimmy.

I didn't see them again. Alvin literally pulled Rick away from me and that was it. I didn't leave. Tina called Jack who called Mrs. Delaney, who asked that I post an apology to the fans. I'm not sure what I did to bother the fans yesterday, besides decline an invitation to appear on the "Jock & Jam Show." But I like Mrs. Delaney. I'm a proud athlete but, ask Vanessa, have no problem telling people when I'm wrong in my personal life. I still don't think I did anything wrong here. I certainly didn't push my manager, nor did I stand "in a confrontational style" as one paper put it. But, Mrs. Delaney asked, and I'm not above saying I'm sorry. So to all of our fans, I apologize. Please accept this.

Oh, I'm not suspended, by the way. Mrs. Delaney overrode Alvin's decision (thanks to Jack for his input there as well).

I'm waiting for Rick to apologize to me now. He has my number. He knows where I live. A basket of fresh fruit would be nice. Or cookies. I love cookies. Just no hot dogs. They're too expensive. He should know that. I think he's showing up early today for Day 2 of Fan Fest. I hear he's going to be cooking.

If I May Butt In With My Rebuttal...

It appears that my manager, Rick Churches, and I don't see things eye-to-eye. Not sure where this all started. When he was one of our TV guys, he was a nice enough person. We never went out for beers, probably because I don't drink, but we never argued or bickered or had any problems. When he wanted to interview me, we'd have a nice chat in front of the camera and then part ways.

He became our manager in early-October and was given a very generous three-year deal. Want to know the first thing he said to me when I saw him after he signed? I was shaking his hand and had just congratulated him. Here's his quote: "Who's got the longer deal now, Jimmy?" I was unsure who was being compared, but assumed he meant he and I. But again, I was unsure why he'd want to compare our length of contracts. Vanessa would say it's a guy thing. But if that was so, he would have dropped his pants and asked to compare something else. No, this was specific to me. I know because when I asked another player about his experience with Rick, the player said Rick hugged him and gushed about how he now had his "dream job."

I don't want to sound paranoid, but I think my manager doesn't like me. I think he thinks I'm ruining his self-described "dream job" somehow. And I don't know why.

Here's proof. He was interviewed on Monday and talked about how the Giants had that great come-from-behind victory in the Super Bowl and how Peyton Manning kept his composure and led the team to victory. When asked to compare the Giants to our team, he said there were some "gamers" in our locker room, but also some guys "on notice." When asked to be specific, he said he wouldn't say, especially since one of these alleged non-gamers isn't talking either. I get it. That means me. I am on notice with my manager because of my non-gamerness.

It got interesting then, because after he said he wouldn't name names, he did. He went on about how Felipe Castro is going to have to come to camp prepared, even though his mother is still held against her will somewhere in Venezuela and Felipe is going through a hell none of us can imagine. He said Cory Belle is welcome in the clubhouse as long as he keeps his "demons" on a leash until the end of October. He said he felt the Kai Goto acquisition was the key to the team's off season. Another quote: "It's important to have the Jimmy Scott of Japan on this team, especially if we don't know if the Jimmy Scott of America even exists anymore."

Ouch. Still, I do exist. I'm right here.

I think Rick's trying to be the master motivator. He wants to be very vocal in the press. He wants "his" players to know where they stand before we show up in 10 days for spring training. He wants us to know who's boss. From what I heard, the clubhouse was a mess last year. Since I wasn't around much at all due to my injury, I can't confirm or deny. It was the main reason why Rick's predecessor got fired. He wants to restore order. Anybody can respect that. It's just hard to respect the way he's going about it.

Fan Fest is tomorrow at the Jacob Javits Center. I'll be there. A bunch of guys will. The timing stinks as we report in 10 days for camp and won't return home to our families for 6 months. To have guys fly in this close to our report date is kind of dumb. The should have had it last month, like it's always been. Oh well, not my call. Guess whose call it was?

He and I will share a room tomorrow. Yes, I will be uncomfortable. GM Alvin Kirby will be there. My super agent, Jack Perry, can't go to serve as a buffer between them and me, so he's sending someone in his place. The guy better be 8 feet tall and 500 pounds, because I really don't want to look at Rick or Alvin for at least 10 more days. They've lied to me and are misusing their power, in my opinion. I looked on one of the fan blogs and saw a poll asking who looks better in the current climate, Rick & Alvin or me. Over 3500 people voted. I think I got something like 2700 votes. I hope the other 800 folks show up at Fan Fest tomorrow so they can see and hear for themselves why they voted wrong.

This is a bad situation right now. Unless the team gives me an outright release, which they don't want to do because this whole deal is about not paying my contract, something they'd have to do by releasing me, then the situation will just get worse. My grievance goes in front of a board later this week. I'm going to be there. Rick and Alvin will too, I assume. So tomorrow, we're supposed to be all happy and silly with the fans and on Thursday (or whenever) we're going to be at each other's throats.

I can't tell them what to do, but I think this is no way to run a team. Unless they want to run it into the ground.

Second Opinions

I visited a new doctor yesterday to get another opinion on my arm. It wasn't easy, seeing the new doctor. Not because the office was hard to find or my car wouldn't start. We had to negotiate with the team who it was I was going to see.

As Ricky would say to Lucy, "Let me 'splain."

My New York franchise has a team doctor who I've been seeing. I have no reason to believe he has given me poor care or done anything unprofessional. Dr. McGee is, in my opinion, an honest man who genuinely cares about the people he examines.

However, in my meeting with the team the other day, they produced a "second opinion" from an unknown doctor. Now, if the second opinion is about me, you'd think I would have been there for the examination. It is, after all, my arm we're talking about.

The team is now stating that the second opinion they acquired is based upon Dr. McGee's MRI and examination notes. Dr. McGee thought I was rehabbing well and would pitch pain-free this year. Of course, I had my setback which turned out to be scar tissue breaking up, but that's temporary. I should be throwing balls around from flat ground at this time next week.

The team says no. In their opinion, which is based on this second "independent" opinion (and probably upsets Dr. McGee, their official team physician), I'm done. My elbow is a minefield. Take one wrong step and BOOM! Because of this assessment, they've asked me to either retire or expect to be on the disabled list, unavailable to play, for the entire season. In either case, they wouldn't be on the hook for my $9+ million 2008 salary (if I retire, they don't have to pay me; if I'm on the DL all season, insurance will pick up the tab).

I think upper management is full of...crap. They won't tell super agent, Jack Perry, or me which doctor rendered the second opinion (it took 2 days for them to admit publicly they even had the second opinion - this after stating, in effect, that I lied about that part of our meeting). Jack subsequently filed a grievance with the union.

I've never been involved in a grievance with my employer. So far, it's not fun. We are in dispute with one another and I, as employee, am basically forcing them to lay out all of their cards. Employers don't like to have their decisions questioned, especially by employees who have no problem letting the world know what's going on step-by-step via the Internet. If this were a marriage, it would be one on the rocks.

I do not want a divorce.

Yesterday, I suggested two reasons why they might be doing this in the first place.

1. They want to save money.
2. They don't want me on the team anymore.

I just thought up a new one (after subscribing to Paranoia Magazine last night):

3. They don't want me on the team anymore, but fear the public backlash of cutting me, so they hope I will ask to be either released or traded.

I'm not sure which is their truth. My truth is this: I like my house. I like my town. I like playing in New York. While I didn't want my supposedly last active off season to be marred by one public dispute after another with team management, it's not enough to make me ask to be released or traded. I don't want a divorce. I want to work this out.

The grievance process is how we'll do our counseling.

Back to my new doctor. In the grievance, it states the second opinion must come from an independent party. The team doctor is their party. Their "second opinion doctor" is... well I'm not sure what he/she is. But we're disputing anything that person said about me (aside from mention of my thinning scalp). The true second opinion will come from a doctor both team and player/agent agree upon.

You'd think I was negotiating for a $150 million contract extension.

Jack was on the phone with GM Alvin Kirby nine times yesterday. Jack said total speaking time was well over 3 hours. They had real issues with various points of the grievance, which I won't go into publicly unless Alvin does first. Mainly, the team wouldn't agree to any of the doctors Jack suggested. In turn, Jack wouldn't agree to their suggestions. It's like I'm the one on trial and prosecution and defense attorneys are interviewing potential jurors. That's what this is. This doctor will be the jury determining whether or not I'm guilty (can't pitch ever again) or not guilty (will pitch).

After wrangling and all that, the doctor chosen was Dr. Leslie Hoffman. She's based in Tampa and is an orthopedic specialist. I was the first big league player she ever examined (she's focused on professional tennis and NHL players). Nonetheless, she's a professional and, like I said, a respected specialist. I flew down to Tampa and had a lovely time in first class talking to a woman who works for a pharmeaceutical company about marketing cough medicine to healthy people.

Dr. Hoffman did what Dr. McGee did - MRI, lots of poking and prodding and stretching and twisting. She spent 20 minutes and then did it again. We should have the results back today.

My mother once told me that honesty is the best policy. I wish the team had come to Jack and me and told me what they really wanted in the first place. Instead, they went the messy route and will be wiping egg off of their faces for a while. Because in the jury of public opinion, they have so far shown that they are guilty as charged.

Shut Down

The MRI came back. Scar tissue. I don't have bone chips, tortilla chips or the t.v. show CHiPs floating around my arm like the ship in Fantastic Voyage. No need for another surgery and no reason to believe I can't come back sometime in April, possibly early-May.

But...

The team physician, my good Dr. McGee, said for now I have to shut down all "baseball activities." He meant don't throw a ball, but he made it sound like I couldn't talk about baseball, write about baseball or coach a Little League team, not that I'd be a good coach or that I'd even have the time or patience to coach a Little League team, but I'd still like the option to try.

Here's tomorrow's NY Post headline:

JIMMY SCOTT TO COACH LITTLE LEAGUE TEAM IN 2008

Not gonna happen, but go ahead and sell your papers. I read all my articles online - for free.

Yesterday's take by the various media outlets on my health and meeting with GM Alvin Kirby and Manager Rick Churches was interesting. Some quoted my blog. Others just quoted Kirby and/or Churches, who denied what took place actually took place. A few places referenced us both and realized we're in a "he said/he said/she said" situation (Rick is cringing as he reads this, wondering who the "she" is). Here's where we stand:

• Alvin Kirby and Rick Churches met with me and told me, for health reasons, I should either retire or expect to spend the year on the disabled list.
• I told them there was no need, I'd just been to the doctor and was on progress to pitch all year.
• They told me a second opinion - a doctor I never saw and still don't know the identity of - said my arm is in such a state that my career is over, barring a miracle.
• My arm did, in fact, have a setback that day. But I should, according to the team doctor, be able to start throwing again in a week to ten days.

Nobody is quoting this phantom "second doctor" and Alvin and Rick aren't even bringing up that part of the conversation. They're saying there is no second doctor. They're saying, basically, that I'm lying.

No matter. You'll see my official grievance against the team filed today by my super agent, Jack Perry. Our wonderful team owner, Mrs. Joan Delaney, left a message at my house apologizing for any confusion, even though she had previously talked to Jack and, following what is now/was then the party line, said she didn't expect me back this season.

This has all come out of the blue. For some reason, the team is suddenly (or they planned this all along) low on funding and wants insurance to cover my salary. Or they truly don't think I'll be able to pitch, and pitch well, this season and don't want to subsidize a long and pointless rehabilitation program. Or they just want me out. Conspiracy theories fly like fleas on poop.

The columnists I'm reading are saying the same thing as me. ESPN just treats it like a sideshow. Meanwhile, Pepsi called Jack and is considering pulling the ad we just filmed and yanking away my endorsement deal. Why? Because they don't want to pay millions to someone who won't be playing in 2008. My grievance against the team will take on much greater weight should Pepsi pull out because of the actions of two men who don't appear to like me.

Here's the deal for you all to see. I'll use bullet points, because I feel bullets have been shot at my head (none self-inflicted, for once):

• I will pitch in 2008
• The team will not get any insurance money...
• ...because I will pitch in 2008
• I will participate in spring training
• I will probably start the season in extended spring training in Florida or with a minor league affiliate. A warm one.

That's it. Don't believe everything you read (note how this can hurt me since I'm not talking to anyone, just writing). Just believe the source, me, when I say I will pitch this season. Betting is illegal in baseball, but if I were a gambler, I'd put my money on me. The payout will be huge.

Anyone going to guess on tomorrow's Daily News headline?

JIMMY SCOTT GAMBLING HABITS UNDER INVESTIGATION

Just want you to be aware of the source of their story before they report it.

Have a nice day.

Set Back

My house is not right on the road. There's a stretch of about six feet between road and the new fence we put up for security purposes. It's about 30 yards (or 90 feet, depending if you're a baseball or football fan) from the fence to our front door.

When I got to our new front gate yesterday, it wasn't working. I hit a remote. The gate remained closed. Got out of the car and hit a code on the new keypad nearby. Nothing. Already in a lousy mood, my mood grew still darker by the second. The pretty lighting switched on, making our trees seem like multiple-armed giants towering over me, their shadows and brightness now mixing about. I called the house to ask Vanessa to open the gate from there. No answer. I was stuck on the wrong side of the fence, about 93 feet (or 31 yards) from my house. The only thing to do was to hop the fence.

Only I couldn't. With timing straight out of an episode of Murder She Wrote, or more recently, Monk, my right arm - my multi-million dollar pitching arm which had been rehabbing incredibly well over the last two months - was dead. Long live the arm.

Okay, it wasn't completely dead. But it had been fine when I visited with my doctor earlier that day. It had been fine when I visited with GM Alvin Kirby and field manager Rick Churches. It had been fine when I made my call to super agent Jack Perry, telling him Kirby & Churches (not a law firm) wanted me to either retire or sit out the season due to last year's injury. It wasn't fine after I flipped close my phone - with my right hand - and slipped the phone into my pocket - with my right hand, wrist and arm.

That's where I injured it again...

As I walked and talked with Jack, holding my cell phone up to my ear with my right hand, coincidentally connected to my right arm - the injured one - I did something to the elbow that I hadn't done since the initial injury. I don't know what that something was, but whatever I did, I couldn't bend the arm anymore. I went from sitting down with Kirby & Churches, arguing that I'd be throwing simulated games by the end of spring training to hoping Dr. McGee wouldn't have to amputate by the time I got to the parking lot.

I looked at my house through the artificial light and saw a light inside flick on. A timer did it. Nobody was home.

I thought about my emergency return to Dr. McGee after my re-injury and how he took x-rays and did an MRI and twisted and massaged and stretched out my arm. "Scar tissue," he said. "Probably some got loose. At worst, you have bone chips in there floating around." I asked what his definition of "at worst" meant. "Another surgery. You might make it back on a mound by August or September."

In a baseball season, there's huge difference between August and September, even bigger if you're thinking August 1st vs. September 30th.

I said many bad words on the drive home. This is exactly what I didn't want, and I assume what Kirby & Churches did want. I felt betrayed by them; betrayed by the business side of baseball, a side that had always been good to me (proof is the distance between my very large house and quiet suburban street).

I sat in the car with the radio on, hoping for a song to cheer me up. Nothing. It was all hip hop or angst-rock. Even Lite FM was playing depressing stuff, "Another Day In Paradise" by Phil Collins, about homelessness. I looked through the gate at my house and couldn't help but feel a kinship for the homeless, as ridiculous as that sounds. I was trapped outside, in pain, wondering if I had a future or not.

By eight o'clock, Vanessa had shown up with Alyssa and Grace. They'd been out at the mall and her phone had been off (her friend down the street, Connie, is relentless with the phone calls). She hit a code on the keypad (the code I typed in was apparently my locker combination from junior year in high school) and the gate opened up. I twisted the key in my ignition and heard nothing. My car wouldn't move. The battery was dead. Or worse. Jumping it didn't help.

I looked up at my house like a runner on first base with two outs, hoping to make it to second on the next pitch and not get left stranded by strikeout. A tow truck would come by soon to take my car (actually a Hummer) down to the shop. I sat on the front seat and waited while my girls went into the house. One more setback on a horrible day. Somewhere, I could hear Kirby & Churches laughing at me.