It's launched! "But," you say, "what is Jimmy Scott's High & Tight? Is it a Broadway show? Ooh, I love Broadway. Is there singing and dancing?"
No, it's not a Broadway show, thus, there is no singing and dancing.
"Is it a diner? I love to eat. Do you serve both steaks and chops?"
No.
"Then which is it? Steaks or chops?"
It's not a diner.
"Is it a set of designer underpants? You're almost 40 Jimmy. You're at the stage in a man's life when the pants are either lifted above the stomach or below. Is it a set of designer underpants?"
No, but I like that idea. May I steal it?
"Jimmy," you say with gusto, "I'm stuck. What else can a famous formerly 'greatest pitcher of his generation' do that would be called Jimmy Scott's High & Tight?"
I'll tell you.
Go here: http://www.jimmyscottshighandtight.com/
That's it! It's a website.
"A website?"
Yes.
"What on earth is a great baseball player who is definitely starting to go bald doing with a website?"
Stuff. I'm doing stuff. This blog? It's gonna go up there. The podcast interviews? They're gonna go up there. Video interviews? I'm gonna do some of them and put them up there. Oh, you'll feel joy learning more about my family, my team, our management. There is a Forum section where you can write nasty things about me. There is a poll up with more to come so you can act all American and vote. There are links. You'll see pictures. The list is not endless. It ends there.
"What will it cost me?"
Nothing. I'm a multi-multi-multi-millionaire. What am I gonna do with your money? Spend it on more underpants?
"Lord, I hope not."
That makes 3.2 million of us.
"What do I need to do?"
Go there, young man. Go to http://www.jimmyscottshighandtight.com/. Participate. Comment on blogs. Join the Jimmy Scott Fan Club. Click on the Syndicate button and let the daily website changes come to you. The site is like a ground ball. You need to set yourself into proper position to field it cleanly.
"I don't understand that last metaphor."
Neither do I.
"Are you still gonna blog here?"
Yeah. Still gonna blog, but probably more often. I want to have contests and give things away. I want you to become more involved in my life.
"Will we have sex?"
Nope. Vanessa would be mad.
"Will you have me over for dinner?"
Chances of that are extremely remote. What's in it for me?
"I'll go to your website."
Okay. Deal.
"Will you serve steaks or chops?"
Ha ha. You're funny. Enjoy the website. Enjoy your weekend. Root for me. I'm rooting for you.
Showing posts with label Vanessa. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Vanessa. Show all posts
Friday, May 16, 2008
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Figuring Out My Life
I got home after Saturday's game a little upset. I'd just blown my first save of the season (but gotten my first win - only 12 to 300! - wait, I'm not supposed to be excited about personal goals. Never mind.) and Vanessa was home waiting for me. I grumbled a little to her about something trivial and she told me off. I won't reprint her words here because they're private (actually, I forgot most everything she said, but the "privacy" thing makes us sound private). The gist of it all was this: Jimmy (that's me) is going to not be playing baseball for the rest of his life. The assumption is that Jimmy (me again) will one day retire and have to fill up the days of his life with...something.
Vanessa: You better find out what that is.
Me: We can go on a second honeymoon.
Vanessa: If living with you during retirement is like this, you can go on a second honeymoon with your second wife.
Well, no husband wants to hear that, especially from his first wife. So I said something dumb back to get the last word in ("Maybe I will," I believe was the phrase.). She said something back, not so dumb, and got the last word in anyway (truly forgot what that was due to my not getting the last word and not fulfilling my momentary goal).
I moped around the house for a while, doing a lot of nothing. I do that when I get home after afternoon games. My nights can be filled with the following:
1. Moping around and being bored
2. Watching cartoons
3. Bothering Vanessa or my kids with queries like, "What are you doing?" and "Want any help?" To which I receive the response, "You should get a hobby."
I thought this blog was my hobby, but it only takes 35-45 minutes a day. If I subtract 45 minutes from 24 hours, there's still at least...um...lots of time left in the day to do stuff. My problem is I have no "stuff" to do. And that upsets my lovely wife, making her threaten me with a divorce to be named later.
Then it hit me: Ask somebody what to do! It's thrilling to come up with an idea on your own. But who to ask? I had a shrink - team supplied - who's not talking to me. I have a wife, but she's not the one who'll give me answers I need since she's biased against me. My kids' guidance counselor at school? Good idea, but she's a lady and would probably not be very impressed with the balding that's beginning on my scalp.
Then it hit me: Ask former ballplayers! They're retired! They must have all the time in the world to talk to me about what they're doing with the rest of their lives since they're currently living in the "rest of their lives" time period.
Thus, I reached out to Mike Marshall first, former Cy Young Award winner (1974) while with Los Angeles. He holds all sorts of records for relief pitchers, like most pitching appearances in a season (106) and most relief innings (208).
But there's more.
He's Dr. Mike Marshall to you and me. I saw him on HBO Real Sports a couple of weeks ago with Bryant Gumble, talking about his efforts to eliminate injuries to pitchers. Coming off a 2007 season in which I threw two pitches before getting injured and missing the rest of the year, I suddenly wished Vanessa had yelled at me in 2006.
I'm no doctor. Far from it. (Vanessa won't even call me Dr. Love when I ask during those "private" times.) Maybe Dr. Marshall could help me. Maybe he could give me some advice. It was worth reaching out to him.
I went to his website, http://www.drmikemarshall.com/, and sent him an email. He responded and agreed to speak to me. So we did. And I recorded it. Unwilling to turn this into some Linda Tripp/Monica Lewinsky thing, I told the good doctor I was recording our conversation. He said fine, as long as I posted it on my blog. I said fine, as long as - Well, I had no counter to his proposal, so I'm posting our conversation here.
The Dr. Mike Marshall Interview
Give a good hard listen. You finally get to hear my voice after my not talking to the media for so long. And, in the background, you'll hear some interesting music.
More important, you'll hear what Dr. Marshall has to say about pitching and baseball. His website http://www.drmikemarshall.com/ has loads of free information young kids may find interesting. Maybe old kids will find it interesting too. You can even send him emails on your own with questions. There's a free book, some video, all sorts of neat stuff. You'll love it. And you'll love him (but not in "that" way).
As for me, I'm going to start doing more of these legal recordings. I've called more people and am going to speak with other former big leaguers, like Tommy John (nice, since I had his surgery last year), Richie Hebner, Rick Minor, Dave Baldwin and more. I'm even going to speak with a sports psychology consultant to see if I can get my head on straight.
Thus, I will no longer just be an incredible pitcher who fans adore, I will become a man who my wife adores and who my two adolescent kiddies tolerate. It's gonna be great!
Vanessa: You better find out what that is.
Me: We can go on a second honeymoon.
Vanessa: If living with you during retirement is like this, you can go on a second honeymoon with your second wife.
Well, no husband wants to hear that, especially from his first wife. So I said something dumb back to get the last word in ("Maybe I will," I believe was the phrase.). She said something back, not so dumb, and got the last word in anyway (truly forgot what that was due to my not getting the last word and not fulfilling my momentary goal).
I moped around the house for a while, doing a lot of nothing. I do that when I get home after afternoon games. My nights can be filled with the following:
1. Moping around and being bored
2. Watching cartoons
3. Bothering Vanessa or my kids with queries like, "What are you doing?" and "Want any help?" To which I receive the response, "You should get a hobby."
I thought this blog was my hobby, but it only takes 35-45 minutes a day. If I subtract 45 minutes from 24 hours, there's still at least...um...lots of time left in the day to do stuff. My problem is I have no "stuff" to do. And that upsets my lovely wife, making her threaten me with a divorce to be named later.
Then it hit me: Ask somebody what to do! It's thrilling to come up with an idea on your own. But who to ask? I had a shrink - team supplied - who's not talking to me. I have a wife, but she's not the one who'll give me answers I need since she's biased against me. My kids' guidance counselor at school? Good idea, but she's a lady and would probably not be very impressed with the balding that's beginning on my scalp.
Then it hit me: Ask former ballplayers! They're retired! They must have all the time in the world to talk to me about what they're doing with the rest of their lives since they're currently living in the "rest of their lives" time period.
Thus, I reached out to Mike Marshall first, former Cy Young Award winner (1974) while with Los Angeles. He holds all sorts of records for relief pitchers, like most pitching appearances in a season (106) and most relief innings (208).
But there's more.
He's Dr. Mike Marshall to you and me. I saw him on HBO Real Sports a couple of weeks ago with Bryant Gumble, talking about his efforts to eliminate injuries to pitchers. Coming off a 2007 season in which I threw two pitches before getting injured and missing the rest of the year, I suddenly wished Vanessa had yelled at me in 2006.
I'm no doctor. Far from it. (Vanessa won't even call me Dr. Love when I ask during those "private" times.) Maybe Dr. Marshall could help me. Maybe he could give me some advice. It was worth reaching out to him.
I went to his website, http://www.drmikemarshall.com/, and sent him an email. He responded and agreed to speak to me. So we did. And I recorded it. Unwilling to turn this into some Linda Tripp/Monica Lewinsky thing, I told the good doctor I was recording our conversation. He said fine, as long as I posted it on my blog. I said fine, as long as - Well, I had no counter to his proposal, so I'm posting our conversation here.
The Dr. Mike Marshall Interview
Give a good hard listen. You finally get to hear my voice after my not talking to the media for so long. And, in the background, you'll hear some interesting music.
More important, you'll hear what Dr. Marshall has to say about pitching and baseball. His website http://www.drmikemarshall.com/ has loads of free information young kids may find interesting. Maybe old kids will find it interesting too. You can even send him emails on your own with questions. There's a free book, some video, all sorts of neat stuff. You'll love it. And you'll love him (but not in "that" way).
As for me, I'm going to start doing more of these legal recordings. I've called more people and am going to speak with other former big leaguers, like Tommy John (nice, since I had his surgery last year), Richie Hebner, Rick Minor, Dave Baldwin and more. I'm even going to speak with a sports psychology consultant to see if I can get my head on straight.
Thus, I will no longer just be an incredible pitcher who fans adore, I will become a man who my wife adores and who my two adolescent kiddies tolerate. It's gonna be great!
Monday, May 12, 2008
Good To Be Home
On Friday night, I slept in my own bed for the first time in 6 weeks. Terrible experience. I was up half the night because of a pillow that was too firm, then I tried sleeping without a pillow, like I did until I was 10 years old (Jewish kids have a bar mitzvah when they reach manhood, my mom gave me my first pillow). That threw my neck out of whack, so I angered Vanessa by waking her up (a sharp toenail to her right calf did the trick) and stealing her pillow when she went to the bathroom. No good. So I just layed there (or is it laid?) and stared at the dark ceiling. By 3AM, I was exhausted and must've fallen asleep around 3:30 (still AM). I awoke at 11:15 (thoroughly AM) to the sound of men outside cutting down a tree. Lots of men with chainsaws and loud voices. I felt crappy, covered my head with both my lousy hard-as-a-rock pillow and Vanessa's no-good pillow, and pretended the sawing was an air conditioner. After suffocating for about 3 minutes, I got up, sweating like a pig.
It was good to be home.
Alyssa and Grace were already out somewhere and Vanessa had to run some errands, so I was left with 10 minutes on my own before having to get ready for my drive to the ballpark for a 4:15 (that's PM) game. The time broke up like this:
1 minute: Find where the cereal is and choose a variety.
1 minute: Pour the cereal into a bowl, then pour some milk onto the cereal while first making sure both cereal and milk have not past their self-imposed expiration dates.
22 seconds: Rush to get a spoon so I can eat the milk-empowered cereal before it gets soggy.
38 seconds: Pick up the 9 spoons I dropped on the floor, spilled in my haste to begin eating the cereal before it gets soggy.
3 minutes: Eat the rapidly drooping cereal, which is not only losing its solid shape but also its flavor.
39 seconds: Realize I have no beverage.
11 seconds: Wait for a waiter, remember I'm home, then get out of my chair.
1 minute: Find a cup, discard it due to something "crusty" on the inside that's probably just part of the cup but still freaks me out, then refer to our collection of glasses (non-prescription - ha ha!) before...
10 seconds: Heading into the dining room.
1 minute: Find a very expensive wine glass, carefully remove it from the breakfront, then try to secure the breakfront doors shut without toppling the damn piece of useless, but very expensive, furniture.
10 seconds: Head into the kitchen.
50 seconds: Lament the travesty of soggy cereal.
My 10 minutes were up and I arose to get dressed while choking on a bit of nut from my Honey Nut Cheerios breakfast.
I only tripped once while taking the stairs to my bedroom and was able to properly break my fall by landing on my surgically repaired right elbow. Don't worry, the only pain was in the bone, not the UCL. I was a little stiff after that, but soldiered on. I had a game to catch! (Actually, I'd pitch, but you know what I mean.)
I showered and washed my hair, remembering halfway through that I had showered and washed my hair the night before in the locker room (we lost 5 - 1). With lather running down my face, I elected to continue the process I'd begun. What was my other option? Turn off the water at that moment and drive with soap in my eyes? You have to get up pretty early in the morning to get one past me!
By 11:53, I was in my bright yellow Hummer, ready to go. But I couldn't leave. There was a gigantic truck in my driveway, blocking my path. It had a gigantic wood chipper in tow and what looked like half a California Redwood being fed into it by 7 men wearing blue jeans and T-shirts telling me to go screw myself.
In the old days, I would have just driven on the lawn to get to the street. (I do have a Hummer after all. The theory is I can drive anywhere I want.) But we fenced in our property at the end of the winter, so my lawn jockeying would have been for naught. There was nowhere to go but back.
I got out of the Hummer and asked the guys to move the truck. They couldn't hear me because the chipper was loud and I didn't yell. They had earplugs on too. I think they knew what I wanted, because one of the guys lifted a finger with the international "One more minute" sign. After 15, they moved their truck.
Now I was late.
I rushed through town to get to route 24, which would take me to 78 and then the NJ Turnpike. Traffic. Everywhere. As far as the eye could see.
But I'm flexible. I took shortcuts, did an end-around. I even back-tracked a bit.
I hit more traffic. I looked as far as my eye could see. More traffic. Everywhere.
I swore quite a bit and switched on the radio. At 8 minutes after the hour, I heard cause for all of the traffic: Lots of cars on the road.
Needless to say, it took me three hours to drive what normally takes 55 minutes. I arrived at the stadium just about an hour before game time.
Rick: Where the hell have you been?
Rick Churches, my manager, and I haven't gotten along as famously as we'd both probably like.
Me: My car.
Rick: Why weren't you here?
Me: Traffic.
Rick: You shouldn't live so far away.
Me: That statement took me 14 years to figure out.
He's a busy man before games. He left me alone to get changed and tell 9 different reporters I wasn't speaking to them. I had to tell Ted Feldman, our PR guy, that I wouldn't go on TV for a quick interview with FOX (we were the regional game of the week). I had to tell Ted that three times, actually, because he asked me three times. Sorry, I said as he began his fourth plea. Tell them to read my blog.
Long story short, we won the game. I pitched a 1-2-3-4-5 9th, giving up 2 hits but no runs and notching my first save ever. EVER. This is my 20th season and just now I got my first save. The fans cheered wildly, which was nice. I've always gotten along well with the fans. We're good at co-existing.
After the game, I ignored the media and showered for the 3rd time in less than 24 hours. If anything, I had a clean day.
Driving home was smooth sailing. I listened to callers complain about how our team stinks and I'm "finished" and "done" and not "the answer" to our underachieving ways. I hate the fans sometimes. It helps balance out our co-existence.
By 10 PM, I was back in bed, back where this story started, staring at the black ceiling with my head resting on a rock hard pillow. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. Screw it. At least it was my pillow. At least we won the game. Maybe tomorrow I'd ask Vanessa why my favorite tree had been cut down today. Or not. I'd have to see if she'd make my breakfast first.
It was good to be home.
Alyssa and Grace were already out somewhere and Vanessa had to run some errands, so I was left with 10 minutes on my own before having to get ready for my drive to the ballpark for a 4:15 (that's PM) game. The time broke up like this:
1 minute: Find where the cereal is and choose a variety.
1 minute: Pour the cereal into a bowl, then pour some milk onto the cereal while first making sure both cereal and milk have not past their self-imposed expiration dates.
22 seconds: Rush to get a spoon so I can eat the milk-empowered cereal before it gets soggy.
38 seconds: Pick up the 9 spoons I dropped on the floor, spilled in my haste to begin eating the cereal before it gets soggy.
3 minutes: Eat the rapidly drooping cereal, which is not only losing its solid shape but also its flavor.
39 seconds: Realize I have no beverage.
11 seconds: Wait for a waiter, remember I'm home, then get out of my chair.
1 minute: Find a cup, discard it due to something "crusty" on the inside that's probably just part of the cup but still freaks me out, then refer to our collection of glasses (non-prescription - ha ha!) before...
10 seconds: Heading into the dining room.
1 minute: Find a very expensive wine glass, carefully remove it from the breakfront, then try to secure the breakfront doors shut without toppling the damn piece of useless, but very expensive, furniture.
10 seconds: Head into the kitchen.
50 seconds: Lament the travesty of soggy cereal.
My 10 minutes were up and I arose to get dressed while choking on a bit of nut from my Honey Nut Cheerios breakfast.
I only tripped once while taking the stairs to my bedroom and was able to properly break my fall by landing on my surgically repaired right elbow. Don't worry, the only pain was in the bone, not the UCL. I was a little stiff after that, but soldiered on. I had a game to catch! (Actually, I'd pitch, but you know what I mean.)
I showered and washed my hair, remembering halfway through that I had showered and washed my hair the night before in the locker room (we lost 5 - 1). With lather running down my face, I elected to continue the process I'd begun. What was my other option? Turn off the water at that moment and drive with soap in my eyes? You have to get up pretty early in the morning to get one past me!
By 11:53, I was in my bright yellow Hummer, ready to go. But I couldn't leave. There was a gigantic truck in my driveway, blocking my path. It had a gigantic wood chipper in tow and what looked like half a California Redwood being fed into it by 7 men wearing blue jeans and T-shirts telling me to go screw myself.
In the old days, I would have just driven on the lawn to get to the street. (I do have a Hummer after all. The theory is I can drive anywhere I want.) But we fenced in our property at the end of the winter, so my lawn jockeying would have been for naught. There was nowhere to go but back.
I got out of the Hummer and asked the guys to move the truck. They couldn't hear me because the chipper was loud and I didn't yell. They had earplugs on too. I think they knew what I wanted, because one of the guys lifted a finger with the international "One more minute" sign. After 15, they moved their truck.
Now I was late.
I rushed through town to get to route 24, which would take me to 78 and then the NJ Turnpike. Traffic. Everywhere. As far as the eye could see.
But I'm flexible. I took shortcuts, did an end-around. I even back-tracked a bit.
I hit more traffic. I looked as far as my eye could see. More traffic. Everywhere.
I swore quite a bit and switched on the radio. At 8 minutes after the hour, I heard cause for all of the traffic: Lots of cars on the road.
Needless to say, it took me three hours to drive what normally takes 55 minutes. I arrived at the stadium just about an hour before game time.
Rick: Where the hell have you been?
Rick Churches, my manager, and I haven't gotten along as famously as we'd both probably like.
Me: My car.
Rick: Why weren't you here?
Me: Traffic.
Rick: You shouldn't live so far away.
Me: That statement took me 14 years to figure out.
He's a busy man before games. He left me alone to get changed and tell 9 different reporters I wasn't speaking to them. I had to tell Ted Feldman, our PR guy, that I wouldn't go on TV for a quick interview with FOX (we were the regional game of the week). I had to tell Ted that three times, actually, because he asked me three times. Sorry, I said as he began his fourth plea. Tell them to read my blog.
Long story short, we won the game. I pitched a 1-2-3-4-5 9th, giving up 2 hits but no runs and notching my first save ever. EVER. This is my 20th season and just now I got my first save. The fans cheered wildly, which was nice. I've always gotten along well with the fans. We're good at co-existing.
After the game, I ignored the media and showered for the 3rd time in less than 24 hours. If anything, I had a clean day.
Driving home was smooth sailing. I listened to callers complain about how our team stinks and I'm "finished" and "done" and not "the answer" to our underachieving ways. I hate the fans sometimes. It helps balance out our co-existence.
By 10 PM, I was back in bed, back where this story started, staring at the black ceiling with my head resting on a rock hard pillow. I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. Screw it. At least it was my pillow. At least we won the game. Maybe tomorrow I'd ask Vanessa why my favorite tree had been cut down today. Or not. I'd have to see if she'd make my breakfast first.
Thursday, May 8, 2008
The First Class Cab Ride
After the call on Tuesday night that I was done with my rehab assignment in the minors and to report to LA for a Wednesday afternoon game, I did what I do best in situations like that. I went to bed. It was past 10PM west coast time. The hotel room had already been paid for. And did they actually expect me to take a midnight flight to LA, arrive in some hotel room at 3 AM and then be ready for a 1 PM game? Well, yes, they did expect that from me. But sometimes, sports fans, it's what we expect from ourselves that matters the most, especially when we're sleepy. I was sleepy on Tuesday evening, so I went to bed.
I was up early on Wednesday. You must give me credit for not sleeping late. By 7 AM, I was shaving my armpits and humming Streisand songs (both parts of the "You Don't Bring Me Flowers" duet). By 7:20 (also in the AM timeframe), I was sitting in the Days Inn lobby (there's no Ritz Carlton for AAA players, even fading superstars like me, since there's usually no Ritz Carlton in the little cities where AAA players play) signing autographs for the staff of 2 when my taxi arrived to take me (or is it bring me?) to the airport.
Now I don't know Tucson at all. It's hot and dry. There. That about imparts to you my knowledge of this city. Don't ask me for directions anywhere, which is what the cabbie did. "Which way should we go to the airport?" That was her question. I told her I didn't know. The best way. The right way. The fastest way. You're the cab driver. You're supposed to know. She had already pulled out of the parking lot and started driving, so I couldn't jump out and call for a different cab. Instead, I signed loudly and shut my mouth.
5 minutes passed. 10 minutes. 15 minutes. At some point, I realized no signs mentioned the airport and the Days Inn where I'd slept and shaved and hummed not too long before was two blocks away. "Um," I said in my strong man-voice, "you don't know where you're going, do you?"
It appears that the driver was a substitute for her dad who needed the morning to "sleep in" after a late night riding a mechanical bull. "His back is kinda stiff," the girl said. When I write "girl," I mean it. Maybe she was 17. Maybe not. I'd say she reminded me of my own daughters, only I wouldn't hand the keys to the family business over to them at 15, 16 or 17, mechanical bull or not. I told her she should pull over at a gas station and ask for directions. I had a 9:45 AM flight (arrival at 11:10; I'd get to the ballpark by noon) and now it was 7:45. Plenty of time to make it to the airport, but I didn't want to sit in a cab with the windows open, my hair blowing everywhere but the part of my head that's quickly going bald. She pulled into a Lukoil! (I added the ! - it just seems that there's one logo that could use a !, remember the band Wham!?) She asked directions. She listened intently. I did not. Not my job. I was busy licking the undersides of my fingers and flattening out my hair over my bared scalp. We pulled away.
5 minutes pass. 10 minutes. I don't wait for 15. "You still lost?" I asked. She slowly nodded, not being able to talk because she was, I just realized, crying her eyes out. "Sorry," I said. "I meant we."
I sat back and thought. Cell phone. I had one (only one, since I don't have a girlfriend, thus there is no need to hide any calls from my lovely wife, Vanessa, who doesn't go through my bags looking for "something suspicious" and doesn't scroll through the phone numbers programmed into my cell [since I don't expect myself to memorize any] looking for evidence that I called some "Gina" or "Lola" or "Marla" or some other groupie one-night-stand name that ends with an A). I'm completely lost. Let me review all the stuff before the ( and )...
Okay. Back on track.
I whip out my cell (phone, not the microscopic thing that contains nuclei and cytoplasm and protoplasm) and called my super agent, Jack Perry.
Me: I'm lost.
Jack: Never get into a taxi that doesn't have GPS.
Me: I did.
Jack: In the future, don't.
Me: Okay.
Thus, we were basically done. I edited out the part where he said I should have flown out the night before like I was supposed to.
I called Vanessa.
Me: (hitting a pre-programmed number, since I don't memorize phone numbers)
Person: Hello?
Me: You're not Vanessa.
Person: No.
The line went dead. There was no instant dial tone like in the movies. Just silence on the other end for a handful of seconds.
I rifled through my carry on bag and pulled out a cheat sheet I'd made (actually, a cheat sheet I'd had made for me) of phone numbers. You know, the In Case Of Emergency Call... kind of thing. There, in three letters, was the name that I knew could help.
Me: Hi.
Mom: Where are you?
Me: Arizona.
Mom: Why aren't you in Los Angeles?
Me: I was sleepy.
Mom: I was sleepy when I went into labor with you, but I didn't go to bed until after I'd pushed you out.
Me: This is different.
Mom: How is it different?
Me: I was sleepy.
Mom: Then I can't help you.
I edited out the part in which she said I should have just flown out the night before.
My phone rang shortly after that. Well, it didn't ring. That Chingy song my girls had programmed as a ringtone started playing. I knew enough not to tell the girl cab driver to turn off the radio, since the radio wasn't on. Even though, as I lifted the phone to my ear, I could sense her boogieing a wee bit to that infectious Chingy beat.
Me: Hello.
Vanessa: Jack called and said you were lost.
Me: Yes.
Vanessa: You told me you were going to fly out last night.
Me: No, I said the team wanted me to fly out last night.
Vanessa: I'm assuming you felt your plan was better.
Me: I was sleep-
Vanessa: Jimmy, be quiet and listen very carefully. Look at a street sign. I am sitting at a computer and will tell you where you are and where to go. Now look up.
Me: (listening to the sound of my pride deflating like a Party City barmitzvah balloon)
Successfully, because she's more awesome than me in every way (she told me I had to write that as payment), Vanessa directed us to the airport. When the girl asked for an extra $10 to subsidize the extra gas she had to burn to get me to the airport, I told her to have her dad write it off as a business expense since, for cab companies, gasoline is a business expense. The girl drove off and didn't say thank you. No, she didn't remind me of my kids at all (sarcasm).
I peeked at my watch. 8:25. I had time to make it to my flight and still even stop somewhere for a cup of orange juice. Maybe even an everything bagel, except hold the sesame, onion and those little tiny black seeds that get stuck in between your teeth. Everything was going to be fine.
My plane was clean and my luggage was stowed away. I sat in first class and closed my eyes. I was suddenly a little bit sleepy. When the captain gave made his announcement, I knew my day was not going to improve.
"Sorry folks, but due to some problems with the engine, we're going to have to de-board and get ya another one."
So much for my plans. So much for my making it to the ballpark by noon.
I sat in a chair, surrounded by people who kept wondering if I was who I am and if that's my real hair, and watched CNN. A cyclone somewhere I'd never heard of killed maybe 100,000. Hillary and Barack are fighting over who's going to lead our nation through another four years. This person killed that person and some company was going to lay off 1000 workers because of the financial crisis. Yeah, I was comparatively pretty well off. The worst thing that could happen to me is that I'd fly in very late, miss the game and miss the flight home with the team, creating a greater wedge between Rick Churches, my manager who prefers to not like me, and me, who I like very much.
Guess what happened?
I was up early on Wednesday. You must give me credit for not sleeping late. By 7 AM, I was shaving my armpits and humming Streisand songs (both parts of the "You Don't Bring Me Flowers" duet). By 7:20 (also in the AM timeframe), I was sitting in the Days Inn lobby (there's no Ritz Carlton for AAA players, even fading superstars like me, since there's usually no Ritz Carlton in the little cities where AAA players play) signing autographs for the staff of 2 when my taxi arrived to take me (or is it bring me?) to the airport.
Now I don't know Tucson at all. It's hot and dry. There. That about imparts to you my knowledge of this city. Don't ask me for directions anywhere, which is what the cabbie did. "Which way should we go to the airport?" That was her question. I told her I didn't know. The best way. The right way. The fastest way. You're the cab driver. You're supposed to know. She had already pulled out of the parking lot and started driving, so I couldn't jump out and call for a different cab. Instead, I signed loudly and shut my mouth.
5 minutes passed. 10 minutes. 15 minutes. At some point, I realized no signs mentioned the airport and the Days Inn where I'd slept and shaved and hummed not too long before was two blocks away. "Um," I said in my strong man-voice, "you don't know where you're going, do you?"
It appears that the driver was a substitute for her dad who needed the morning to "sleep in" after a late night riding a mechanical bull. "His back is kinda stiff," the girl said. When I write "girl," I mean it. Maybe she was 17. Maybe not. I'd say she reminded me of my own daughters, only I wouldn't hand the keys to the family business over to them at 15, 16 or 17, mechanical bull or not. I told her she should pull over at a gas station and ask for directions. I had a 9:45 AM flight (arrival at 11:10; I'd get to the ballpark by noon) and now it was 7:45. Plenty of time to make it to the airport, but I didn't want to sit in a cab with the windows open, my hair blowing everywhere but the part of my head that's quickly going bald. She pulled into a Lukoil! (I added the ! - it just seems that there's one logo that could use a !, remember the band Wham!?) She asked directions. She listened intently. I did not. Not my job. I was busy licking the undersides of my fingers and flattening out my hair over my bared scalp. We pulled away.
5 minutes pass. 10 minutes. I don't wait for 15. "You still lost?" I asked. She slowly nodded, not being able to talk because she was, I just realized, crying her eyes out. "Sorry," I said. "I meant we."
I sat back and thought. Cell phone. I had one (only one, since I don't have a girlfriend, thus there is no need to hide any calls from my lovely wife, Vanessa, who doesn't go through my bags looking for "something suspicious" and doesn't scroll through the phone numbers programmed into my cell [since I don't expect myself to memorize any] looking for evidence that I called some "Gina" or "Lola" or "Marla" or some other groupie one-night-stand name that ends with an A). I'm completely lost. Let me review all the stuff before the ( and )...
Okay. Back on track.
I whip out my cell (phone, not the microscopic thing that contains nuclei and cytoplasm and protoplasm) and called my super agent, Jack Perry.
Me: I'm lost.
Jack: Never get into a taxi that doesn't have GPS.
Me: I did.
Jack: In the future, don't.
Me: Okay.
Thus, we were basically done. I edited out the part where he said I should have flown out the night before like I was supposed to.
I called Vanessa.
Me: (hitting a pre-programmed number, since I don't memorize phone numbers)
Person: Hello?
Me: You're not Vanessa.
Person: No.
The line went dead. There was no instant dial tone like in the movies. Just silence on the other end for a handful of seconds.
I rifled through my carry on bag and pulled out a cheat sheet I'd made (actually, a cheat sheet I'd had made for me) of phone numbers. You know, the In Case Of Emergency Call... kind of thing. There, in three letters, was the name that I knew could help.
Me: Hi.
Mom: Where are you?
Me: Arizona.
Mom: Why aren't you in Los Angeles?
Me: I was sleepy.
Mom: I was sleepy when I went into labor with you, but I didn't go to bed until after I'd pushed you out.
Me: This is different.
Mom: How is it different?
Me: I was sleepy.
Mom: Then I can't help you.
I edited out the part in which she said I should have just flown out the night before.
My phone rang shortly after that. Well, it didn't ring. That Chingy song my girls had programmed as a ringtone started playing. I knew enough not to tell the girl cab driver to turn off the radio, since the radio wasn't on. Even though, as I lifted the phone to my ear, I could sense her boogieing a wee bit to that infectious Chingy beat.
Me: Hello.
Vanessa: Jack called and said you were lost.
Me: Yes.
Vanessa: You told me you were going to fly out last night.
Me: No, I said the team wanted me to fly out last night.
Vanessa: I'm assuming you felt your plan was better.
Me: I was sleep-
Vanessa: Jimmy, be quiet and listen very carefully. Look at a street sign. I am sitting at a computer and will tell you where you are and where to go. Now look up.
Me: (listening to the sound of my pride deflating like a Party City barmitzvah balloon)
Successfully, because she's more awesome than me in every way (she told me I had to write that as payment), Vanessa directed us to the airport. When the girl asked for an extra $10 to subsidize the extra gas she had to burn to get me to the airport, I told her to have her dad write it off as a business expense since, for cab companies, gasoline is a business expense. The girl drove off and didn't say thank you. No, she didn't remind me of my kids at all (sarcasm).
I peeked at my watch. 8:25. I had time to make it to my flight and still even stop somewhere for a cup of orange juice. Maybe even an everything bagel, except hold the sesame, onion and those little tiny black seeds that get stuck in between your teeth. Everything was going to be fine.
My plane was clean and my luggage was stowed away. I sat in first class and closed my eyes. I was suddenly a little bit sleepy. When the captain gave made his announcement, I knew my day was not going to improve.
"Sorry folks, but due to some problems with the engine, we're going to have to de-board and get ya another one."
So much for my plans. So much for my making it to the ballpark by noon.
I sat in a chair, surrounded by people who kept wondering if I was who I am and if that's my real hair, and watched CNN. A cyclone somewhere I'd never heard of killed maybe 100,000. Hillary and Barack are fighting over who's going to lead our nation through another four years. This person killed that person and some company was going to lay off 1000 workers because of the financial crisis. Yeah, I was comparatively pretty well off. The worst thing that could happen to me is that I'd fly in very late, miss the game and miss the flight home with the team, creating a greater wedge between Rick Churches, my manager who prefers to not like me, and me, who I like very much.
Guess what happened?
Monday, May 5, 2008
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."
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."
Friday, April 18, 2008
The Home Team
Seems like none of us can read a schedule. Vanessa came to visit Wednesday and was going to stay until Sunday. Now she's going to fly home Saturday morning because my Nashville Hounds have to fly to Albuquerque after Friday night's game. You could blame me for this scheduling screwup, since I don't really look at the schedule until the last minute, at least down here. In fact, I was in the act of being blamed when something happened.
We got a knock on the door of my trailer Thursday night after the game. It was about 11:30 and we were just about to go to bed (I like games that end in less than 3 hours, especially games in which I don't pitch). Andy, my personal trainer turned security "detail," has a special knock that he uses. I thought this was one of them. I say "thought" because I can never remember which special knock he's using. He tells me, I look him straight in the eye and tell him I'm listening, then space out thinking about chunky tomato sauce or something.
So...uh, oh yeah. Thursday night. A knock. "Maybe it's Andy," I said to Vanessa. She tells me to look out the window. I tell her I don't need to. I know his knock (even though I was extremely unsure). Thus, I open the door and...it's our (Vanessa's and mine, not Andy's and mine) two daughters, Alyssa and Grace, standing outside, shivering. I look around and don't see Andy anywhere. So much for security.
Hugs are exchanged. Squeals of delight spew out of Vanessa. I smile because I haven't seen my girls since March 30th, almost 3 weeks. We sit down and I grill them:
Me: How did you get here?
Alyssa: Plane.
Me: I mean, who arranged this trip?
Grace: Me. There's this think called the Internet.
Me: I've heard of it. Free porn, right?
Vanessa: Jimmy!
Me: How did you pay for your tickets?
Alyssa: We didn't.
Grace: You did.
Instantly, I'm lost. I did? Just as I had forgotten Vanessa was going to come by the day before, had I forgotten my two spawn were going to come by tonight? Surely, Vanessa would have told me, or reminded me.
Me: Surely, Vanessa, you would have told me or reminded me they were going to visit.
Vanessa: Yes, I would have.
Me: But you didn't.
Vanessa: Correct.
Me: (wrinkling my brow, desperately trying to figure this out)
Alyssa: It's not math, Dad. Surprise.
Me: That doesn't answer my question. How did you pay for this trip?
Grace: Ever heard of credit cards?
Me: Yes. (but said like a dufus)
Silence. Nobody finished Grace's thought. It just floated in the air above us.
Grace: What are you looking at?
Me: (looking down) Huh?
Alyssa: You gave us credit cards for Christmas. We used them to pay for our flight.
Me: (nodding and happy that the world was no longer shaped like an octagon)
Vanessa: Your father is tired and just misses you.
Me: Missed. They're right here. The missing is over.
We talked for a while. They're doing well back in their own school. I didn't like the fact that they flew by themselves from Newark to Nashville. But it was still good to be together, the whole family, the four of us, in my trailer built for two - maximum.
Me: (yawning) So where are you staying tonight?
Vanessa/Alyssa/Grace: Here.
"Here." Another word that floated in the air above us.
Grace: What are you looking at?
Me: (looking down) Here?
Vanessa: Where else?
Me: Has anybody seen how small this trailer is? Do you know who I am? I'm Jimmy Scott. Baseball star? You expect me to -
Vanessa: You can sleep in Andy's trailer.
Knock knock. "What?" I said it was me. "Who?" I said it was me. Baseball star? Andy opened his door. "You didn't use the knock." I apologized. He looked at my blanket, my toothbrush and toothpaste, the pajamas draped over my frame. "What? Did Vanessa kick you out?" I told him about my visitors. "And?" I told him about the suggested sleeping arrangements. "Fine."
Andy is a big man. He's not fat. Personal trainers aren't allowed to be fat, just like defensive ends in football aren't allowed to be skinny. Andy is just a big-boned, huge African-American man. "You ever play football back in the day?" I asked. He said no. Got in the way of his violin lessons.
His trailer, about as nice as mine, which isn't exactly paradise on wheels, shook with every step he took. He showed me a couch where I could sleep, then turned off the lights and began to sing. (Andy's a great blues singer.)
Andy: Take me, woman, to that place -
Me: Andy, you're singing.
Andy: - where you want to be. Take me, woman to-
Me: It's going on 1AM. We should probably sleep.
Andy: -that place where we're going. Oh, oh oh, oh...
Me: Do you sing yourself to sleep every night?
Silence. At least this night, he did.
We got a knock on the door of my trailer Thursday night after the game. It was about 11:30 and we were just about to go to bed (I like games that end in less than 3 hours, especially games in which I don't pitch). Andy, my personal trainer turned security "detail," has a special knock that he uses. I thought this was one of them. I say "thought" because I can never remember which special knock he's using. He tells me, I look him straight in the eye and tell him I'm listening, then space out thinking about chunky tomato sauce or something.
So...uh, oh yeah. Thursday night. A knock. "Maybe it's Andy," I said to Vanessa. She tells me to look out the window. I tell her I don't need to. I know his knock (even though I was extremely unsure). Thus, I open the door and...it's our (Vanessa's and mine, not Andy's and mine) two daughters, Alyssa and Grace, standing outside, shivering. I look around and don't see Andy anywhere. So much for security.
Hugs are exchanged. Squeals of delight spew out of Vanessa. I smile because I haven't seen my girls since March 30th, almost 3 weeks. We sit down and I grill them:
Me: How did you get here?
Alyssa: Plane.
Me: I mean, who arranged this trip?
Grace: Me. There's this think called the Internet.
Me: I've heard of it. Free porn, right?
Vanessa: Jimmy!
Me: How did you pay for your tickets?
Alyssa: We didn't.
Grace: You did.
Instantly, I'm lost. I did? Just as I had forgotten Vanessa was going to come by the day before, had I forgotten my two spawn were going to come by tonight? Surely, Vanessa would have told me, or reminded me.
Me: Surely, Vanessa, you would have told me or reminded me they were going to visit.
Vanessa: Yes, I would have.
Me: But you didn't.
Vanessa: Correct.
Me: (wrinkling my brow, desperately trying to figure this out)
Alyssa: It's not math, Dad. Surprise.
Me: That doesn't answer my question. How did you pay for this trip?
Grace: Ever heard of credit cards?
Me: Yes. (but said like a dufus)
Silence. Nobody finished Grace's thought. It just floated in the air above us.
Grace: What are you looking at?
Me: (looking down) Huh?
Alyssa: You gave us credit cards for Christmas. We used them to pay for our flight.
Me: (nodding and happy that the world was no longer shaped like an octagon)
Vanessa: Your father is tired and just misses you.
Me: Missed. They're right here. The missing is over.
We talked for a while. They're doing well back in their own school. I didn't like the fact that they flew by themselves from Newark to Nashville. But it was still good to be together, the whole family, the four of us, in my trailer built for two - maximum.
Me: (yawning) So where are you staying tonight?
Vanessa/Alyssa/Grace: Here.
"Here." Another word that floated in the air above us.
Grace: What are you looking at?
Me: (looking down) Here?
Vanessa: Where else?
Me: Has anybody seen how small this trailer is? Do you know who I am? I'm Jimmy Scott. Baseball star? You expect me to -
Vanessa: You can sleep in Andy's trailer.
Knock knock. "What?" I said it was me. "Who?" I said it was me. Baseball star? Andy opened his door. "You didn't use the knock." I apologized. He looked at my blanket, my toothbrush and toothpaste, the pajamas draped over my frame. "What? Did Vanessa kick you out?" I told him about my visitors. "And?" I told him about the suggested sleeping arrangements. "Fine."
Andy is a big man. He's not fat. Personal trainers aren't allowed to be fat, just like defensive ends in football aren't allowed to be skinny. Andy is just a big-boned, huge African-American man. "You ever play football back in the day?" I asked. He said no. Got in the way of his violin lessons.
His trailer, about as nice as mine, which isn't exactly paradise on wheels, shook with every step he took. He showed me a couch where I could sleep, then turned off the lights and began to sing. (Andy's a great blues singer.)
Andy: Take me, woman, to that place -
Me: Andy, you're singing.
Andy: - where you want to be. Take me, woman to-
Me: It's going on 1AM. We should probably sleep.
Andy: -that place where we're going. Oh, oh oh, oh...
Me: Do you sing yourself to sleep every night?
Silence. At least this night, he did.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
The Pleasant Surprise That I Should Have Remembered
We won yesterday! My Nashville Hounds are now 3 and 11, but still only 5.5 games out of first place. While I won't be here for any championship run in August, they're still my team. These are my guys. It's like "Survivor" down here. You're constantly competing with each other to be the next winner (who gets called up to New York), yet each time somebody leaves (occasionally one of us gets cut or demoted), it's sad. We don't cry on camera, gently wiping the tears from our eyes so we don't mess our makeup. But we do feel a loss. I felt that way when Felipe Castro was called up last week, and he was only here for just under half a dozen games. I'll feel that way when I head north for good. These are my Hounds, my boys. Every one is a winner.
I sound like the host of some children's TV show. "Every one of you won today, whether you have a trophy or disgraced your family name. Good luck in life. You're going to need it."
Not sure if you sense it, but I'm a little giddy today. Not due to my performance on Wednesday. To get some good work in, I pitched both the 8th and 9th. The 8th was great. 1-2-3 inning. I needed that. The 9th, not as good. Leadoff HR and two more hits before getting out of it. 2 innings, 3 hits, 1 run. That's not good enough yet. However, the 8th is what I'll remember. I felt good and pitched well. Remember the good, forget the bad, but try to learn from it too. Complicated.
The giddiness - don't worry, I remember - was brought on by... Oh, I won't spoil it for you. But this will help you know why I'll remember the 8th more than the 9th.
I was sitting in the bullpen beginning in the 6th inning and saw somebody familiar behind home plate. I squinted and thought, "Damn, she looks familiar." Then I shook my head and tried to forget about it by spitting pistachio shells all over the place.
Just before the 8th, I was throwing warmup pitches when the familiar woman caught my eye again. I froze, just as my catcher, Einer Rosario, threw the ball back to me, hitting me square in the chest. I dropped to the ground, everyone - I mean EVERYONE - came running. But I never took my eye off the familiar woman. Because I finally realized she was my wife, Vanessa. And I was supposed to meet her before the game. Hell, I was supposed to arrange to have somebody pick her up at the airport.
Um, I forgot.
Now you know why I froze.
My chest will be fine. There's a bruise. It's sore, but only when I breathe. "Serves you right," my lovely spouse said to me after the game as I gave her a tour of the stadium (took about 3 minutes). I just smiled (without breathing). It was so great to be surprised by my wife's visit, even though it technically wasn't a surprise since she told me she was coming. I mean, she gave me all of her flight information, including arrival time. This wasn't supposed to be a surprise.
But I forgot, so, uh, SURPRISE!!
When I said, "What a fantastic surprise," to her, she wasn't sure what I was talking about for almost a full second. Then she shook her head in that You May Be 40 But You Still Need A Nanny To Look After You kind of way.
She came down because she had missed my birthday over the weekend and also wanted to see the trailer that I'm living in in the Pepsi Field parking lot. Not sure if you've seen it. Here you go:
Vanessa slept here last night. Did I mention (yes) a while back that it had two sinks? It does. And let me tell you: Two sinks in a bathroom saves a marriage.
Vanessa got to meet my protege, Rey Marcos, who is 17 but looks 16. She asked me, around 10:30 last night, if Rey was ever going to leave. I told her yes. Around 11:15, she asked me again. I understood this time and asked Rey to leave by 11:45, after Vanessa said she was going to bed. Unfortunately, my trailer only has one room.
So in order for my spousal equivalent to sleep, I had to help Rey leave through the throng of groupies outside wearing thongs.
I assume he made it home to his hotel room since I didn't get a call from his parents (who call me if they haven't heard from him in more than 5 hours) or the police.
I went to bed happy, still giddy about the surprise visit from my wife. She's flying back to Newark Airport on Sunday morning, which will give us some much needed time together and also give her a break from her stalker "friend" Connie, who is as bad as ever. More on Connie tomorrow.
But today, I'm giddy all over. It's nice to be loved, even if you can't remember that you are sometimes.
I sound like the host of some children's TV show. "Every one of you won today, whether you have a trophy or disgraced your family name. Good luck in life. You're going to need it."
Not sure if you sense it, but I'm a little giddy today. Not due to my performance on Wednesday. To get some good work in, I pitched both the 8th and 9th. The 8th was great. 1-2-3 inning. I needed that. The 9th, not as good. Leadoff HR and two more hits before getting out of it. 2 innings, 3 hits, 1 run. That's not good enough yet. However, the 8th is what I'll remember. I felt good and pitched well. Remember the good, forget the bad, but try to learn from it too. Complicated.
The giddiness - don't worry, I remember - was brought on by... Oh, I won't spoil it for you. But this will help you know why I'll remember the 8th more than the 9th.
I was sitting in the bullpen beginning in the 6th inning and saw somebody familiar behind home plate. I squinted and thought, "Damn, she looks familiar." Then I shook my head and tried to forget about it by spitting pistachio shells all over the place.
Just before the 8th, I was throwing warmup pitches when the familiar woman caught my eye again. I froze, just as my catcher, Einer Rosario, threw the ball back to me, hitting me square in the chest. I dropped to the ground, everyone - I mean EVERYONE - came running. But I never took my eye off the familiar woman. Because I finally realized she was my wife, Vanessa. And I was supposed to meet her before the game. Hell, I was supposed to arrange to have somebody pick her up at the airport.
Um, I forgot.
Now you know why I froze.
My chest will be fine. There's a bruise. It's sore, but only when I breathe. "Serves you right," my lovely spouse said to me after the game as I gave her a tour of the stadium (took about 3 minutes). I just smiled (without breathing). It was so great to be surprised by my wife's visit, even though it technically wasn't a surprise since she told me she was coming. I mean, she gave me all of her flight information, including arrival time. This wasn't supposed to be a surprise.
But I forgot, so, uh, SURPRISE!!
When I said, "What a fantastic surprise," to her, she wasn't sure what I was talking about for almost a full second. Then she shook her head in that You May Be 40 But You Still Need A Nanny To Look After You kind of way.
She came down because she had missed my birthday over the weekend and also wanted to see the trailer that I'm living in in the Pepsi Field parking lot. Not sure if you've seen it. Here you go:
Vanessa slept here last night. Did I mention (yes) a while back that it had two sinks? It does. And let me tell you: Two sinks in a bathroom saves a marriage.
Vanessa got to meet my protege, Rey Marcos, who is 17 but looks 16. She asked me, around 10:30 last night, if Rey was ever going to leave. I told her yes. Around 11:15, she asked me again. I understood this time and asked Rey to leave by 11:45, after Vanessa said she was going to bed. Unfortunately, my trailer only has one room.
So in order for my spousal equivalent to sleep, I had to help Rey leave through the throng of groupies outside wearing thongs.
I assume he made it home to his hotel room since I didn't get a call from his parents (who call me if they haven't heard from him in more than 5 hours) or the police.
I went to bed happy, still giddy about the surprise visit from my wife. She's flying back to Newark Airport on Sunday morning, which will give us some much needed time together and also give her a break from her stalker "friend" Connie, who is as bad as ever. More on Connie tomorrow.
But today, I'm giddy all over. It's nice to be loved, even if you can't remember that you are sometimes.
Friday, March 28, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, March 17, 2008
At Week's End, The Weekend
You're probably wondering if Vanessa's "friend" Connie is her real name. Yes, it is. Long ago, when we first met, I asked Connie if she cared if I used her real name. She said no, everything about her is an open book. "You can look it up," she said. I've never Googled her, but maybe I should, because she's a little frightening.
Connie paid us a surprise visit last Sunday (the 9th). She said she would still until the end of the weekend, which to us meant that afternoon. She rephrased later and said, "until week's end," which to us was yesterday. It's Monday. She's still here.
She's not staying with us. Vanessa has a rule that beginning February 14th, we do not have guests stay at our home until the end of baseball season. This rule has been in effect ever since I was with Chicago and we had that remarkable run back in 1993. My first ring, Chicago's first in 80-something years... Unforgettable.
We lived outside of Chicago then, in Lake Forest. The relatives, the old friends, the acquaintances... they all came out of the woodwork that year, asking for tickets, a place to stay, signed memorabilia - you name it. I think the night before Game 7 we had 10 people staying over in addition to Vanessa, the girls and me. Not a comfortable situation when you're scheduled to pitch that night in 35 degree weather, the biggest game possibly ever in my life, and I'm home that morning wondering if Cousin Todd was smoking in my backyard and flicking his butts onto my lawn (he was).
Since then, nobody stays over. They can sleep in a tent at a nearby campground, or in an RV somewhere (not in our driveway), or in a hotel. Connie stayed in a hotel this week. All week. She's there now, but probably enroute as I type this. She would have liked to stay over. It's easy to tell someone wants to spend the night when you have to literally push that person out your door at 11pm (Vanessa claims she gave a friendly shove - I was already in bed).
Not sure when she's going home, but Vanessa is exhausted. Two weeks of spring training left before the season starts. We'll be back in New Jersey soon enough, and Connie lives just three houses down. Vanessa gets enough of her when we're home. I'm just happy I have a reason to leave the house alone every day. But Vanessa is stuck. Got a charity thing? Connie can help. Need to go food shopping? Connie will push the cart. Need to slit your wrists? Connie will be ready with rags to clean the blood off the floor.
Yeah, sick stuff. So, does Connie know I'm writing this stuff about her? Here's the weird thing: Yes. She does. She reads this blog every day. She comes over and quotes lines to Vanessa. Vanessa, who only scans this a couple times a week at the most (looking to see what I've said about her), thinks Connie likes the attention. So am I helping or hurting? Should I commit to a news blackout of Connie? Not sure what that would prove. She'd probably keep reading, waiting to see her name in print. I can write about her more often. No, she'd enjoy that too. I asked Vanessa. "What should I do?" She just held out her wrists and said she had no idea. I was pushed aside suddenly, as Connie came bounding out from another room, rags in her hands, ready to wipe up my wife's sacrificial blood.
Connie paid us a surprise visit last Sunday (the 9th). She said she would still until the end of the weekend, which to us meant that afternoon. She rephrased later and said, "until week's end," which to us was yesterday. It's Monday. She's still here.
She's not staying with us. Vanessa has a rule that beginning February 14th, we do not have guests stay at our home until the end of baseball season. This rule has been in effect ever since I was with Chicago and we had that remarkable run back in 1993. My first ring, Chicago's first in 80-something years... Unforgettable.
We lived outside of Chicago then, in Lake Forest. The relatives, the old friends, the acquaintances... they all came out of the woodwork that year, asking for tickets, a place to stay, signed memorabilia - you name it. I think the night before Game 7 we had 10 people staying over in addition to Vanessa, the girls and me. Not a comfortable situation when you're scheduled to pitch that night in 35 degree weather, the biggest game possibly ever in my life, and I'm home that morning wondering if Cousin Todd was smoking in my backyard and flicking his butts onto my lawn (he was).
Since then, nobody stays over. They can sleep in a tent at a nearby campground, or in an RV somewhere (not in our driveway), or in a hotel. Connie stayed in a hotel this week. All week. She's there now, but probably enroute as I type this. She would have liked to stay over. It's easy to tell someone wants to spend the night when you have to literally push that person out your door at 11pm (Vanessa claims she gave a friendly shove - I was already in bed).
Not sure when she's going home, but Vanessa is exhausted. Two weeks of spring training left before the season starts. We'll be back in New Jersey soon enough, and Connie lives just three houses down. Vanessa gets enough of her when we're home. I'm just happy I have a reason to leave the house alone every day. But Vanessa is stuck. Got a charity thing? Connie can help. Need to go food shopping? Connie will push the cart. Need to slit your wrists? Connie will be ready with rags to clean the blood off the floor.
Yeah, sick stuff. So, does Connie know I'm writing this stuff about her? Here's the weird thing: Yes. She does. She reads this blog every day. She comes over and quotes lines to Vanessa. Vanessa, who only scans this a couple times a week at the most (looking to see what I've said about her), thinks Connie likes the attention. So am I helping or hurting? Should I commit to a news blackout of Connie? Not sure what that would prove. She'd probably keep reading, waiting to see her name in print. I can write about her more often. No, she'd enjoy that too. I asked Vanessa. "What should I do?" She just held out her wrists and said she had no idea. I was pushed aside suddenly, as Connie came bounding out from another room, rags in her hands, ready to wipe up my wife's sacrificial blood.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
My First (Threatened) Lawsuit, And Then...
Vanessa told me it was bound to happen sometime, if only because of the notoriety this blog has received. I was officially given an ultimatum yesterday from team psychologist, Dr. Henry Cohegans: Never mention his name or allude to any conversations we've had or will have ever again or else he'll sue me, based upon my breaking the terms of a confidentiality agreement I signed with him once I started writing this. I have one word for him:
Sorry.
Still, I contacted my lawyer, recommended years ago by Jack Perry, my super agent (I bought him a cape for his birthday. No card, no note, no nothing. Rude.). This lawyer, who asked that he not be identified publicly for his own p.r. purposes, told me that technically I didn't break the agreement. However, he believes I did break the "spirit" of the agreement in the manner that I alluded to our discussions (see March 11, February 22 and February 14 posts to judge for yourself). While this lawyer, probably the finest in the world (like I'd know), is probably correct, I decided to call Dr. Cohegans on my own to try to nip this in the bud before it became bigger than it had to be.
Dr. Cohegans:
Me: Hi, It's -
Dr. Cohegans:
Me: Wow, you're snippy when you're upset. Want to talk about it?
Dr. Cohegans:
Me: That was a low blow. But I'm bigger than that, so I'd like to offer an apology.
Dr. Cohegans:
Me: It is too worth something. What if I promised to make you look hyper-intelligent when I-
Dr. Cohegans:
Me: It is too possible. All I need to-
Dr. Cohegans:
Me: Fine. My lawyer said we should revise the agreement.
Dr. Cohegans:
Me: I just thought it'd be cheaper if we -
Dr. Cohegans:
Me: No, I've never been to law school. Have you?
Dr. Cohegans:
Me: Yeah, but how many classes-
Dr. Cohegans:
Me: Did you pass the bar?
Dr. Cohegans:
Me: So you're real smart. Have you ever thrown a fastball 98 miles an hour?
Dr. Cohegans:
Me: I'm just saying there's one thing I can do better than-
It went on like that for about 10 minutes.
Vanessa told me, before I made the call, that I'd only make things worse. But I like to go to bed at night knowing I did everything I could to improve a situation, be it rehabbing from my injury or getting along better with team management or finding a way to make my girls like me. So I thought, hey, a few minutes on the horn with good ol' Doc Cohegans couldn't do any harm, right?
The official suit was filed this morning. Apparently, the doctor was unhappy with my tact on the phone yesterday. My lawyer, still unnamed (now he wants me to sign a confidentiality agreement too - I'll need a lawyer to read it over first), told me I was, in loose terms, an idiot for trying to solve the problem over the phone.
Fine, Vanessa was right. It's not the first time.
Thus, I am being sued. I've never been sued before. I can take it off of my To Do list now.
How does it feel? Well, he's asking for a lot of money since he's saying I'm hurting his private practice and his professional status with the team, which will thus hurt his pocketbook as well. Terms won't be disclosed here, but I'm sure they'll leak out somewhere, like TMZ, since somebody will have nothing else to do. Let's just say he's looking for more than $100.
If you asked Vanessa how this experience feels, you'll get a much more emotional answer. She was quite emotional with me. That doesn't mean she cried. But her voice was raised a few decibels and aimed in my direction. Hey, she's a great kid and has been correct many times when it comes to what I say and how I express it. In this case... She's probably right again.
I asked my anonymous lawyer if we could counter sue. He asked what we would sue him for. I couldn't think of anything. He told me to let him do the lawyering. So that's what he's doing.
Remember when Bill Clinton was being sued all the time while president, and he set up a legal defense fund? I want me one of those. Maybe it should be run by a fan. You can call it The Jimmy Scott Legal Defense Fund. I like the sound of that when I speak it loud. Of course, I spoke it a little too loudly, which led to Vanessa marching into the room and using her decibel-grinding tone with me. So maybe we should hold off on The Jimmy Scott Legal Defense Fund. Then again, I can't control what a few fans do. Nudge, nudge, wink, wink.
Next steps? I want to call the doctor again. I've been "strongly advised to the fullest extent of the word 'strongly'" not to even mention his name to our cat. We don't have a cat, so I'm good there. I think I'll just let this issue fester in my brain for a bit before figuring out my next steps.
Vanessa, of course, would say there's nothing for me to figure. That's why we're paying the lawyer. To which I respond: That's why we need The Jimmy Scott Legal Defense Fund!
I've never slept on the couch in this marriage, but tonight may be the first time. How will it feel? You can bet I'll let you know after I'm through.
Sorry.
Still, I contacted my lawyer, recommended years ago by Jack Perry, my super agent (I bought him a cape for his birthday. No card, no note, no nothing. Rude.). This lawyer, who asked that he not be identified publicly for his own p.r. purposes, told me that technically I didn't break the agreement. However, he believes I did break the "spirit" of the agreement in the manner that I alluded to our discussions (see March 11, February 22 and February 14 posts to judge for yourself). While this lawyer, probably the finest in the world (like I'd know), is probably correct, I decided to call Dr. Cohegans on my own to try to nip this in the bud before it became bigger than it had to be.
Dr. Cohegans:
Me: Hi, It's -
Dr. Cohegans:
Me: Wow, you're snippy when you're upset. Want to talk about it?
Dr. Cohegans:
Me: That was a low blow. But I'm bigger than that, so I'd like to offer an apology.
Dr. Cohegans:
Me: It is too worth something. What if I promised to make you look hyper-intelligent when I-
Dr. Cohegans:
Me: It is too possible. All I need to-
Dr. Cohegans:
Me: Fine. My lawyer said we should revise the agreement.
Dr. Cohegans:
Me: I just thought it'd be cheaper if we -
Dr. Cohegans:
Me: No, I've never been to law school. Have you?
Dr. Cohegans:
Me: Yeah, but how many classes-
Dr. Cohegans:
Me: Did you pass the bar?
Dr. Cohegans:
Me: So you're real smart. Have you ever thrown a fastball 98 miles an hour?
Dr. Cohegans:
Me: I'm just saying there's one thing I can do better than-
It went on like that for about 10 minutes.
Vanessa told me, before I made the call, that I'd only make things worse. But I like to go to bed at night knowing I did everything I could to improve a situation, be it rehabbing from my injury or getting along better with team management or finding a way to make my girls like me. So I thought, hey, a few minutes on the horn with good ol' Doc Cohegans couldn't do any harm, right?
The official suit was filed this morning. Apparently, the doctor was unhappy with my tact on the phone yesterday. My lawyer, still unnamed (now he wants me to sign a confidentiality agreement too - I'll need a lawyer to read it over first), told me I was, in loose terms, an idiot for trying to solve the problem over the phone.
Fine, Vanessa was right. It's not the first time.
Thus, I am being sued. I've never been sued before. I can take it off of my To Do list now.
How does it feel? Well, he's asking for a lot of money since he's saying I'm hurting his private practice and his professional status with the team, which will thus hurt his pocketbook as well. Terms won't be disclosed here, but I'm sure they'll leak out somewhere, like TMZ, since somebody will have nothing else to do. Let's just say he's looking for more than $100.
If you asked Vanessa how this experience feels, you'll get a much more emotional answer. She was quite emotional with me. That doesn't mean she cried. But her voice was raised a few decibels and aimed in my direction. Hey, she's a great kid and has been correct many times when it comes to what I say and how I express it. In this case... She's probably right again.
I asked my anonymous lawyer if we could counter sue. He asked what we would sue him for. I couldn't think of anything. He told me to let him do the lawyering. So that's what he's doing.
Remember when Bill Clinton was being sued all the time while president, and he set up a legal defense fund? I want me one of those. Maybe it should be run by a fan. You can call it The Jimmy Scott Legal Defense Fund. I like the sound of that when I speak it loud. Of course, I spoke it a little too loudly, which led to Vanessa marching into the room and using her decibel-grinding tone with me. So maybe we should hold off on The Jimmy Scott Legal Defense Fund. Then again, I can't control what a few fans do. Nudge, nudge, wink, wink.
Next steps? I want to call the doctor again. I've been "strongly advised to the fullest extent of the word 'strongly'" not to even mention his name to our cat. We don't have a cat, so I'm good there. I think I'll just let this issue fester in my brain for a bit before figuring out my next steps.
Vanessa, of course, would say there's nothing for me to figure. That's why we're paying the lawyer. To which I respond: That's why we need The Jimmy Scott Legal Defense Fund!
I've never slept on the couch in this marriage, but tonight may be the first time. How will it feel? You can bet I'll let you know after I'm through.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Connie
Can a person you know be a stalker? What if they do it in the wide open, right in front of you, by ringing your doorbell and invited themselves in? Is that still stalking? Or just aggressive friendship?
Vanessa has a "friend" from up the street who is the clingy (not the rapper) type. She moved in last fall and instantly became Vanessa's best friend. Not sure how it happened. She has a son who goes to Alyssa and Grace's high school, but he's apparently very quiet. I've never met him. She has a husband, whom I've also never met, who is literally a brain surgeon. His hours are wacky - why would anyone schedule a surgery for 9:00 at night? But he's apparently one of the top brain surgeons on the east coast. I take it Connie doesn't see him very much, nor does she have much to do with her 16 year old son. She doesn't have a full-time job. So, she latches onto Vanessa as often as possible.
I think Vanessa liked it at first. Who wouldn't? Here's a total stranger - allegedly the non-murdering kind - who thinks the world of you and wants to be around you because you're fun and intelligent and someone who commands respect. See, that's what's so great about Vanessa. She's a respectable woman. She has a certain self-confidence that I lack, and that's an attractive feature. I think Connie's attracted to that as well.
Once Connie's foot was in the door, she kept it there. She became Vanessa's BFF, which is difficult for Vanessa since she's so busy with the kids, charitable stuff, me and my career... She's always got something to do. We assume Connie has very little to do. So she's over at our house all the time. All the time. When Vanessa mentioned going on a quick vacation during the kids' winter break (we considered Italy since we're not Italian), Connie booked tickets for her family, first class, to Rome and found hotels, restaurants, hot spots. She put together the whole trip and booked it in hours. We didn't go to Italy because of some commitments I had. Connie never went either. Vanessa was upset. She had wanted the break.
When I proposed to the family that we all go to Florida for spring training, Vanessa, who I thought would fight me tooth and nail, said yes almost before I finished reading from my notes. She helped get the girls to see things my way (they're still pissed off they had to come down here for 6 weeks, but they'll survive). We've been down for almost a month and have had neighbor peace.
Until Sunday. We're renting a home in a gated community. If somebody is going to visit us, they need to clear it with a security guard. Believe me when I say we've turned down lots of visitors this year, mainly media members trying to get me to talk. The only way somebody is going to get to our house is if they live in the community or are police.
Then the doorbell rang.
It was about 8AM. On Sundays I don't get up until 8:30. The kids were asleep. Vanessa was in the shower. I peeked out the window. It wasn't the cops at our door. It was Connie, platter of breakfast danishes in her hands, looking up RIGHT AT ME. It was like she knew I was going to check her out before leaving my own bedroom. But she saw me. Eye contact. I was caught.
I stuck my head into the bathroom and told Vanessa. The water was shut off immediately, but then the movement stopped. After a few seconds, we heard the doorbell ring again. I asked Vanessa what we should do. She didn't say anything for a moment. Perhaps she was thinking of a quick getaway. But she'd be leaving her family behind. She's too good for that.
"Let her in," was all she said.
I left the bedroom, walked down the hallway and passed a sleepy-eyed Grace. "Mom's psycho friend is here." Grace closed her bedroom door fairly hard.
"Hi, Jimmy!"
Connie stood at the bottom of the steps, holding her danish platter.
"Don't tell me you went all the way to Denmark to get those," I said.
She laughed, told me I was "humorous in nature," and found our kitchen.
I don't own a bathrobe and never entertain guests dressed in the clothes I slept in. But it was Connie, and I was tired and had to leave at 9:30 for the ballpark. She got to see how a real semi-balding baseball player dresses when he sleeps. I met her in the kitchen and sat down. "Visiting?" I said.
Connie spoke of how she'd booked a room at a Marriott less than 500 yards away. She said she'd gotten into our community by sweet talking the guard with fresh pastries. But she had a scrape on her calf and a scuff mark on her shoe. She'd also been sweating recently. It wasn't that hot or humid yet. I would have bet a million bucks that she'd scaled the wall. I checked the danishes to make sure they weren't covered in dirt. If I hopped a ten foot wall carrying a platter of breakfast stuff, I'd spill more than my share of donuts (which I like much better than danishes).
She told me she was down alone for the weekend to "get a sense" of Florida living. Since it was Sunday, I asked if that meant she was flying home sometime that afternoon. "No, I'll be here until the week ends." Six days and counting.
After ten minutes of stimulating discussion (I have no recollection of the subject matter. The woman is to a brain what cigarette smoke is to a set of lungs.), Vanessa came into the kitchen, very well dressed.
"I'm late for church," she said to Connie, "but you're welcome to come."
Connie's eyes lit up. She was like a kid seeing the gifts under the tree on New Year's Day. "Of course!" she said.
Vanessa and I made quick eye contact. It was pained. You see, Vanessa hadn't been to church since we'd gotten down here. My bet is she'd just been upstairs trying to find one in the phone book before making her announcement. She was taking one for the team. A grenade was in the kitchen, and she was throwing her body on it. She was giving herself up for the safety of her family.
They were gone within minutes.
I sat there in the rented kitchen, took a bite out of a danish without looking, and gave a silent prayer for my wife, a good woman. A solid woman. Somebody who was about to have a fairly rotten day.
And then I spit something out of my mouth. Dirt. My danish was covered in dirt.
Vanessa has a "friend" from up the street who is the clingy (not the rapper) type. She moved in last fall and instantly became Vanessa's best friend. Not sure how it happened. She has a son who goes to Alyssa and Grace's high school, but he's apparently very quiet. I've never met him. She has a husband, whom I've also never met, who is literally a brain surgeon. His hours are wacky - why would anyone schedule a surgery for 9:00 at night? But he's apparently one of the top brain surgeons on the east coast. I take it Connie doesn't see him very much, nor does she have much to do with her 16 year old son. She doesn't have a full-time job. So, she latches onto Vanessa as often as possible.
I think Vanessa liked it at first. Who wouldn't? Here's a total stranger - allegedly the non-murdering kind - who thinks the world of you and wants to be around you because you're fun and intelligent and someone who commands respect. See, that's what's so great about Vanessa. She's a respectable woman. She has a certain self-confidence that I lack, and that's an attractive feature. I think Connie's attracted to that as well.
Once Connie's foot was in the door, she kept it there. She became Vanessa's BFF, which is difficult for Vanessa since she's so busy with the kids, charitable stuff, me and my career... She's always got something to do. We assume Connie has very little to do. So she's over at our house all the time. All the time. When Vanessa mentioned going on a quick vacation during the kids' winter break (we considered Italy since we're not Italian), Connie booked tickets for her family, first class, to Rome and found hotels, restaurants, hot spots. She put together the whole trip and booked it in hours. We didn't go to Italy because of some commitments I had. Connie never went either. Vanessa was upset. She had wanted the break.
When I proposed to the family that we all go to Florida for spring training, Vanessa, who I thought would fight me tooth and nail, said yes almost before I finished reading from my notes. She helped get the girls to see things my way (they're still pissed off they had to come down here for 6 weeks, but they'll survive). We've been down for almost a month and have had neighbor peace.
Until Sunday. We're renting a home in a gated community. If somebody is going to visit us, they need to clear it with a security guard. Believe me when I say we've turned down lots of visitors this year, mainly media members trying to get me to talk. The only way somebody is going to get to our house is if they live in the community or are police.
Then the doorbell rang.
It was about 8AM. On Sundays I don't get up until 8:30. The kids were asleep. Vanessa was in the shower. I peeked out the window. It wasn't the cops at our door. It was Connie, platter of breakfast danishes in her hands, looking up RIGHT AT ME. It was like she knew I was going to check her out before leaving my own bedroom. But she saw me. Eye contact. I was caught.
I stuck my head into the bathroom and told Vanessa. The water was shut off immediately, but then the movement stopped. After a few seconds, we heard the doorbell ring again. I asked Vanessa what we should do. She didn't say anything for a moment. Perhaps she was thinking of a quick getaway. But she'd be leaving her family behind. She's too good for that.
"Let her in," was all she said.
I left the bedroom, walked down the hallway and passed a sleepy-eyed Grace. "Mom's psycho friend is here." Grace closed her bedroom door fairly hard.
"Hi, Jimmy!"
Connie stood at the bottom of the steps, holding her danish platter.
"Don't tell me you went all the way to Denmark to get those," I said.
She laughed, told me I was "humorous in nature," and found our kitchen.
I don't own a bathrobe and never entertain guests dressed in the clothes I slept in. But it was Connie, and I was tired and had to leave at 9:30 for the ballpark. She got to see how a real semi-balding baseball player dresses when he sleeps. I met her in the kitchen and sat down. "Visiting?" I said.
Connie spoke of how she'd booked a room at a Marriott less than 500 yards away. She said she'd gotten into our community by sweet talking the guard with fresh pastries. But she had a scrape on her calf and a scuff mark on her shoe. She'd also been sweating recently. It wasn't that hot or humid yet. I would have bet a million bucks that she'd scaled the wall. I checked the danishes to make sure they weren't covered in dirt. If I hopped a ten foot wall carrying a platter of breakfast stuff, I'd spill more than my share of donuts (which I like much better than danishes).
She told me she was down alone for the weekend to "get a sense" of Florida living. Since it was Sunday, I asked if that meant she was flying home sometime that afternoon. "No, I'll be here until the week ends." Six days and counting.
After ten minutes of stimulating discussion (I have no recollection of the subject matter. The woman is to a brain what cigarette smoke is to a set of lungs.), Vanessa came into the kitchen, very well dressed.
"I'm late for church," she said to Connie, "but you're welcome to come."
Connie's eyes lit up. She was like a kid seeing the gifts under the tree on New Year's Day. "Of course!" she said.
Vanessa and I made quick eye contact. It was pained. You see, Vanessa hadn't been to church since we'd gotten down here. My bet is she'd just been upstairs trying to find one in the phone book before making her announcement. She was taking one for the team. A grenade was in the kitchen, and she was throwing her body on it. She was giving herself up for the safety of her family.
They were gone within minutes.
I sat there in the rented kitchen, took a bite out of a danish without looking, and gave a silent prayer for my wife, a good woman. A solid woman. Somebody who was about to have a fairly rotten day.
And then I spit something out of my mouth. Dirt. My danish was covered in dirt.
Thursday, January 17, 2008
Principles Are Made To Be Broken
There's a lesson for us all when someone makes a spontaneous decision that affects more than just him/herself: There will be untied loose ends. I know, I sound like a serial killer covering his (or her, let's be fair) tracks. In my case, when I made a quick decision to shun the media - all media - this season in favor of this forum you are reading right now, I forgot about certain commitments that had previously been made.
For example...
Yesterday, Vanessa reminded me to be dressed well. I asked her why. Diane Sawyer was coming over, with a crew, to talk about athletes and charity. The Jimmy Scott Foundation was one of the lead hooks to their report. (They had already interviewed on camera Kobe Bryant, Dale Earnhardt, Jr., and Randy Moss.) When I stood in place and stammered a little, it hit my wife - I had pledged to only speak to the media through this blog.
She was rightfully concerned. The exposure for our charity was going to be huge. That's a key reason why we'd said yes in the first place. Last time we'd done something like this, a few years ago for Sports Illustrated, we raised an incremental $150,000 for M.S. research as a result. ABC gets more eyeballs than SI. That $150K could be a lot more by this time next week.
She told me I had to give ABC an exemption, like how the striking writers gave one to David Letterman's production company. I felt a little weird about that. What union makes side deals with management to let a small pocket of its membership go back to work? That's like when we went on strike in 1997, our union cutting a deal just with Detroit to let their bullpen come off the picket lines (not like any of us actually held placards and yelled silly nursery rhymes about our poor working conditions in the first place) and throw off of flat ground. It wouldn't have helped the greater cause, which is the rest of the union. Very strange.
I told this to Vanessa and she then said this: It was just me. I wasn't answering to anyone when I made this decision. I can go back on it for one hour, justify the cause as being in the name of helping people with a dreadful disease, then go back on my little strike against writers after the cameras have been packed up and driven away. "Put the issue above yourself, Jimmy," she said.
The guilt was amazing; amazing not in a good way. Thick guilt. Rabid guilt. I frothed at the mouth, like a frosty mug after a Heineken had been poured into it too quickly. My principles in baseball have shifted over the years, as they probably do for people as they get older. At first, in the minor leagues, my main principal was to do what it takes to make it to the big leagues. Work out like a maniac. Listen to every coach. Never show up late. Keep my mouth shut. I batted .750 with those principles but reached my goal anyway.
Then I subscribed to a new set of principles. Work out like a maniac. Listen to my managers and veteran teammates. Arrive early and stay late. Be humble with the media. Again, .750 was the magic number. Still worked. We won lots of games. A championship. Then I got traded to New York. Scared the hell out of me. Chicago is a big city, but it's not New York. I'd played games here and seen Cats, but that was it. I was married with two kids by now. Again, a principle shift took place.
With just about six years in the big leagues and some solid success, I put the following principles in place: Don't overwork and burn yourself out so you can get a great contract. Listen to the pitching coach and nod your head to everyone else (no offense, but I've yet to meet a NY manager who knows anything about pitching). Don't forget about the wife and kids. Embrace the media and be their most ardent supporter. Looks like .750 was turning out to be my lucky number (sorry Vanessa and daughters). We won two championships (now I had three). I won lots of individual awards. My kids were never arrested and secretly bailed out to avoid family embarrassment. And I'm on my fifth NY manager this year who... I'll stop there. No need to criticize before spring training begins. Rick - I promise to be on my best behavior.
Bottom line - my last set of principals have helped us raise over $38 million for The Jimmy Scott Foundation. "Embrace the media." Worked out well for me. Until they bit me on the ass and I shunned them. Do I unshun them for a greater good, our charity? Would the Amish unshun a man who looked at a Ferrari and said, "Cool wheels, dude"?
Diane Sawyer and her crew got here just after lunch. Their producer met with Vanessa and they chose a spot in the house to do the interview. I pretended to be in my home gym working out. Of course, I was just in the Entertainment Veranda (Guitar Hero III is the best!), ready to slap a damp washcloth on my face and call it sweat. I got my call and went upstairs. Forgot the washcloth and realized the plan was stupid as I couldn't appear on camera wearing a T-shirt that reads: Bastards Are People Too. Good thing I'd forgotten the plan in the first place and was already dressed for meeting a respectable journalist.
Here's how my first discussion with a major media outlet since my ban was put in place went:
Diane Sawyer: Hi, Jimmy. I've got to tell you I'm a huge fan. My husband is too. He's got season tickets. (Her husband, Mike Nichols, directed The Graduate, my all time second favorite film, and the recent Charlie Wilson's War and lots of others. I want to hang out with him forever.)
Me: (nodding, smiling)
Diane Sawyer: Are you speaking to me today?
Vanessa: Jimmy, this is off the record. The cameras aren't on.
Me: (quizzical look on my face)
Diane Sawyer: I'm just Diane right now, Jimmy. When the cameras are on and my makeup is done, then I'm Diane Sawyer, media person.
Vanessa: (looking at me like I'm an idiot)
Me: (turning red like a little kid holding his breath to get his way)
Vanessa: (punching me in the stomach, kind of hard)
Me: (exhaling kind of hard) Hi, it's nice to meet you.
I felt strange. Was I betraying myself? Vanessa, always, well, almost always on point with her views, looked at me. Had I not listened to her? This was for charity. The cameras were off. She was my wife. It felt more like I was betraying her.
Diane Sawyer already knew of my quandary and was prepared to talk about it. I suggested Vanessa take the lead in the interview, they use archival footage of me speaking at various charity functions, I nod and smile and laugh with whatever Vanessa said, Mike Nichols would spend time with me when he came back to New York, and at the end I would give a little speech, on camera, about just the charity. I wouldn't speak about my media ban, but they would mention my blog address. We shook hands. Diane Sawyer and I made a deal that I thought I could live with.
The special airs on ABC next week. I can live with my decision. Life doesn't always have to be about me. In my baseball world, that's what I'm used to. But maybe it's time I grow up just a little bit. Principles can be just like rules. And rules, sometimes, are meant to be broken.
For example...
Yesterday, Vanessa reminded me to be dressed well. I asked her why. Diane Sawyer was coming over, with a crew, to talk about athletes and charity. The Jimmy Scott Foundation was one of the lead hooks to their report. (They had already interviewed on camera Kobe Bryant, Dale Earnhardt, Jr., and Randy Moss.) When I stood in place and stammered a little, it hit my wife - I had pledged to only speak to the media through this blog.
She was rightfully concerned. The exposure for our charity was going to be huge. That's a key reason why we'd said yes in the first place. Last time we'd done something like this, a few years ago for Sports Illustrated, we raised an incremental $150,000 for M.S. research as a result. ABC gets more eyeballs than SI. That $150K could be a lot more by this time next week.
She told me I had to give ABC an exemption, like how the striking writers gave one to David Letterman's production company. I felt a little weird about that. What union makes side deals with management to let a small pocket of its membership go back to work? That's like when we went on strike in 1997, our union cutting a deal just with Detroit to let their bullpen come off the picket lines (not like any of us actually held placards and yelled silly nursery rhymes about our poor working conditions in the first place) and throw off of flat ground. It wouldn't have helped the greater cause, which is the rest of the union. Very strange.
I told this to Vanessa and she then said this: It was just me. I wasn't answering to anyone when I made this decision. I can go back on it for one hour, justify the cause as being in the name of helping people with a dreadful disease, then go back on my little strike against writers after the cameras have been packed up and driven away. "Put the issue above yourself, Jimmy," she said.
The guilt was amazing; amazing not in a good way. Thick guilt. Rabid guilt. I frothed at the mouth, like a frosty mug after a Heineken had been poured into it too quickly. My principles in baseball have shifted over the years, as they probably do for people as they get older. At first, in the minor leagues, my main principal was to do what it takes to make it to the big leagues. Work out like a maniac. Listen to every coach. Never show up late. Keep my mouth shut. I batted .750 with those principles but reached my goal anyway.
Then I subscribed to a new set of principles. Work out like a maniac. Listen to my managers and veteran teammates. Arrive early and stay late. Be humble with the media. Again, .750 was the magic number. Still worked. We won lots of games. A championship. Then I got traded to New York. Scared the hell out of me. Chicago is a big city, but it's not New York. I'd played games here and seen Cats, but that was it. I was married with two kids by now. Again, a principle shift took place.
With just about six years in the big leagues and some solid success, I put the following principles in place: Don't overwork and burn yourself out so you can get a great contract. Listen to the pitching coach and nod your head to everyone else (no offense, but I've yet to meet a NY manager who knows anything about pitching). Don't forget about the wife and kids. Embrace the media and be their most ardent supporter. Looks like .750 was turning out to be my lucky number (sorry Vanessa and daughters). We won two championships (now I had three). I won lots of individual awards. My kids were never arrested and secretly bailed out to avoid family embarrassment. And I'm on my fifth NY manager this year who... I'll stop there. No need to criticize before spring training begins. Rick - I promise to be on my best behavior.
Bottom line - my last set of principals have helped us raise over $38 million for The Jimmy Scott Foundation. "Embrace the media." Worked out well for me. Until they bit me on the ass and I shunned them. Do I unshun them for a greater good, our charity? Would the Amish unshun a man who looked at a Ferrari and said, "Cool wheels, dude"?
Diane Sawyer and her crew got here just after lunch. Their producer met with Vanessa and they chose a spot in the house to do the interview. I pretended to be in my home gym working out. Of course, I was just in the Entertainment Veranda (Guitar Hero III is the best!), ready to slap a damp washcloth on my face and call it sweat. I got my call and went upstairs. Forgot the washcloth and realized the plan was stupid as I couldn't appear on camera wearing a T-shirt that reads: Bastards Are People Too. Good thing I'd forgotten the plan in the first place and was already dressed for meeting a respectable journalist.
Here's how my first discussion with a major media outlet since my ban was put in place went:
Diane Sawyer: Hi, Jimmy. I've got to tell you I'm a huge fan. My husband is too. He's got season tickets. (Her husband, Mike Nichols, directed The Graduate, my all time second favorite film, and the recent Charlie Wilson's War and lots of others. I want to hang out with him forever.)
Me: (nodding, smiling)
Diane Sawyer: Are you speaking to me today?
Vanessa: Jimmy, this is off the record. The cameras aren't on.
Me: (quizzical look on my face)
Diane Sawyer: I'm just Diane right now, Jimmy. When the cameras are on and my makeup is done, then I'm Diane Sawyer, media person.
Vanessa: (looking at me like I'm an idiot)
Me: (turning red like a little kid holding his breath to get his way)
Vanessa: (punching me in the stomach, kind of hard)
Me: (exhaling kind of hard) Hi, it's nice to meet you.
I felt strange. Was I betraying myself? Vanessa, always, well, almost always on point with her views, looked at me. Had I not listened to her? This was for charity. The cameras were off. She was my wife. It felt more like I was betraying her.
Diane Sawyer already knew of my quandary and was prepared to talk about it. I suggested Vanessa take the lead in the interview, they use archival footage of me speaking at various charity functions, I nod and smile and laugh with whatever Vanessa said, Mike Nichols would spend time with me when he came back to New York, and at the end I would give a little speech, on camera, about just the charity. I wouldn't speak about my media ban, but they would mention my blog address. We shook hands. Diane Sawyer and I made a deal that I thought I could live with.
The special airs on ABC next week. I can live with my decision. Life doesn't always have to be about me. In my baseball world, that's what I'm used to. But maybe it's time I grow up just a little bit. Principles can be just like rules. And rules, sometimes, are meant to be broken.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Agent of Change
I haven't given you much on where my agent, Jack Perry, stands on the recent decision to quit talking to the media. (Note: See how I wrote "the recent decision" instead of "my recent decision"? My always friendly and open team psychiatrist would say, in theory - since our non-disclosure states I can't quote him directly - that I'm already trying to pull away from my decision; I'm already leaving an open door to reconciliation with the media. I would respond with my now-customary favorite phrase, "No comment.") That's because Jack was on vacation someplace warm with his wife, Tina. Tina's nice. I give her credit for not only dealing with the 30 year age difference between she and her husband but also his intensity, which is very...intense. If Jack has something on his mind, he can literally see right through your body to the soda machine behind you. That's a secret nobody knows about him. He's baseball's best and toughest agent because he has X-Ray vision.
But in a nutshell: Jack is back. And pissed. I had a very pleasant phone call with him yesterday.
Me: Hi, Jack.
Jack: (expletives deleted)
Me: Didn't catch that.
Jack: (more expletives, some used in unique ways)
Me: Hold on. Let me put you on speaker.
Jack: (expletives)
Vanessa: Hi, Jack.
Jack: Oh, sorry, Vanessa.
See how classy a guy he is?
Anyway, Jack is a little upset that I made my decision to shun reporters and their like as quickly as I did without his input. He's upset because the people at Pepsi are upset. Alyssa and I are supposed to spend the day Thursday in the city filming the commercial. But Pepsi has become a little wary of working with someone whose image is being hammered on a daily basis by five metropolitan newspapers, two national all sports networks, and his agent (now that's he's back from a warm vacation with Tina, wife #3). I told Jack not to worry. I haven't done anything wrong. All I've done is stick up for my family. It seems my reasoning here has gotten lost in the posing by pundits who have nothing else to do, even though, as I stated yesterday, the Giants have won 2 playoff games and the Super Bowl is just weeks away. Come on, world, there's got to be something more interesting than a guy who doesn't want to talk.
Some people have seen opportunity in this. I have been solicited by four different publicists, each selling me on how they can promote this blog (hate the word b-l-o-g, sorry, but it sounds like something that comes out of someone's ass, not his fingers) so the world can fully appreciate it when I compare the word blog to solid feces. (It's comments like that Jack thinks Pepsi has a problem with. I don't disagree, I said as I sucked down a cool glass of Mountain Dew Code Red - a Pepsi brand for those of you not as in-the-know as me.) Two different web geeks also tracked me down, saying they can add so many features to this blog and integrate it with so many different websites that traffic to my posts will increase by, one quote, "1000 percentage points." That's a lot. One geek said he'd do it for free. The other wanted some signed baseballs for his dad. I'm waiting to see if the two join forces and offer to write the blog for me, saving me time to finish speaking with Jack on the phone.
Me: So, Jack, how was vacation?
Jack: Take me off speaker. Bye, Vanessa.
Vanessa: Bye, Jack.
Jack: Jimmy, you make these decisions without thinking.
Me: Vanessa told me that once.
Jack: I think you should re-think this one. You can still save face and call it an early April Fool's Day joke or something.
Me: Groundhog Day comes sooner.
Jack: (expletives)
Me: Didn't catch that?
Jack: Take me off speaker!
Vanessa: Bye, Jack.
Bottom line is Vanessa has asked me to reconsider. So have the kids. The attention paid upon us is more than we're accustomed to. And, at times, we've been accustomed to a lot. Like when I threw that no-hitter that won the pennant for us, or when... Vanessa doesn't like me to brag, so let's just say a winning pitcher in New York gets a little more public exposure than a winning pitcher in Kansas City, or even LA, where winning pitchers have to compete with Tom Cruise and Steven Spielberg. My neighbor works on Wall Street and earned about three times what I earned in 2007. Yet nobody knows his name, the masses I mean, because he hasn't won two championships in front of capacity crowds after his team came back from a 3 games to 1 deficit. (Here's where Vanessa tells me to stuff my fat conceited head in the toilet and leave it there until she finds time to flush.)
I have reconsidered, by the way. I've thought about this decision and can't go back. And for that, I want to apologize to Vanessa and my two lovely daughters, Alyssa and Grace, in advance for the flack they may receive at school or in public. I should also apologize for the flack they've already received in both those places. Writing a blog about baseball wasn't supposed to be controversial. It was supposed to be fun. Jack didn't agree with that assessment in November, when I started doing this, and he doesn't agree now.
Jack: Stop. For the benefit of your family and career, put your pen down and talk to people.
Me: I type. I don't write the blog with a pen on paper and glue the results onto my screen. That's so 1997.
Jack: You know what I mean.
Me: I can't stop. I'd look worse for going back on what I've pledged to do.
Jack: You look pretty bad now.
Me: That's because I just got up. I still have bed head.
Jack: (expletives)
I'm not going to stop. I'm going to keep on keepin' on. In the end, Jack understood and hung up the phone with great force. His job is to counsel me against doing dumb things. But it's always the player's decision to perform the dumb things. I do not blame Jack Perry for what will happen because of this blog (A key difference between Americans and the French: The French would have a romantic word for blog, like "Chardonnay," while Americans employ a word that has the same number of syllables as "turd."). I do not blame Jack Perry for wanting me to go back and pretend this never happened.
It did. And he's coming along for the ride.
But in a nutshell: Jack is back. And pissed. I had a very pleasant phone call with him yesterday.
Me: Hi, Jack.
Jack: (expletives deleted)
Me: Didn't catch that.
Jack: (more expletives, some used in unique ways)
Me: Hold on. Let me put you on speaker.
Jack: (expletives)
Vanessa: Hi, Jack.
Jack: Oh, sorry, Vanessa.
See how classy a guy he is?
Anyway, Jack is a little upset that I made my decision to shun reporters and their like as quickly as I did without his input. He's upset because the people at Pepsi are upset. Alyssa and I are supposed to spend the day Thursday in the city filming the commercial. But Pepsi has become a little wary of working with someone whose image is being hammered on a daily basis by five metropolitan newspapers, two national all sports networks, and his agent (now that's he's back from a warm vacation with Tina, wife #3). I told Jack not to worry. I haven't done anything wrong. All I've done is stick up for my family. It seems my reasoning here has gotten lost in the posing by pundits who have nothing else to do, even though, as I stated yesterday, the Giants have won 2 playoff games and the Super Bowl is just weeks away. Come on, world, there's got to be something more interesting than a guy who doesn't want to talk.
Some people have seen opportunity in this. I have been solicited by four different publicists, each selling me on how they can promote this blog (hate the word b-l-o-g, sorry, but it sounds like something that comes out of someone's ass, not his fingers) so the world can fully appreciate it when I compare the word blog to solid feces. (It's comments like that Jack thinks Pepsi has a problem with. I don't disagree, I said as I sucked down a cool glass of Mountain Dew Code Red - a Pepsi brand for those of you not as in-the-know as me.) Two different web geeks also tracked me down, saying they can add so many features to this blog and integrate it with so many different websites that traffic to my posts will increase by, one quote, "1000 percentage points." That's a lot. One geek said he'd do it for free. The other wanted some signed baseballs for his dad. I'm waiting to see if the two join forces and offer to write the blog for me, saving me time to finish speaking with Jack on the phone.
Me: So, Jack, how was vacation?
Jack: Take me off speaker. Bye, Vanessa.
Vanessa: Bye, Jack.
Jack: Jimmy, you make these decisions without thinking.
Me: Vanessa told me that once.
Jack: I think you should re-think this one. You can still save face and call it an early April Fool's Day joke or something.
Me: Groundhog Day comes sooner.
Jack: (expletives)
Me: Didn't catch that?
Jack: Take me off speaker!
Vanessa: Bye, Jack.
Bottom line is Vanessa has asked me to reconsider. So have the kids. The attention paid upon us is more than we're accustomed to. And, at times, we've been accustomed to a lot. Like when I threw that no-hitter that won the pennant for us, or when... Vanessa doesn't like me to brag, so let's just say a winning pitcher in New York gets a little more public exposure than a winning pitcher in Kansas City, or even LA, where winning pitchers have to compete with Tom Cruise and Steven Spielberg. My neighbor works on Wall Street and earned about three times what I earned in 2007. Yet nobody knows his name, the masses I mean, because he hasn't won two championships in front of capacity crowds after his team came back from a 3 games to 1 deficit. (Here's where Vanessa tells me to stuff my fat conceited head in the toilet and leave it there until she finds time to flush.)
I have reconsidered, by the way. I've thought about this decision and can't go back. And for that, I want to apologize to Vanessa and my two lovely daughters, Alyssa and Grace, in advance for the flack they may receive at school or in public. I should also apologize for the flack they've already received in both those places. Writing a blog about baseball wasn't supposed to be controversial. It was supposed to be fun. Jack didn't agree with that assessment in November, when I started doing this, and he doesn't agree now.
Jack: Stop. For the benefit of your family and career, put your pen down and talk to people.
Me: I type. I don't write the blog with a pen on paper and glue the results onto my screen. That's so 1997.
Jack: You know what I mean.
Me: I can't stop. I'd look worse for going back on what I've pledged to do.
Jack: You look pretty bad now.
Me: That's because I just got up. I still have bed head.
Jack: (expletives)
I'm not going to stop. I'm going to keep on keepin' on. In the end, Jack understood and hung up the phone with great force. His job is to counsel me against doing dumb things. But it's always the player's decision to perform the dumb things. I do not blame Jack Perry for what will happen because of this blog (A key difference between Americans and the French: The French would have a romantic word for blog, like "Chardonnay," while Americans employ a word that has the same number of syllables as "turd."). I do not blame Jack Perry for wanting me to go back and pretend this never happened.
It did. And he's coming along for the ride.
Wednesday, January 9, 2008
An Open Letter To My World
Dear Friends,
It is with a heavy, angry, and somewhat curious heart that I make an announcement this morning. No, I am not running for president. My announcement is this:
Starting today, I will no longer speak directly with the media.
I could have written, Jimmy Scott will no longer speak directly with the media, but you would have made fun of me. So I stuck with the familiar first person and left it at that.
Your first thoughts are probably:
It is with a heavy, angry, and somewhat curious heart that I make an announcement this morning. No, I am not running for president. My announcement is this:
Starting today, I will no longer speak directly with the media.
I could have written, Jimmy Scott will no longer speak directly with the media, but you would have made fun of me. So I stuck with the familiar first person and left it at that.
Your first thoughts are probably:
- Why?
- How come?
- Why?
2008 is going to be my last season as an active player on a professional baseball field. It will be my 20th big league season. In 20 years, I have experienced more, uh, experiences than you can imagine, if only because I spend my time with wealth, fame, privilege, and 24 other ultra-competitive individuals from America, Japan, Latin America, Canada and a few odd islands I still don't think really exist. I want to do something special this year. I want to remember everything without asking somebody to ghostwrite it for me. I want this to be my Swan Song.
Next question: What is the "this" you just referred to?
The "this" I referred to a moment ago is what you are reading. My almost-daily blog. Do you want to know how I'm feeling? Do you want to know what I thought after being taken out in the 5th inning with my team up by 2 runs? Do you want to know how my rehab is going? Do you want to know about my teammates, my family, my manager, how an organization is run, if we do drugs or hoard needles and steroids and ask our personal trainers' personal trainers to inject us because we're not scared of a 100 mph fastball coming at our heads but because two-inch needles give us the heebie-jeebies? Do you want to know everything?
You'll get it now.
Another Why? comes up.
Because, is my answer. Very childish, yes, but I don't want to go into the real reasons why. Wait. Look what I just did. I almost held back. You see, that's what we do. We are taught and trained and told to hold back. If a fan or reporter or wife or daughter asks you something about the road or your life or how you feel, we know, as if it's in our blood, to skirt around the issue. Say as little as possible. When in doubt, utilize cliche. Professional athletes, especially baseball players, would make great politicians.
Maybe I should run for president.
But here's why I am doing this. Remember, this is hard for me. And it'll get harder as the season progresses. More on that in a minute. I am doing this because I've had enough. I turn 40 on April 12. I think I'm going through a latent maturity period. We're little boys, the ballplayers you see on TV or the summer ballfield. We get paid insane amounts of money to play a game. Yes, it's a multi-billion dollar business. But for us, it's still the game we played in our backyards when we were boys. We get toys. We get little discipline. We get to yell and swear and use words in the locker room that would kill a presidential bid before the words "I'm running for president" were even written down. We get to fight. We get to meet women. Lots of them. We get to drink and carouse. We get first class treatment. Bottom line is, we get what we want.
I'm sick of it.
I attended a charity function last night. Mistakenly, I brought my two girls with me. They're both 15. I forget when they turn 16, but it's too soon for me. I'm proud of my girls. They're smart and beautiful, like their mother. But they're 15. While I'm going through a latent-maturity period, they still sleep with stuffed animals. I haven't done that in months. But they wanted to go last night. They begged. Pleaded. Vanessa was in Chicago at the wing of St. Barnabus named after us, giving a speech. She wasn't home to put her foot down. I was home and couldn't put her foot down. I told them okay.
They dressed nicely. 15 year old girls can easily look 23 if a parent with no feet lets them use makeup. I am 39 but looked 42 because of the hair recession and remaining pot belly from my months of heavy usage. The three of us entered the event looking unlike we usually do.
Here's where I get mad. My twin girls explored. I chatted with some guys, one of whom spent an hour asking me to help him get signed to any team that had a slot available. While I'm no agent, nor would I ever want to be one, he thought I could help him because my incredible success has given me the right to speak in the third person. Jimmy Scott said he'd try. I'm Jimmy Scott.
My twins split up at some point during this hour. I could see Grace at the bar, not drinking alcohol, but speaking with two players. They aren't teammates of mine, but they know who I am. I know who they are. (It's a fun game, but only a select few can play.) They apparently didn't know who Grace was. Before long, they were hitting on her. Big time. At some point, a little bird whispered in their ears that the girl they were hitting on was my daughter. And she was underage.
That didn't stop them.
Like I said. We're babies. We're used to getting what we want, especially off the playing field. They weren't going to win this prize tonight. I intervened, and let's just say, while I ended up on my back, I didn't get hurt. And most important, neither did Grace. These two guys made a mistake and will apologize to me soon enough. But the fact that they continued with their pursuit of my daughter after being given her identity still makes my blood boil.
To make matters worse, after grace and I collected our coats and Alyssa and were driving home, the following exchange occurred between me and Alyssa:
Alyssa: I saw your friend.
Me: Who?
Alyssa: XXXXX. (Ed. note: I won't reveal names. You'll have to settle for truth without them.) I saw him... You know.
At this point I squirmed a little, full knowing what she saw was probably (hopefully) the first time she ever saw something... sexual.
Me: Maybe you shouldn’t tell me.
Alyssa: Tell you what? I saw your stupid teammate screwing some stranger? What? Are you okay with that?
Me: No! No, definitely not.
Alyssa: Is that what you do when we’re not around? If we hadn’t gone with you tonight, would somebody else’s daughter have caught you -
See? Right there. Is there ever a father who wants his daughter to question his fidelity to her mother/his wife? Would any father ever want to be put in that situation? God, it was horrible. But, as someone in a latent-maturity period, I showed how I'm still more latent than mature. Read on:
Alyssa: Are you going to tell his wife?
Me: No.
Alyssa: Then I will.
Me: You don’t tell anybody. Got me?
Alyssa: Why? If we don’t aren’t we like accomplices?
Me: It’s... What XXXXX did tonight was his business. Not mine. Not yours. If he wants to do that to his wife then that’s his problem. I’ve seen too many clubhouse brawls over this stuff. Whatever you say’s just gonna come back to me. It’s best to let it go.
Alyssa: Fine.
Me: And don’t tell your mother about tonight. Any of it.
Alyssa: Great. Two secrets now.
What kind of father am I? I put my young, impressionable daughters in adult situations and then I blow it each time. My fault. I take all the blame. But I also blame the system. (Which means I don't take all the blame, obviously.) The baseball system. The player who cheated, the players who hit on my kid... They should know better. And they shouldn't involve teenage girls. My teenage girls. I never should have brought them with me. But they never should have had to deal with those situations BECAUSE WE SHOULD KNOW BETTER! We are grown men. We aren't boys. But we continue to act that way. With nobody to stop us. Now I'm stuck with my kids thinking I condone marital infidelity. I don't. But it's too late for them to believe me.
When I was a kid and I did something wrong, I got spanked. Dad was never around, but Mom's hand somehow was. I didn't always learn my lesson. Most times I didn't. But I did think twice before doing something stupid.
In this open letter, I want you to know I am spanking the system. I am upset. You want to know what really happens? You want to know what's really said? I'll tell you.
So why not just give interviews to the media? Because they've upset me too. Vanessa was in Chicago for one reason - to defend herself. She and two other wives came up with a campaign called Candles For Kids, in which kids are encouraged to light candles at dinner, bringing families together at least once a week and teaching about how to save energy and the environment.
She's been crucified. Not the other two wives. Just Vanessa. Why? Because she's my wife, she's outspoken, and because a fire warden who wanted attention thought it was dangerous. He even held a press conference complaining that this program will teach kids to play with fire. He said it could conceivably kill innocent children. The media, as you've seen, has jumped all over her. They don't remember that the program was to bring families together. Families include responsible adults (unless the father plays baseball for a living). Responsible adults would be present when candles were lit. But, because this was taken out of context, Vanessa is now a bad person, promoting childhood death.
I've been misquoted for 20 years. Or my comments have been misconstrued. I've had my comments taken out of context and wrapped around the agenda of the columnist or beat reporter. Yes, these people work hard and try to do their best. But the media has hurt my wife. They've caught me in a bad mood. I'm not going to address them directly starting today. If they want me, they can read all that I have to say here.
I haven't told Vanessa about this new plan. She'll probably not support it. She'll probably ask my mother to spank me because I'm making this decision on pure emotion. I didn't think twice. I thought once, as I wrote this. Here are the groups of people I am going to eventually anger or appear in conflict with because of my decision:
- Vanessa
- My daughters
- Their friends (eventually)
- My teammates
- Opposing teammates
- My manager
- The coaches
- Ownership
- Friends
- Neighbors
- The Media
- The commissioner's office
- Umpires
- My GM
- Ex-players/Ex-teammates
- Probably a batboy or two
- Our charity administrators
- Maybe my agent (there's no maybe here; he'll be furious)
- Me
I know what I'm getting into. But I also have no idea. I am going to be honest about the upcoming season. I'm not trying to hurt anyone. But I also want my world to grow up. The last thing I want is for any future baseball husbands and fathers to go through what I went last night. It isn't fair to the wives, the kids or anyone else.
Media: If you have questions, submit your comments. I'll answer when I get the chance. At least, for now on, if I'm misquoted, it'll be my own fault.
Now on with the campaign!
Sincerely,
Jimmy Scott
Monday, December 17, 2007
A Cinderfella Story
I'm still dumbfounded. By now, you've seen or heard about how Vanessa and I made, not just the back pages, but the front pages of both the News and the Post. Let me be the million and sixth cover boy to state emphatically, "It's not what you think." I've heard people use this phrase in movies, on their second or third cell phones (athletes, once they get paid the big bucks, have one cell phone to speak with the wife and their other cell phones for girlfriends), even in the mirror (I do this when starting to feel more balding than the previous day). But when I state emphatically to you that "It's not what you think," you must realize that I'm telling the truth. Because I'm not like other guys (usually used by other guys at strip clubs).
Here's what happened. Vanessa and I got to baseball commissioner Elliott Pollock's townhouse on Saturday evening around 7:15. We weren't trying to be fashionably late. Traffic into Manhattan was ridiculous. It's Christmas. I usually drive us, but we splurged and hired a limo service to ferry us into NYC, from East Side to West Side, and then back home to New Jersey. Our driver was a pleasant man named Maceo. He says hi.
Elliott's party was fun. Great food. Many officials from the league and their families. I was the only player at first, which made Vanessa the only player's wife in attendance at first. There was dancing. So we danced a bit. I looked down at Vanessa's watch and it was 9:30. We had to leave to make it to Mrs. Delaney's party across town. Since Vanessa danced without her shoes, we spent twenty minutes looking for them. We found one. I could tell it was hers because it was made of glass and hers was the only foot in the kingdom that fit. We married three hours later, accompanied by a fairy godmother and a band of mice with Brooklyn accents.
The second shoe was lost, so we left, hopped into the Maceo Mobile, and sped toward a shoe store (name escapes me; college football was on the radio). Vanessa hopped out, bought a pair of pumps, and dove back in. We made it to Mrs. Delaney's by 10:45.
Needless to say, Mrs. Delaney was slightly miffed that we were three hours and fifteen minutes tardy for her party. I explained about the shoe, the mice and the bitter stepmother. She nodded and led us into her grand chalet. Beautiful place. Her townhouse is the size of Staten Island, only it wasn't built on top of industrial waste.
Kai Goto was there. We exchanged bows and we let some photographers take pictures of us pretending to Indian leg wrestle. Felipe Castro was there with his wife, Celia. His mother missed her plane from Venezuela, apparently, so she couldn't be there. Felipe was a little distressed, but Kai and I helped sooth him by helping him count the money in his wallet.
Around midnight, I started to list a bit. The wall held me up, but my tiredness remained. I grabbed Vanessa and made mention of Maceo turning into a lizard and his limo transforming back into a Dodge Dart if we didn't leave immediately. She was sympathetic, but wanted to head back to Elliott's to find her shoe. We bid Mrs. Delaney and other guests an adieu, told her her party was the best New York had to offer, and made a beeline for the car.
If you recall, the weather was pretty crappy Saturday night into Sunday. A mix of snow and freezing rain was falling when we asked Maceo to take us back to Elliott's. He sped through Central Park, hydroplaning only when the road wasn't in a straight line.
Back inside Elliott's, the party was jamming. It was about 12:40 or so. Vanessa searched for her shoe and I saw 4 or 5 retired players milling about. I'm not going to reveal their names because they specifically asked that I not tell anyone they'd been there. I asked if the other 65 people in attendance had also signed their confidentiality agreement. Humorless, they withdrew into the crowd and used Elliott's drapes as substitutes for napkins.
Somehow, Vanessa and I found ourselves dancing again. The D.J. was really good. But for the record, I do not wish that I had Jesse's girl. I have a woman like that. Unfortunately, Vanessa lost one of her new shoes. I swear, Elliott's place is like a washing machine/dryer combo that takes your pairs of socks and only returns one. At least Vanessa was back to owning a pair of shoes, one of which was in Maceo's possession in the limo.
Here's where it got a little strange. We left Elliott's after 40 minutes or so and made it downstairs. Vanessa told me not to let go of her as she hopped around. I responded emphatically that I would never do such a thing. The doorman winked at me as he opened the door. Outside, about twenty reporters with cameras, both the still and video kinds, were waiting. Out of surprise, I instantly dropped Vanessa's arm and she fell to the snowy, slippery sidewalk. People yelled things at us, mostly questions, and I helped her up. She snapped something at me pertaining to how she'd never ask me to hold a fishing pole while she tied the bait to the hook. I've never fished. Just because she did as a kid every Saturday with her dad doesn't make her better than me. So I told her I was sorry for dropping her to the snowy, slippery sidewalk, but if she had put GPS units into her shoes like I had suggested, she never would have needed me to hold her up in the first place. As she told me how ridiculous I sounded (I made the part of about suggesting she put GPS units into her shoes), Maceo pulled up. We slipped inside and drove off.
But wait. There's more.
The reporters were there because they'd been tipped off Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie were in the building for an event. Totally serious. I never saw them at Elliott's and apparently the reporters never saw them outside. Thus, rather than write off their stalk as pointless, they used their photo of Vanessa on the sidewalk and me looking down at her. Her face is of pain (it was cold, snowy and icy down there). Mine is of "Uh oh, I'm in trouble," which can look angry to passers-by with cameras, both the still and video kind. This photo eventually accompanied a special Sunday front page headline: Another Scott Down For The Count. This, of course, was in reference to when I spent the better part of last April 2nd on the grass in front of the pitcher's mound, writhing in pain after my angry elbow showed off its anger.
And if you think the photos made us look bad, I'm sure you read the accompanying articles which did not paint a flattering picture either. I swear, both the Post and News must employ the same reporters because both articles were basically the same thing. They told of how fat I'd gotten, how unhappy I was, and how witnesses at Elliott's party saw me talking to shadowy figures, probably female, near Elliott's drapery.
None of it was really a big deal, until I received a call directly from Mrs. Delaney around 11:00 AM Sunday morning asking what happened, how it happened, and what was I thinking. I explained the story to her, but she was still upset. At that point, I apologized for being late to her party and not going home from there but instead going to a rival party on the other side of town. I swore to her, and swear to her now as she actually reads this filth I call truth, that we only went back to Elliott's to find Vanessa's shoe. And so I could have one more little baked brie. Those things were really good.
I thought all was well until I received a call Sunday night from super agent Jack Perry. The team was asking me to apologize to a women's rights group which felt I had made fun of them by allowing my woman, who's my wife, to fall to a snowy, slippery sidewalk in the snowy, freezing rain on a very early Sunday morning. I explained to Jack that women fall all the time. Does Brad have to apologize to the plumbers and pipe fitters union every time Angelina slips in her tub? Jack said all I had to do was write a brief statement and he'd release it. I shook my head and told him I'd write a brief statement.
Here it is: Go away.
I am a team player, as Mrs. Delaney knows. I'll do anything to help my team win. But don't ask me to pander to a bunch of divorced women who focus their energies on the imaginary problems of others instead of focusing on their own. In the end, it will be they who shall apologize to me.
Fairy godmother was right. We should have just gone home at midnight.
Here's what happened. Vanessa and I got to baseball commissioner Elliott Pollock's townhouse on Saturday evening around 7:15. We weren't trying to be fashionably late. Traffic into Manhattan was ridiculous. It's Christmas. I usually drive us, but we splurged and hired a limo service to ferry us into NYC, from East Side to West Side, and then back home to New Jersey. Our driver was a pleasant man named Maceo. He says hi.
Elliott's party was fun. Great food. Many officials from the league and their families. I was the only player at first, which made Vanessa the only player's wife in attendance at first. There was dancing. So we danced a bit. I looked down at Vanessa's watch and it was 9:30. We had to leave to make it to Mrs. Delaney's party across town. Since Vanessa danced without her shoes, we spent twenty minutes looking for them. We found one. I could tell it was hers because it was made of glass and hers was the only foot in the kingdom that fit. We married three hours later, accompanied by a fairy godmother and a band of mice with Brooklyn accents.
The second shoe was lost, so we left, hopped into the Maceo Mobile, and sped toward a shoe store (name escapes me; college football was on the radio). Vanessa hopped out, bought a pair of pumps, and dove back in. We made it to Mrs. Delaney's by 10:45.
Needless to say, Mrs. Delaney was slightly miffed that we were three hours and fifteen minutes tardy for her party. I explained about the shoe, the mice and the bitter stepmother. She nodded and led us into her grand chalet. Beautiful place. Her townhouse is the size of Staten Island, only it wasn't built on top of industrial waste.
Kai Goto was there. We exchanged bows and we let some photographers take pictures of us pretending to Indian leg wrestle. Felipe Castro was there with his wife, Celia. His mother missed her plane from Venezuela, apparently, so she couldn't be there. Felipe was a little distressed, but Kai and I helped sooth him by helping him count the money in his wallet.
Around midnight, I started to list a bit. The wall held me up, but my tiredness remained. I grabbed Vanessa and made mention of Maceo turning into a lizard and his limo transforming back into a Dodge Dart if we didn't leave immediately. She was sympathetic, but wanted to head back to Elliott's to find her shoe. We bid Mrs. Delaney and other guests an adieu, told her her party was the best New York had to offer, and made a beeline for the car.
If you recall, the weather was pretty crappy Saturday night into Sunday. A mix of snow and freezing rain was falling when we asked Maceo to take us back to Elliott's. He sped through Central Park, hydroplaning only when the road wasn't in a straight line.
Back inside Elliott's, the party was jamming. It was about 12:40 or so. Vanessa searched for her shoe and I saw 4 or 5 retired players milling about. I'm not going to reveal their names because they specifically asked that I not tell anyone they'd been there. I asked if the other 65 people in attendance had also signed their confidentiality agreement. Humorless, they withdrew into the crowd and used Elliott's drapes as substitutes for napkins.
Somehow, Vanessa and I found ourselves dancing again. The D.J. was really good. But for the record, I do not wish that I had Jesse's girl. I have a woman like that. Unfortunately, Vanessa lost one of her new shoes. I swear, Elliott's place is like a washing machine/dryer combo that takes your pairs of socks and only returns one. At least Vanessa was back to owning a pair of shoes, one of which was in Maceo's possession in the limo.
Here's where it got a little strange. We left Elliott's after 40 minutes or so and made it downstairs. Vanessa told me not to let go of her as she hopped around. I responded emphatically that I would never do such a thing. The doorman winked at me as he opened the door. Outside, about twenty reporters with cameras, both the still and video kinds, were waiting. Out of surprise, I instantly dropped Vanessa's arm and she fell to the snowy, slippery sidewalk. People yelled things at us, mostly questions, and I helped her up. She snapped something at me pertaining to how she'd never ask me to hold a fishing pole while she tied the bait to the hook. I've never fished. Just because she did as a kid every Saturday with her dad doesn't make her better than me. So I told her I was sorry for dropping her to the snowy, slippery sidewalk, but if she had put GPS units into her shoes like I had suggested, she never would have needed me to hold her up in the first place. As she told me how ridiculous I sounded (I made the part of about suggesting she put GPS units into her shoes), Maceo pulled up. We slipped inside and drove off.
But wait. There's more.
The reporters were there because they'd been tipped off Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie were in the building for an event. Totally serious. I never saw them at Elliott's and apparently the reporters never saw them outside. Thus, rather than write off their stalk as pointless, they used their photo of Vanessa on the sidewalk and me looking down at her. Her face is of pain (it was cold, snowy and icy down there). Mine is of "Uh oh, I'm in trouble," which can look angry to passers-by with cameras, both the still and video kind. This photo eventually accompanied a special Sunday front page headline: Another Scott Down For The Count. This, of course, was in reference to when I spent the better part of last April 2nd on the grass in front of the pitcher's mound, writhing in pain after my angry elbow showed off its anger.
And if you think the photos made us look bad, I'm sure you read the accompanying articles which did not paint a flattering picture either. I swear, both the Post and News must employ the same reporters because both articles were basically the same thing. They told of how fat I'd gotten, how unhappy I was, and how witnesses at Elliott's party saw me talking to shadowy figures, probably female, near Elliott's drapery.
None of it was really a big deal, until I received a call directly from Mrs. Delaney around 11:00 AM Sunday morning asking what happened, how it happened, and what was I thinking. I explained the story to her, but she was still upset. At that point, I apologized for being late to her party and not going home from there but instead going to a rival party on the other side of town. I swore to her, and swear to her now as she actually reads this filth I call truth, that we only went back to Elliott's to find Vanessa's shoe. And so I could have one more little baked brie. Those things were really good.
I thought all was well until I received a call Sunday night from super agent Jack Perry. The team was asking me to apologize to a women's rights group which felt I had made fun of them by allowing my woman, who's my wife, to fall to a snowy, slippery sidewalk in the snowy, freezing rain on a very early Sunday morning. I explained to Jack that women fall all the time. Does Brad have to apologize to the plumbers and pipe fitters union every time Angelina slips in her tub? Jack said all I had to do was write a brief statement and he'd release it. I shook my head and told him I'd write a brief statement.
Here it is: Go away.
I am a team player, as Mrs. Delaney knows. I'll do anything to help my team win. But don't ask me to pander to a bunch of divorced women who focus their energies on the imaginary problems of others instead of focusing on their own. In the end, it will be they who shall apologize to me.
Fairy godmother was right. We should have just gone home at midnight.
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