I act too rashly sometimes. Vanessa knows. Even the kids do, and they try to stop me from doing stupid things because of this. But they need to be in the room or else I'm free to do stupid things.
Me: (Into phone) Please deliver a personal pan pizza with everything on it.
Pizza Hut: We have a buy two, get one free offer.
Me: I'll take ten.
Before you know it, I'm juggling 15 pizzas in my doorway while trying to give the 18 year old delivery boy his $2 tip.
Me: Here you go. Oops. (Three pizzas fall to the ground.)
Him: Cheap prick. (Walks away)
So when Vanessa heard I had settled my dispute with the team fairly simultaneously with the news of my father, "Red" Scott, signing a deal to be one of the TV broadcast analysts doing our games, she was more than a little concerned. I could tell because of her initial reaction:
Vanessa: (Looking me in the eyes) What did you do?
Me: (Sniffing and looking away) What?
I explained my new deal, one that includes a 3 year contract to broadcast the team's games on TV when I'm done playing after next season. She was still concerned.
Vanessa: (Into my eyes) How much?
Me: (Sniffing and looking at my feet. Nice shoes.) Hmm?
I can tell she's mad because she doesn't even get into my choice to not (again) discuss a major family matter with her before pulling the trigger on my decision. Couple that with the new plan (admittedly never thought of before the other day) of Play one more year, Broadcast for three. Translation: I will be living the big league road warrior lifestyle (meaning no home duties like doing dishes, touring colleges with the kids, cleaning out a freezer filled with 13 (I ate two) personal pan pizzas with everything on them) for four more years.
Vanessa's eyes narrow. They beam their red glow so fiercely I feel like I'm staring straight into a laser. I reach for a CD. Calmly, yet firmly, she asks, "What about the $9 million?"
There's a famous photograph I've seen in art shops of a lone lighthouse situated on a tiny rocky island, which is not much bigger than the lighthouse itself. It's the middle of a storm and a giant, terrible wave is striking the lighthouse nearly two-thirds of the way up its side. It's fascinating to look at. You can't help but think, "I'd hate to be that lighthouse."
Vanessa has been aiming her laser beam eyes at me for a good ten seconds now. With the patience and maturity of a medieval barber, she waits for me to swallow a bite that had sausage, onions, mushrooms and pepperoni (only 12 left in the freezer now). It doesn't go down well. As she hands me a glass full of water, I realize I am the lighthouse.
I take in a breath to explain how our income projection for the coming baseball season will have to be revised when Julia, guitar in hand, enters the kitchen. One look at her parents is all she needs. She strums a badly played chord and sings, "What did Dad do now?"
She races away before Vanessa can reach her with a wooden spoon. Then, attention (unfortunately) back on me:
Vanessa: The money's gone, isn't it?
Me: Yes.
Vanessa: I understand.
Left alone in the kitchen, I can't help but contemplate what life will be like for Vanessa and me after the next four years run out. Chances are, until then somebody's going to like me not being around all the time. As upset as she is with me, Vanessa knows that with the money I've given up, I've just bought us four more years of marriage.
Showing posts with label Contract Opting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Contract Opting. Show all posts
Thursday, November 15, 2007
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
Trading Rumors
Lots of hot stove rumors floating around. With the GM meetings just completed last week and only one deal coming out of them, I thought this would be a good post to talk about something other than my contract (everybody's talking, no punches thrown so far). Today, I want to let you in on what it's like to be traded. I'll do it from a few perspectives - Player, Wife and Kid.
PLAYER
I've been traded once and "on the block" too many times to count (eleven). I know guys who have been traded totally out of the blue. Martin "Bruiser" Stanley told me once that every team he's played for (six) he thought he'd end his career with. Since he was just traded from us two days ago (the one deal I alluded to earlier), I asked him if he was surprised this time. He said no. The team was $9 million over budget. He'll earn $9 million this year. He was a goner. Then he hung up on me.
WIFE
Bruiser's wife, Janice, who's also not currently speaking with me, once commented that she'd had to move 47 times in 14 years of marriage. That includes minor leagues, spring training, big leagues... I know she's tired of it.
When I was traded from Chicago to New York in mid-'94, that was our fifteenth move since getting married at the ripe old age of 20 in 1988. I've been fortunate to have been able to stay in one place ever since, but I know a trade, while part of the business, can wreak havoc on a marriage. Many wives have problems making new friends or getting jobs of their own because of the instability of a player's life. That's why I've never revoked my no-trade clause. I love New York, but most important, this is my family's home. Which brings me to...
KIDS
Julia and Grace were only 2 when we were traded here. Too young to consciously understand much of anything (potty training, Vanessa recalls, took 5 years), they don't remember the move from Chicago. They do remember the possible trade to Detroit three years ago and how they told me that if I accepted they'd disown me. Twelve year old girl-twins are not to be reckoned with, especially when they take after their mother, who, in this case, is my wife. Detroit stayed in Michigan and we stayed in New York (actually a suburb in NJ).
Long ago, I was but a child. Born to a father who himself was a big league pitcher, my mother and I suffered through an intolerable number of moves. He was one of those guys who was cut or traded every year. In '76 he was traded twice in one day. My mother likes to tell friends the true story of how she broke our apartment lease in Milwaukee, verbally committed to one in St. Louis, then turned around, broke that and still found us a place in Atlanta, all in the space of about three hours. My dad responds, if he's within earshot (Dad likes to have the last word. You should listen to him call a game.), that his wife did what she had to do. It's not like she was a superhero or anything. She knew what she was getting into. I admire her for it just the same.
As I got older, I realized there was something about my right arm that let me throw a baseball really fast and wiggly. But the moving from place to place didn't stop. Dad, or "Red" as he tells me and anyone within earshot to call him, became a broadcaster; first radio then TV. The number of people within earshot of his now famous "It's a can of corn" proclamations grew exponentially as his jobs moved to larger and larger cities. He didn't realize I needed stability. I was in high school. Scouts couldn't see me if they couldn't find me.
We argued constantly. He has a booming voice, strong vocabulary and, like I mentioned earlier, always gets in the last word, so he won most arguments. Eventually, we stopped talking altogether, ironic for a man who now made a living using his vocal cords.
Fast forward to today. We get along because we have to. We're only-father and baseball-son. Mom's coming over for Thanksgiving and Dad'll be there too, I guess, getting up three or four times during the meal to blow his nose, go to the bathroom, or write some new idea of his down. 1976 was 31 years ago, but I still think three teams in three hours was the greatest day of his life.
Baseball is a game, but it's a job too. Being traded to another city is like switching jobs or being transferred somewhere else. Some guys quit after a while, other thrive on it. Their families? Innocent bystanders at a drive-by shooting, dodging the bullets and sometimes getting hit.
"Red," who's now 65 and nearing the end of his second career, is still moving. Today he got his new assignment - a two-year contract doing TV here in New York. Broadcasting my games. You know how he told me? "Guess who has a longer term deal in New York than you, buddy boy?" I didn't have to answer. I slammed down the phone and called my former agent, Tiger Woods' Caddy. I suddenly knew how to resolve this $9 million contractual problem.
"Tell them to keep their money. Get me a three year deal to do their games on TV the moment I retire." I almost hung up. "Oh," I added. "Tell them I like to work alone."
PLAYER
I've been traded once and "on the block" too many times to count (eleven). I know guys who have been traded totally out of the blue. Martin "Bruiser" Stanley told me once that every team he's played for (six) he thought he'd end his career with. Since he was just traded from us two days ago (the one deal I alluded to earlier), I asked him if he was surprised this time. He said no. The team was $9 million over budget. He'll earn $9 million this year. He was a goner. Then he hung up on me.
WIFE
Bruiser's wife, Janice, who's also not currently speaking with me, once commented that she'd had to move 47 times in 14 years of marriage. That includes minor leagues, spring training, big leagues... I know she's tired of it.
When I was traded from Chicago to New York in mid-'94, that was our fifteenth move since getting married at the ripe old age of 20 in 1988. I've been fortunate to have been able to stay in one place ever since, but I know a trade, while part of the business, can wreak havoc on a marriage. Many wives have problems making new friends or getting jobs of their own because of the instability of a player's life. That's why I've never revoked my no-trade clause. I love New York, but most important, this is my family's home. Which brings me to...
KIDS
Julia and Grace were only 2 when we were traded here. Too young to consciously understand much of anything (potty training, Vanessa recalls, took 5 years), they don't remember the move from Chicago. They do remember the possible trade to Detroit three years ago and how they told me that if I accepted they'd disown me. Twelve year old girl-twins are not to be reckoned with, especially when they take after their mother, who, in this case, is my wife. Detroit stayed in Michigan and we stayed in New York (actually a suburb in NJ).
Long ago, I was but a child. Born to a father who himself was a big league pitcher, my mother and I suffered through an intolerable number of moves. He was one of those guys who was cut or traded every year. In '76 he was traded twice in one day. My mother likes to tell friends the true story of how she broke our apartment lease in Milwaukee, verbally committed to one in St. Louis, then turned around, broke that and still found us a place in Atlanta, all in the space of about three hours. My dad responds, if he's within earshot (Dad likes to have the last word. You should listen to him call a game.), that his wife did what she had to do. It's not like she was a superhero or anything. She knew what she was getting into. I admire her for it just the same.
As I got older, I realized there was something about my right arm that let me throw a baseball really fast and wiggly. But the moving from place to place didn't stop. Dad, or "Red" as he tells me and anyone within earshot to call him, became a broadcaster; first radio then TV. The number of people within earshot of his now famous "It's a can of corn" proclamations grew exponentially as his jobs moved to larger and larger cities. He didn't realize I needed stability. I was in high school. Scouts couldn't see me if they couldn't find me.
We argued constantly. He has a booming voice, strong vocabulary and, like I mentioned earlier, always gets in the last word, so he won most arguments. Eventually, we stopped talking altogether, ironic for a man who now made a living using his vocal cords.
Fast forward to today. We get along because we have to. We're only-father and baseball-son. Mom's coming over for Thanksgiving and Dad'll be there too, I guess, getting up three or four times during the meal to blow his nose, go to the bathroom, or write some new idea of his down. 1976 was 31 years ago, but I still think three teams in three hours was the greatest day of his life.
Baseball is a game, but it's a job too. Being traded to another city is like switching jobs or being transferred somewhere else. Some guys quit after a while, other thrive on it. Their families? Innocent bystanders at a drive-by shooting, dodging the bullets and sometimes getting hit.
"Red," who's now 65 and nearing the end of his second career, is still moving. Today he got his new assignment - a two-year contract doing TV here in New York. Broadcasting my games. You know how he told me? "Guess who has a longer term deal in New York than you, buddy boy?" I didn't have to answer. I slammed down the phone and called my former agent, Tiger Woods' Caddy. I suddenly knew how to resolve this $9 million contractual problem.
"Tell them to keep their money. Get me a three year deal to do their games on TV the moment I retire." I almost hung up. "Oh," I added. "Tell them I like to work alone."
Friday, November 9, 2007
Contractions
Since it's been leaked, I may as well come out and address the really big headlines that two papers and one worldwide web had about me today. First, my agent and I have parted ways. Second, we've parted ways because my team of thirteen years is going to allegedly attempt to void my existing contract. Let me respond to each and then retreat to my couch and pillow tandem.
My current former agent, who shall for now on be addressed as Tiger Woods' Caddy, told my employers I was going to opt out of my contract and take a very generous buyout. While I had been leaning in that direction, I never flat out said I'd do it. Yes, I led on Tiger Woods' Caddy. Call me a golf club tease. But since I never actually said or wrote or hummed "I am retiring," there was room for me to opt back in for next season.
Still, the team talked to him, not to me, so they were under the same impression as Tiger Woods' Caddy, that I was done. Over. Out. All three parties are to blame for not communicating directly. I know they wanted Jimmy Scott 1994-2006. They don't want Jimmy Scott 2007-2008. But hey, insurance covered 80% of my contract last year for them and they still made hand over fist on ticket, concession and internet revenue, much of that because of players like me who have stayed with the team through collusion ('95), a bad strike ('99) and took a "hometown discount" in 2004 to finish my career in NY. I did say that. Here's the quote. "I am going to finish my playing career in NY." (I actually said "NY" and not "New York." Kind of took away some of the power of the statement, don't you think?)
So, if you consider the revenue I helped generate for the team, the money I let them keep so they could afford me through 2008, and the goodwill we've generally felt for each other for the last thirteen years, you'd be surprised this issue has gone this far.
What happens next? Vanessa says I should get everyone together in one room - me, team and Tiger Woods' Caddy - and talk it out. She thinks chances are good, based upon the reasons stated above, that we can work this all out before more lawyers get involved than the army needed for Katie Holmes' and Tom Cruise's pre-nup. She says it would be big of me to be the first one to pick up the phone and make the calls. It's times like these I wish I had an ex-wife's shoulder to cry upon. An ex-wife would listen and take my side and tell me I'm in the full right here. Then I'd hand her the monthly $64,000 alimony check and return to my current family.
It's not clear what I'll do yet, but you can be sure I'll lead Tiger Woods' Caddy on more than I have to. He's more fun when he's mad.
My current former agent, who shall for now on be addressed as Tiger Woods' Caddy, told my employers I was going to opt out of my contract and take a very generous buyout. While I had been leaning in that direction, I never flat out said I'd do it. Yes, I led on Tiger Woods' Caddy. Call me a golf club tease. But since I never actually said or wrote or hummed "I am retiring," there was room for me to opt back in for next season.
Still, the team talked to him, not to me, so they were under the same impression as Tiger Woods' Caddy, that I was done. Over. Out. All three parties are to blame for not communicating directly. I know they wanted Jimmy Scott 1994-2006. They don't want Jimmy Scott 2007-2008. But hey, insurance covered 80% of my contract last year for them and they still made hand over fist on ticket, concession and internet revenue, much of that because of players like me who have stayed with the team through collusion ('95), a bad strike ('99) and took a "hometown discount" in 2004 to finish my career in NY. I did say that. Here's the quote. "I am going to finish my playing career in NY." (I actually said "NY" and not "New York." Kind of took away some of the power of the statement, don't you think?)
So, if you consider the revenue I helped generate for the team, the money I let them keep so they could afford me through 2008, and the goodwill we've generally felt for each other for the last thirteen years, you'd be surprised this issue has gone this far.
What happens next? Vanessa says I should get everyone together in one room - me, team and Tiger Woods' Caddy - and talk it out. She thinks chances are good, based upon the reasons stated above, that we can work this all out before more lawyers get involved than the army needed for Katie Holmes' and Tom Cruise's pre-nup. She says it would be big of me to be the first one to pick up the phone and make the calls. It's times like these I wish I had an ex-wife's shoulder to cry upon. An ex-wife would listen and take my side and tell me I'm in the full right here. Then I'd hand her the monthly $64,000 alimony check and return to my current family.
It's not clear what I'll do yet, but you can be sure I'll lead Tiger Woods' Caddy on more than I have to. He's more fun when he's mad.
Thursday, November 8, 2007
Another Off Season
So what happens when we pack up our lockers, look at the floor during the last interview, and then go home? That's what this blog is for. I'm sure there are lots of baseball fans who can't get enough of the game during the season, so in the off season they must feel like a junkie going practically cold turkey. I figured I'm good for a few hits, so here you'll follow me throughout the off season as I rehab, attend charity functions like fan fest, ingratiate myself with Vanessa and the girls, and prepare for 2008. It won't be as exciting as one of my no-hitters, but maybe this will help hold you over until spring training.
Let me start with a bombshell: I've accepted my contractual option to play in New York for another year. I've opted. After a miserable season, both personally and as a team, I felt like there was some unfinished business. I only threw two pitches all year, so that proves the personal professional misery. And even though I didn't spend much time in the clubhouse after my injury, I've played on enough losing teams to know what it's like to play for next season when it's only 40 games into this season. So I'm coming back for 2008 and can hopefully help restore some swagger (and victories).
I'll admit, it wasn't an easy decision. If I had opted out, my contract stated the team would pay me a $3 million buyout. Now that would have been the easiest $3 million I ever made. "Here, Jimmy, do nothing and we'll pay you more than the GDP of Haiti." My family's set financially. I think I've earned close to $150 million over the last 19 years. To me, three million dollars is tip money for the bathroom attendant at my local country club. But I don't golf. And besides, $3 million is a whole lot of money to be giving to somebody who hands you a paper towel.
So there was a little bit of guilt built into accepting their buyout. In fact, at one point they sweetened their offer to $7 million. Seven million dollars to walk away and bother my wife for the remainder of our marriage. I know the team was trying to respectfully cut me loose. It's been a great thirteen years in NY. Three championships is something I'll always be proud of. But 2007, with my season-ending injury and misfortune plaguing us in the standings... I had to come back.
There's more. If I'm going to be really honest with you, I might as well start in my first post. My marriage might not be able to withstand another year of my not playing. At least right now. I've been a very lucky man. Marrying Vanessa, us having twin daughters 15 years ago - it's all been an incredible run. Vanessa would tell you the incredible run stopped the moment I fell to the ground last April clutching my elbow, the tendon-snapping still ringing in my ears. From that moment until my opting back in tonight, I've been a burden to her, a weight... I've been the man I'll be when I retire. Vanessa doesn't like that man very much. He's needy and forgetful and selfish. He's not a great husband and a barely satisfactory father. He's a man used to living 6+ months of the year with other men just like him, only some are louder, some are younger, and some can hit a baseball 475 feet. In other words, if I didn't play on one field in 2008, I'd be playing another as soon as the lawyers agreed on who got custody of the toilet seat covers.
I should also state team management is upset with me. Why do you think they sweetened their buyout offer? Because they thought I'd take it. They wanted me to take it. I'd be lying if I said my agent and I hadn't pretty much given every indication that we would. Jack Perry, my agent, even went so far as to tell them we had a deal. Only I never said that and I never signed off. I couldn't. The game is still a part of me. I still need to compete. I need the camaraderie of 24 other guys and 49,000 of the best fans in the world cheering me on. Maybe that's why Vanessa isn't looking very forward to retirement. Even though she's my biggest fan, she can only scream as loud as one.
It was a real scene, actually, when I faxed in my contract, checking the Jimmy Scott Opts To Play In 2008 box. Jack was furious, telling me I undermined his professionalism. I understand Rick Churches, or should I say, new manager Rick Churches, threw a fit when he found out his number 5 starter can only throw spitballs out of his mouth. The front office is now $9 million over budget, so nobody up there was happy. And Vanessa, well, even though I knew she wanted me to keep playing, she was was a little peeved that I made the decision without her. Did I mention I was a forgetful and selfish husband?
Bottom line - I'm not done. I know I have a lot of work ahead of me. I know I have a lot of front office and team goodwill to repair. And I now know the end of my career is near. If I don't learn to accept this, the end of my marriage could also be near.
So check back often and wish me luck this off season. I'm going to need it.
Let me start with a bombshell: I've accepted my contractual option to play in New York for another year. I've opted. After a miserable season, both personally and as a team, I felt like there was some unfinished business. I only threw two pitches all year, so that proves the personal professional misery. And even though I didn't spend much time in the clubhouse after my injury, I've played on enough losing teams to know what it's like to play for next season when it's only 40 games into this season. So I'm coming back for 2008 and can hopefully help restore some swagger (and victories).
I'll admit, it wasn't an easy decision. If I had opted out, my contract stated the team would pay me a $3 million buyout. Now that would have been the easiest $3 million I ever made. "Here, Jimmy, do nothing and we'll pay you more than the GDP of Haiti." My family's set financially. I think I've earned close to $150 million over the last 19 years. To me, three million dollars is tip money for the bathroom attendant at my local country club. But I don't golf. And besides, $3 million is a whole lot of money to be giving to somebody who hands you a paper towel.
So there was a little bit of guilt built into accepting their buyout. In fact, at one point they sweetened their offer to $7 million. Seven million dollars to walk away and bother my wife for the remainder of our marriage. I know the team was trying to respectfully cut me loose. It's been a great thirteen years in NY. Three championships is something I'll always be proud of. But 2007, with my season-ending injury and misfortune plaguing us in the standings... I had to come back.
There's more. If I'm going to be really honest with you, I might as well start in my first post. My marriage might not be able to withstand another year of my not playing. At least right now. I've been a very lucky man. Marrying Vanessa, us having twin daughters 15 years ago - it's all been an incredible run. Vanessa would tell you the incredible run stopped the moment I fell to the ground last April clutching my elbow, the tendon-snapping still ringing in my ears. From that moment until my opting back in tonight, I've been a burden to her, a weight... I've been the man I'll be when I retire. Vanessa doesn't like that man very much. He's needy and forgetful and selfish. He's not a great husband and a barely satisfactory father. He's a man used to living 6+ months of the year with other men just like him, only some are louder, some are younger, and some can hit a baseball 475 feet. In other words, if I didn't play on one field in 2008, I'd be playing another as soon as the lawyers agreed on who got custody of the toilet seat covers.
I should also state team management is upset with me. Why do you think they sweetened their buyout offer? Because they thought I'd take it. They wanted me to take it. I'd be lying if I said my agent and I hadn't pretty much given every indication that we would. Jack Perry, my agent, even went so far as to tell them we had a deal. Only I never said that and I never signed off. I couldn't. The game is still a part of me. I still need to compete. I need the camaraderie of 24 other guys and 49,000 of the best fans in the world cheering me on. Maybe that's why Vanessa isn't looking very forward to retirement. Even though she's my biggest fan, she can only scream as loud as one.
It was a real scene, actually, when I faxed in my contract, checking the Jimmy Scott Opts To Play In 2008 box. Jack was furious, telling me I undermined his professionalism. I understand Rick Churches, or should I say, new manager Rick Churches, threw a fit when he found out his number 5 starter can only throw spitballs out of his mouth. The front office is now $9 million over budget, so nobody up there was happy. And Vanessa, well, even though I knew she wanted me to keep playing, she was was a little peeved that I made the decision without her. Did I mention I was a forgetful and selfish husband?
Bottom line - I'm not done. I know I have a lot of work ahead of me. I know I have a lot of front office and team goodwill to repair. And I now know the end of my career is near. If I don't learn to accept this, the end of my marriage could also be near.
So check back often and wish me luck this off season. I'm going to need it.
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