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.

You Gotta Have Faith

I mentioned yesterday how our first baseman, Cal Franklin, was a very religious man (and very big too). Every ballclub I've played for has had its contingent of "faithful" players who get together on planes or buses or hotel room suites and discuss the bible. There are other players who aren't as religious as that who still go to church on Sundays. And there are those few who somehow can't speak a full sentence without bringing up the Father, Son & Holy Ghost. Cal is one of these guys.

He wasn't yesterday.

I find it interesting - no facetiousness intended here - that a man as religious as Cal could still harbor such an intense violent streak. No, he hasn't killed anyone. But the power he found yesterday when it came to subduing Corey Belle (once J.D. Bryant ripped Corey off of Lyman Gaye's esophagus) was the spontaneous kind; the kind someone finds within one's self when it counts.

I brought this up to Cal. My question, I guess, was did this ability to be a part of violence mean he wasn't as close to God as he thought?

The first thing Cal did was smile and tell me - not ask - that he knew I was asking to write about it. While true, I was also truly curious. I'm not a God-fearin' fella (pretend I said that with a cowboy accent) and only attend church (I'm an ordained Methodist person) three or four times a year. The faith Cal gets from God I either don't have or get from another source, i.e. my family.

"Think of our game," Cal said. "It's not a game for the passive. While not football, baseball still is full of violence; a violence I fully participate in." He was sitting at his locker, peeling the skin off of an orange. I pretended not to react when little flying drops of citrus struck me in my cornea. "I hit 34 home runs last year," Cal continued. "That's 34 incredible, short bursts of violence. I play first base, right? How many times do you guys throw the ball over to me in a game and I have to slap a tag on the runner? How man times have I collided with a catcher at home plate? Or a second baseman or right fielder or fans in the stands racing after fly balls?"

He looked at me. He does that. I had the feeling he wanted me to literally guess the number of times, even though he really didn't. But he just looks back at you sometimes after speaking and you expect more. But he's done talking, so it's awkward.

"Two thousand fourteen," I finally said.

"Huh?" He shoved a piece of orange in his mouth.

"Nothing. Go on."

"So when I bear hugged Belle Tower yesterday (one of Corey's nicknames) and wrestled him to the ground, I was playing first base. I was a ballplayer. Some guys say you can't separate God out of a man, but I add that you can't ever take a ballplayer off the field."

I nodded. He sounded like he had a good feel for this stuff. I asked him how and he told me he's been thinking a lot about this subject lately. He's about to work on a book that follows him and the presence of Jesus as they play through the season. "Kind of like what you're doing there on the web, but mine isn't in real time." I asked him if he was writing the book himself and he said no. He's about to decide between two beat writers who cover the team all year. He wouldn't tell me who. I asked him if they have to worry about conflict of interest, as they need to cover the team from an objective perspective yet if they're working for him, how can they, who is on the Cal Franklin payroll, criticize him in their columns as the season progresses?

Cal shoved half of the orange in his throat. He drooled a bit. (It was a big orange.) "There's no conflict when you go with the Lord," Cal said.

Yeah, but will his beat writer "employee" be going with the Lord or earning a few extra bucks?

Cal shrugged as if to say it wasn't his problem, nor was it His problem. "Faith," he said. "Live it, learn from it, let it justify who you are."

A clubhouse boy (this one 24) came buy and swept up the orange peels and chewed up (but unswallowed) pieces of orange on the floor in front of Cal's locker. I could tell Cal would spend all day talking to me, but I needed to go out and long toss. Since coming down to Florida, I haven't experienced any pain in my elbow. It seems to be coming along perfectly. I nodded to Cal and started walking away.

"Hey," he said. "How do you know your elbow won't blow out in ten minutes when you start doing the exact thing that blew it out in the first place?"

I told him hard work.

"That's where you and I diverge," he said. "You credit your work ethic. I credit it to faith. You've got it. You just label it in a different way."

Faith. Maybe. Work ethic. Maybe. As long as I'm healthy, I'll take anything I can get.

Say Cheese

Today was team picture day. By now, you've heard some of what happened. I'll fill you in on the details as I know them and try to fight my natural urge to edit.

Once upon a time...

There lived a baseball player named Corey Belle. Corey was what they call a five-tool player coming out of high school. He could hit for average, hit for power, run like the wind, throw a bullet from left field to the catcher on the fly, and catch anything that drifted his way. Yes, Corey was "the future of baseball," as his high school coach in whatever town in Kentucky Corey came from said.

But there was a dark side too. On a baseball field, Corey could do anything, wish anything, and it would happen. Off the field, well, the opposite. Trouble found him more often than not, starting with sexual assault charges filed against him his senior year of high school (charges subsequently dropped). While in the minors, he routinely broke curfews, got into two bar fights, one "brawl" (not sure the difference between a fight and a brawl, unless we're talking the number of contestants competing to pulverize one another), and was arrested three times. Again, no indictments. He played great baseball through this, and at the age of 20 was in the big leagues.

Fast forward to eight years later, January 22, 2008. Corey is in Kansas City with some good friends. The parking lot of an after-hours club they're at becomes the scene of gunshots and mayhem. A woman running away gets hit by a car. She lives but suffers a number of broken bones, including her back. Prognosis is not good that she'll ever walk again.

Corey's car is stopped by police and a recently fired gun is discovered inside on the floor. Corey and his friends are arrested and charged with three or four different illegalities. This is Corey's third arrest in two years.

Fast forward again to yesterday. Team picture day. Corey is late, but makes it just in time. Lots of folks (meaning guys on the team) are pi*sed off at him. It's not his first tardy appearance at spring training. But, he hit .321 last year with 41 home runs and 129 RBIs. He's allowed (doesn't mean I agree with it).

I'm standing in the second row, next to Lyman Gaye. Lyman, as we know, is coming off a bad car crash last week, a crash caused by his fiance allegedly beating the hell out of him while she drove. Some temper. Two days in a hospital, another couple to recover at his bungalow, and now Lyman's back trying to get ready for opening day next Monday. The last thing he wants is another distraction.

He gets one. It's called Corey Belle.

"Hey, Mr. Photographer Man, how's 'bout you snap some close-ups of Lyman's purse wounds." Laugh laugh. Ha ha. Corey, even though late, thinks he's funny.

A couple guys snicker lightly, but not hard. Lyman, traded to us in December from, coincidentally, Kansas City, is still trying to find his feet with his new team. He seems like a good guy who's another soul misunderstood by every GM he's ever played for. He's usually good for 20-25 home runs, 90+ RBIs, 20 stolen bases and solid defense in right field, so I'm not sure yet why he keeps getting traded. Maybe it's his choice in women.

Lyman doesn't react to Corey's line. I try to use my peripheral vision in as clandestine a fashion as possible. Lyman appears to be looking straight ahead.

Guys like Corey, in my experience, don't like a non-reaction. They offer stimulus and expect it in return. For example, break the law/get arrested.

Moving on.

The camera man starts snapping away.

"Hey, Mr. Photographer Man, did you catch Lyman's dress?" It's Corey again, speaking out from his perch in the back row.

This time, Lyman flinches. But he keeps his cool. He's trying to at least. I whisper something supportive, like "Corey's a *************, isn't he?" No reaction. That's fine. He probably didn't hear me. The anger was probably too close to boil-over stage.

Very close.

We're almost done. "Photographer Man" takes a few more shots, tells us, jokingly, to say cheese.

Corey: "You say want Lyman to get down on his knees?"

That's it. In less than half a heartbeat, Lyman is no longer standing next to me. He's barrelling through teammates, knocking them over the chairs they're standing on, trying to get to Corey. And then Lyman's got his hands around Corey's throat, Corey's throwing punches and making contact with not just Lyman, but the other guys trying to break it up. Photographer Man is snapping pictures as fast as he can, along with some beat reporters who are hanging around. One of them is holding up his phone, taking video of the event.

Gums Murphy, our 80 year old coach emeritus, is in the pile by now, trying to break it up. Corey's elbow knocks Gums in the forehead. He's down. It takes J.D. Bryant, all 257 pounds of him (that's how he can play both baseball and football), to literally rip Corey off of Lyman. Cal Franklin, normally a religious man (a very large one), holds Corey back and begins to rip into him like it's nobody's business. Corey says something. Before you know it, he and Cal are rolling around on the ground, chairs falling on top of them, punches being thrown, spit flying through the air.

One kick ends it. Our field manager, the one whose job is to keep sh*t like this from ever happening, who claims he would've been a star punter for 13 to 14 teams over 20 years in the NFL if he hadn't chosen baseball as his profession, lays one furious, passionate, perfectly timed kick right on Corey's head. BOOM! Corey's done for the day. Eyes closed. Unconscious but breathing harder than a dog after a two-mile run.

Cal gets off and continues to berate the knocked out Corey with words I've never heard a religious man (a very large one) use. He kicks a chair and walks away, trying to cool off.

I look around at the damage. You'd have thought a tornado had just cut a swath in our little picture taking area. Chairs are on their sides. Shoes have been separated from feet. Torn clothing lays about (or is it lies?).

A couple of golf carts are on the scene by now. Two trainers and a stray minor leaguer or two help lift a woozy Corey Belle off of the ground. He's looking at us, looking at Rick. But he's not angry anymore. He's sorry. A little late, but he knows he made a mistake. He is sat down into the cart and it drives away.

Lyman, for his part, is sitting on a chair and joking around (better than choking around). He's got a cut above his eye that's been reopened (origin: his angry, pulverizing fiance) and a new one on his cheek. He's also got little scrapes and cuts on his neck. He talks about Corey's need for a manicure. The guy can afford it, that's for sure.

Rick pulls a chair over and starts to talk to Lyman. And, like kids, we all gather 'round and listen. Even Cal is back, sitting on the grass. Rick tells us about a fight he got into in '87 with Jose Varmes. Jose broke two fingers and three knuckles and missed three months of the season. Rick won that fight the same way he stopped this one: A perfectly placed kick to a spot no man enjoys, even if he's wearing protective plastic.

If Lyman wanted to be our teammate, to get to know us, today was his initiation. He's got a lot of fans on this team now. Like I said, he's a good guy. When we look back in October, maybe this will be the moment that changed everything for him. Maybe this was the moment he came to feel like one of us.

As for Rick, he did a good job today. He ended a fight, and he ended it in a way that showed who's boss. At the same time, he took down the school bully. Good for him.

Corey, well, he was driven the the hospital for tests. The thought is he probably has a concussion and will miss at least a few days. Chances are good the guy will be suspended by the team for a while. This is Rick's chance to really show who's boss. Suspend the guy for 30 games or something, make a statement. It'll show how Rick doesn't care as much about Corey's 40+ home runs as he cares about keeping the team together. Rick ended the fight, but has a chance to now make the deciding blow.

This is Rick's first big time opportunity as a manager to make the team his own. You know what? I'm rooting for him.

Let's hope we all live happily ever after.