The Sound Of Silence

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Day 3

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

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

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

But then...

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

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

Not gonna happen.

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

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

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

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

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

A Bizarre Turn of Events

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Time Of Grieving

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

See you in May!

If I May Butt In With My Rebuttal...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Setting The Record Straight

Vanessa spent some time yesterday reading through my blog entries and came away - what was the word she use? Ah. Unfulfilled. Not the first time she's used that word as it pertains to our relations. But back on point, the general consensus she came up with was that much of the information I have conveyed in my blog has been either full of "factual errors," whatever that means, or "highly glossed over truths." I asked her nicely to put her English degree away and give it to me straight.

Vanessa: It's horseshit.

So today I have decided to clean up some inconsistencies and bring you up to date on all of the details of my life, sponsored by The Boring Foundation: Putting Americans To Sleeps Since 1968.

MY CONTRACT

It did get sticky and threats of lawsuits did fly by night, but here's the deal on my deal (Special thanks to super agent Jack Perry's special assistant to the president, Ryan, for letting me know how much money I'll be making this year.): $16 million player option opted, by me, this past November. Subsequent Team and Player (moi) restructuring led to my $7 million salary in 2008 and $5 million paid out over 10 years beginning in 2010, with interest. $4 million personal services contract over 3 years beginning in 2009. However, this option to be superceded by mutual Team/Player (moi) $10 million 2009 playing option, in which case the 2009 personal services option will be delayed until 2010. Full no trade clause. Personal trainer and personal chef thrown in for the helluvit.

In other words... Let's just say I'm playing in 2008, maybe 2009, but no matter what, I'm on the TV or radio team the first season I'm no longer an active player.

THE ROOSTER

Andy, my team-paid personal trainer, does not make me chase Monique the rooster around a YMCA gym with my ankles tied. It's a rubber chicken. And his name's Jerome.

MY RELATIONSHIP WITH MY WIFE

I love Vanessa. I love Vanessa. I love Vanessa. I love Vanessa.

MY RELATIONSHIP WITH RICK CHURCHES, OUR NEW MANAGER

Rick has been around the game a long time and I believe he'll make some lucky team a wonderful manager someday.

MY RELATIONSHIP WITH "RED" SCOTT

"Red" is my father.

SERIOUSLY

Fine. To be honest, he missed most of my childhood. He was a ballplayer, like me now, and then a broadcaster. But he never got hurt and therefore got to spend a full year with me the way I've been able to do with my kids since my injury. What I have with them now is something he'll never have with me. And that's probably something we'll both always (secretly) regret.

THE PEPSI ENDORSEMENT

What I wrote about this was almost all true. Except Grace has since opted out. She says she'll be too busy. So Julia and I will film this the first week of January.

ON GOING BALD

Watch me in my first post-game, post-shower press conference. You'll see the large gap between the top of my eyebrow and tip of my hairline. Then tell me I'm crazy.

REHAB

It's going better than I've reported. I've lost 6 pounds since Thanksgiving and need to lose another 10. At 39, it's harder to lose 16 pounds than it was when I was... Wait. I've never had to lose 16 pounds before. So, in general, it is a difficult thing. But I'm running 5 days a week, about 45 minutes per run. I'm working out with Andy 6 hours a day, 5 days a week. I'm eating better and have become more self-conscious of my receding hairline than one-time expanding waistline. I'm not throwing yet because I don't really need to. There's no pain in my elbow or shoulder and both areas are getting stronger after 7 months of inactivity I like to call "rest." I will toss off flat ground January 1 (going to do it at 12:01 AM - bring your cameras!) and should be throwing off a mound by February 1. I'll be a little behind in spring training, but barring any setbacks, should be game-ready by mid-April or May 1.

One final note: Last week, I mentioned how my local paperboy threw three newspapers at me. At the time, I wrote how two were New York Times papers and one was a Newark Star Ledger. I lied. One was a Morristown Daily Record. Since it's more local than the others, I didn't think it featured the pedigree of a Times or Ledger, which used to get lots of play in The Sopranos. My apologies to you, the staff of the Daily Record, the people of Morristown, and my paperboy, who thinks I'm a cheap holiday tipper.

There you have it. All the news that's fit to type, right in front of you. Let me know if you have any questions. I'll be glad to have Vanessa answer them for you.

Seeking My Endorsement

Jack Perry, super agent to the baseball stars, surprised me yesterday with a contract offer from Pepsi. They have a new ad campaign, Bringing You Back To Life, and they think I am the definition of someone thought of as gone who has now returned. For $3 million, I would appear on up to 4 different television commercials (the first to air on Easter Sunday), in radio and print ads, and throughout a massive Internet campaign targeted at sites like the New York Times. Those annoying pop up ads that disturb the flow of your daily web surfing? Imagine my face featured on 7% of them.

Was I interested? Of course I was interested. $3 million for two days out of my schedule and the potential to be seen by the same many millions of people who, like me, prefer to read the Sunday Times Magazine for free (and immediately click out of those annoying pop up ads), was like asking a hungry wolf if he was interested in the elk carcass listing on that nearby snowy ridge.

But it can never as easy as just saying yes, especially if it's a company like Pepsi that wants to engage my services. I'm a big star, you know. I only threw two pitches in 2007 but remain considered an A-lister of the sports world. Yes, I've fallen a few notches below Tiger and Peyton and Maria, but, when it comes to baseball, I'm still close to the top. Because of this, I couldn't just say Yes to Pepsi's offer. I needed to give them a counter-proposal, because that's what A-listers like me are supposed to do. I had to ask for a little bit more of one thing and also throw something new into the ring. The little bit more would be the money. Pepsi earns more than me. After a few hours of research, one of Jack's staffers suggested $3 million spent on me was worth $55 million to Pepsi in direct revenue. Using the old 'To make money you gotta spend money' mantra, we decided to go back and ask Pepsi for $5.7 million and be willing to settle for $4.2 million. It's not what I used to get, but, then again, I did only throw two pitches this year. (Back in '99, Reebok paid me $22 million for shoe rights to my name. Remember "The Jimmy"? Didn't think so.)

Besides the $5.7 million, we also had to ask for something else, something Pepsi hadn't yet thought of. Jack and I brainstormed a little. A donation to The Scott Foundation? It would be tax-deductible and make both Pepsi and me look like wonderful entities. Nice, but not what I was looking for at that moment in time. A lifetime supply of Pepsi products for Julia and Grace's school? Maybe. But after 10 minutes of research, one of Jack's staffers discovered Julia and Grace's school, Madison High, had a contract with Hi-C. Hi-C is owned by Coke.

Back to the drawing board.

How about renaming all of Pepsi's arenas around the country The Jimmy Scott Dome or Jimmy Scott's Wild Meeting Place or, simply, The J.S. Arena? One of Jack's staffers suggested that, while my name means something, with all due respect, Pepsi's means a little bit more. Besides, if Pepsi spent $100 million for naming rights to a large structure, they probably had a good reason. Yeah, I thought, like to sell more Pepsi Cola.

I should mention that this was all taking place by conference call. Jack's super agent office is in California, and he wasn't on the call the entire time. This is a busy time for the fellow. He's trying to get much larger contracts signed than my rinky dink $5.7 million, settling for $4.2, endorsement deal with a manufacturer of fizzy drinks. Since I was on speaker phone in their office, I put them on speaker phone in my office, which is really my recently remodeled basement, a place I like to call my Entertainment Veranda. When Vanessa asked what an Entertainment Veranda was, I spread my arms and said, "This." She shook her head and went back upstairs into the Food Preparation Gallery (she of minimal imagination calls it a kitchen). Having Jack's staffers, and occasionally Jack himself, on speakerphone in my Entertainment Veranda meant their voices carried through the vents and up into the greater part of my Greater Living Facility (house). Eventually, Julia, Grace and Vanessa were lounging on the couches, enjoying the comfort of $2000 throw pillows and listening to me try to negotiate something I didn't really care about into my special new endorsement deal. Occasionally, they'd smile at each other when I'd bring up how Pepsi should donate $10 million per year over the next 5 toward ending the illegal elephant tusk market in Africa or $22 million per year over the next 2 toward new BMWs for runaway teens.

Then, Vanessa spoke up. Usually this is a no-no when it comes to contracts. I'm supposed to know what's best. I have the experience, after all. To which she normally replies, "If you're so experienced, why did you give back $9 million to the team last month?" I don't like to argue with the woman in front of large cordless telephones, so I let her speak her peace.

Vanessa: Why not put the girls in the commercials with their father?
Me: What?
Julia: Cool.
Grace: And 2 new BMWs.
Me: Let's get back to the real world, shall we?
Jack: I think they'll go for it.

30 seconds later, the call was over. 10 minutes later, we had a deal. $4.8 million for me, $100,000 per daughter toward their college degrees, and 2 new VW Bugs (one blue, one yellow). Jack's staffer, who recapped the deal for us, said he'd messenger the contracts to us in a few days. Filming is tentatively scheduled to take place the week between Christmas and New Year's. And, one more thing, Pepsi demanded I lose 20 pounds before going on camera.

Seems like they asked for a little something we hadn't yet thought of too.

What's So Free About Being An Agent?

At midnight this morning, teams could begin the official buying of human beings to slave on professional baseball fields for them in front of millions of people across the country. I could have been one of these indentured-servants-to-be, but we all know by now I opted to do otherwise.

It's not just the players who are salivating at the mouth (as if there's someplace else to engage in the legal act of salivation), the agents are too. Because when you see Player A sign with Team B for X amount of dollars, Agent 007 gets a nice little portion of that check. Fans and team management likes to blame agents for the spiraling salaries we as players can receive, but agents do more than that. I've had three agents in my 21 years in professional baseball. Each successive agent has succeeded more in the pocketbook because of my abilities, the game's economics, and, oh hell, I'll admit it, their hard work.

Now is one of those times they work the hardest. It's not just guys like me who earn $10 million, $15 million, even $25 million per year they concentrate on. There are also the very important bench guys who'll get a one year $650K deal who they need to find jobs for. Also, there are the guys just looking for an invitation from a big league club to spring training, some former stars who can't let go of the game, who need one more summer in The Life, who drive their respective agents crazy pestering them for work. Finally, there are the players who believe they are better than everyone else, the ones who live through the Law of Excuses, of untapped excellence, who are misunderstood by other players, their managers and coaching staffs, their wives/girlfriends... These guys, in general, are also one step closer to legal insanity than any other players in the game. I've played with a number of this type of player. Examples:

A) Orville - Scared to death of flying, tough considering you can't get from an extra-inning midnight game in New York to the clubhouse in LA at 4PM by minivan. By the time I played with this guy, he was what we called a Roadtrip Alcoholic. The only way to get him on and off the plane was to liquor him up so bad, has hangover lasted until the flight home. Then we'd do it all over again. Never hit higher than .270 but swore in some alternate universe he was a .330 slugger.

B) Neville - Guys have different hobbies, like hunting, videogames big time over the past five or six years, collecting cars... But Neville's hobby was falling hardcore in love with any female in a skirt. As a result, he collected wives. A number of reasons this can't be good:

1. It's illegal to be married to more than one person at a time in America.
2. He'd break taboo and make moves on girlfriends and wives of teammates. Not a good way to make friends.
3. Everybody knew about it.

It's amazing to me the media never reported on this guy, because the man did these things in an internet, post-TMZ world. The guy's currently out of baseball, but I heard he called his agent just last week looking to make a comeback. I guess if you're married to more than one woman at a time, you can be divorced to them at the same time too. Sounds like the guy needs a spreadsheet to keep track of who's getting alimony.

C) Devil - Growing up, every class in school had its troublemaker. That doesn't change when we get older. Never. Every single team I've played for has had the one - sometimes two or three (bad job by upper mgt. there) - of these guys who break rules, break laws, and, through osmosis, help break up a team. They make a lot of money because they're genuinely talented, and even the biggest jerk will get a $9 million contract if he can hit a ball over a wall or throw a ball through it. Agents have love/hate relationships with these players. Marquee names, marquee salaries, but high maintenance individuals. Many won't return calls or give feedback other than, "$10 million. That's all I want. Tell me when you get it." These guys follow the money, and sometimes they get lucky and it's a winning team that wants them. Contracts longer than 2 years are not for the GM (or agent) with a faint of heart. I hate these guys, who say stupid things like the holocaust, dinosaurs and gays never existed. 9/11 was a conspiracy, and we're all out to get them. We are, but they perform on the field, so we pretend we're not if they ask.

So when you start seeing the money get thrown around starting today, think about all of the parties involved. We don't play in a vacuum, nor do we get paid in one. Blame the agents all you want, but it ain't a party without them.