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.

Rain Out

I woke up refreshed enough this morning to have the urge to go back to sleep, not because I needed to convalesce after throwing up on demand for two days but because I was sleepy. Vanessa is two to three days ahead of me when it comes to this particular illness. (She's years ahead of me when it comes to everything else.) She knows that once the puking stops, it's time to get out of bed and make up for lost time. After she kicked me at 5:17 AM this morning and gave me the "making up for lost time" speech, I told her that if I had to make up for lost time, I'd never make it into bed in the first place. Because it was 5:17 AM, neither one of us laughed, since it was 5:17 AM and what I said wasn't that funny. Still, I like to think she curled her lip just a little in preparation for a future Mona Lisa smile.

We have a sunroof in our bathroom that, because of the master bathroom's position in the house, rarely gets much sun. It serves other purposes. This morning, the loud striking of water on sunroof told me that rain was pouring down outside. One of the great reasons to be a baseball player for a living is that, unlike football players, we know a little mist can throw off even the most hearty umpires. Add even the threat of rain and, with few exceptions, they get all nervous. Will we get the full game in? Will we get even an official 4 1/2 inning game in? Will my underpants show through my wet butt?

I crawled back into bed. It was raining, after all. I can't play in this. Got a leg kick less than two seconds after hitting the sheets. Here's what happened:

Me: Ouch.
Vanessa: Get up.
Me: It's raining.
Vanessa: I don't care.

Vanessa would have been one of those umpires that insists ball be played until Noah's Ark floated over the Jumbotron looking for two volunteers from each team. (Even God picks All Stars.)

I took another kick, this one to the shin, and rolled out of bed again. Angry with my wife for being strong and capable and a better spouse than me at this point in our marriage, I yanked my pre-chosen running clothes off of the top of the TV and stomped out of the room, careful not to disturb her. I avoided most of the creaky parts of the floor except the big one near the door. As referenced earlier, she's years ahead of me in just about everything. Maturity included.

Outside, the rain poured down. Since I can't run with an umbrella, I took one deep, healthy breath and started, submerging my left foot into a puddle on step #2. Not a good way to begin any exercise period. I considered retreating back inside but assumed Vanessa, in all of her damned wisdom, had rigged some sort of mechanism that would land a mannequin's foot on my thigh, creating a temporary Charlie Horse of epic proportions (and since it's just a mannequin foot, I can only guess the rest of the mannequin's proportions). I put one foot in front of the other - in homage to claymation Christmas TV specials - and began a "light" jog. Remember, I'd been releasing toxic sludge out of my mouth for the past two days. Anything stronger than "light" and the rain would have had to fall into a giant IV bag connecting to my empty veins.

Few cars on the road. The Monday after any holiday, even if the holiday was 4 days previous, is always one of the toughest Mondays of the year. Who wants to put the joy and kinship of the previous 4 days behind them to rejoin their real-world struggles answering phones or answering bosses or running in the pouring rain at 5:29 in the AM time?

Funny thing. I did. After about a half mile, I was completely soaked. Getting wet is tough, but once you're inundated with moisture, you no longer care. It was clear to me that my underpants were showing through my butt, but the cool morning air felt good rushing down my esophagus. The slap of rain against my face became war paint. I haven't worn my game face since last April. I didn't really wear it today. But I came close. A bit of game time intensity pushed its way through the depressed lethargy in my psyche. I could say I felt alive this morning, almost for the first time in 6 months, but I don't want to jinx it. It doesn't rain every morning, and in a couple weeks this could all be snow. Even the heartiest umpires, like my wife, wouldn't force me out running at 5:17 AM in the driving snow.

Right?