"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."
Showing posts with label my big mouth. Show all posts
Showing posts with label my big mouth. Show all posts
Monday, May 5, 2008
Friday, May 2, 2008
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.
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.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Recants and Recusals
I posted yesterday about how the team, and more specifically, manager Rick Churches and GM Alvin Kirby, had appointed as captain Felipe Lopez, a man who has been on the team for only 1 disappointing season and has yet to appear (not his fault) in camp. Then I spent my remaining space giving my opinions on why this was done and why it probably wasn't a good idea.
Newsflash: I was wrong about the whole thing. Felipe was never named captain.
I received calls up the wazoo yesterday from people asking for my source. The team was inundated with calls and emails asking for details. Rick and Alvin received many bloodthirsty headlines filled with criticism of the decision.
The team officially denied everything. Rick and Alvin denied everything. Why? My story was untrue.
It's not that I was playing an early April Fool's joke. Rather, I think a prank was played on me. And "prank" is a kind word. More likely, I was purposely given misleading information to make me look bad.
It worked.
My super agent, Jack Perry, is also Felipe's agent. About 10 minutes after I clicked on Publish Post, I got a call from his #1 assistant, Sherry. (I once said to her, "If you married Jack, you know your name would be Sherry Perry?" I thought it was funnier than she did.) Sherry (last name Pollock) said Jack wanted to know what I was doing. I told her I was about to go pee. Why? She said no, not that. Why was I posting something made up and, frankly, unflattering about a teammate who's currently undergoing the most trying time of his life? I told her because it was true. She said she'd call later.
Jack himself called me an hour later. "It's not true. Take it back." He spoke with Felipe, who had no idea that this storm was brewing because he hadn't spoken with Rick or Alvin in weeks. (Thus refuting Rick's statement yesterday that Felipe would be here by March 15th whether they rescue his mother or not.) Felipe also said - and I give him credit here - that he never would accept the position as captain when there are so many other guys on the team who deserved it. He used me as an example. The guilt oozed out of my pores.
Let the wild rumpus start.
The press, and rightfully so, are writing about how they always (not always, but they won't say that) get a secondary source to confirm a story before they write something. This is going to begin a whole new round of blogosphere criticisms, how readers should trust professional journalists before trusting people like, uh, me.
Rick called me into his office first thing this morning and threatened to fine me $50,000 if I ever write another "inflammatory, untrue account" of "team dynamics." His statement was pretty broad. When asked to elaborate, he told me he had real work to do. He left me standing in his office while he took his bat and glove out to practice field #3 to shag balls.
The main question: Who/what was my source? The other main question: Why did I publish this story? The third question: Is it really that big of a deal?
Since the press deluged me with questions and accusations at my locker, none of which I would answer since we don't speak on the record, I will answer the main question the way they'd approve of if I was one of them: I won't reveal my source. I don't have to. I can tell you this person avoided me today. I will tell you this person has a lot of questions to answer from me. Was I set up? I don't know yet. I'm going to try to find out. Why would I possibly be set up? I have some thoughts, but they're all paranoid. I'll sleep on it and work on my theories tomorrow.
I published the story because I thought it was true. Yes, I told Rick and Alvin a couple of weeks ago that I'd wait for them to make major team announcements before I posted anything, unless the announcement was about me. I broke my promise, but not on purpose. I figured everyone would have jumped on it right away. Nobody did because the story wasn't true. I was given misinformation; I was the only one given this misinformation. I was wrong to have published it. I am very embarrassed and very sorry.
I take it back.
Now, is this all a big deal? Not in the scheme of the whole world. It's a non-story when compared to who our next president is going to be or how many of our soldiers were hurt or killed in Iraq already this month. From a worldly perspective, it's not a big deal at all. I saw, however, that it is being treated like a big deal. Katie Couric did a whole thing about this last night on the CBS Evening News With Walter Cronkite. The NY Times had something on their front page - not the sports section - about how this story was symptomatic of the problem with "amateur journalism" and "the ego of the masses." Or, in my case, a "massive ego." Just take my embarrassment quotient and multiply it by ten. Summing this part up, it's not a big deal compared to the real world, but you'd never know it.
From a team and personal perspective, yes, it's a pretty big deal. I've already told you how embarrassing this is. But even more important, I was misled by someone who I never would have thought would have misled me like this; someone I've known for a long time. That's more than disappointing. I will have a conversation with this person. Just need to find him (or her) first.
Teamwise, I created dissension when there didn't need to be any. I wrote how a number of guys who've been with the team for a long time would be mad that Felipe was made captain. This was very, very true. There was some serious Felipe Bashing going on inside this locker room yesterday late. None of it needed to happen. Not one word needed to be said against this innocent man; my teammate. The reactions were based on an untruth. I owe a huge apology to Felipe. I owe a big one to my team as well. I'm sure they feel quite guilty today. They're embarrassed too. That part is all my fault and doesn't help us win a championship. It just distracts them from their - our - goal. Sorry.
Where do I go from here? Nowhere. I admit my mistake. I apologize for it. I won't make any excuses for what I wrote or why I wrote it. I can whine about how I was probably set up (I probably was), but without proof or reason, what's the point? Setup or not, I hurt Felipe and I hurt my team. I hope that's something I never do again.
Here's something that I think is very important: I am not going to stop writing this blog. My face is getting sore from the amount of blushing I've been doing since yesterday, yet that won't stop me from doing this. I'd be more embarrassed, my "massive ego" would take a bigger hit, if I did stop. I'd rather swallow my pride and apologize than stomp on it and quit. No, I'm in this for the long haul, taking my bumps and bruises as I go. I hope you stay along for the ride.
Newsflash: I was wrong about the whole thing. Felipe was never named captain.
I received calls up the wazoo yesterday from people asking for my source. The team was inundated with calls and emails asking for details. Rick and Alvin received many bloodthirsty headlines filled with criticism of the decision.
The team officially denied everything. Rick and Alvin denied everything. Why? My story was untrue.
It's not that I was playing an early April Fool's joke. Rather, I think a prank was played on me. And "prank" is a kind word. More likely, I was purposely given misleading information to make me look bad.
It worked.
My super agent, Jack Perry, is also Felipe's agent. About 10 minutes after I clicked on Publish Post, I got a call from his #1 assistant, Sherry. (I once said to her, "If you married Jack, you know your name would be Sherry Perry?" I thought it was funnier than she did.) Sherry (last name Pollock) said Jack wanted to know what I was doing. I told her I was about to go pee. Why? She said no, not that. Why was I posting something made up and, frankly, unflattering about a teammate who's currently undergoing the most trying time of his life? I told her because it was true. She said she'd call later.
Jack himself called me an hour later. "It's not true. Take it back." He spoke with Felipe, who had no idea that this storm was brewing because he hadn't spoken with Rick or Alvin in weeks. (Thus refuting Rick's statement yesterday that Felipe would be here by March 15th whether they rescue his mother or not.) Felipe also said - and I give him credit here - that he never would accept the position as captain when there are so many other guys on the team who deserved it. He used me as an example. The guilt oozed out of my pores.
Let the wild rumpus start.
The press, and rightfully so, are writing about how they always (not always, but they won't say that) get a secondary source to confirm a story before they write something. This is going to begin a whole new round of blogosphere criticisms, how readers should trust professional journalists before trusting people like, uh, me.
Rick called me into his office first thing this morning and threatened to fine me $50,000 if I ever write another "inflammatory, untrue account" of "team dynamics." His statement was pretty broad. When asked to elaborate, he told me he had real work to do. He left me standing in his office while he took his bat and glove out to practice field #3 to shag balls.
The main question: Who/what was my source? The other main question: Why did I publish this story? The third question: Is it really that big of a deal?
Since the press deluged me with questions and accusations at my locker, none of which I would answer since we don't speak on the record, I will answer the main question the way they'd approve of if I was one of them: I won't reveal my source. I don't have to. I can tell you this person avoided me today. I will tell you this person has a lot of questions to answer from me. Was I set up? I don't know yet. I'm going to try to find out. Why would I possibly be set up? I have some thoughts, but they're all paranoid. I'll sleep on it and work on my theories tomorrow.
I published the story because I thought it was true. Yes, I told Rick and Alvin a couple of weeks ago that I'd wait for them to make major team announcements before I posted anything, unless the announcement was about me. I broke my promise, but not on purpose. I figured everyone would have jumped on it right away. Nobody did because the story wasn't true. I was given misinformation; I was the only one given this misinformation. I was wrong to have published it. I am very embarrassed and very sorry.
I take it back.
Now, is this all a big deal? Not in the scheme of the whole world. It's a non-story when compared to who our next president is going to be or how many of our soldiers were hurt or killed in Iraq already this month. From a worldly perspective, it's not a big deal at all. I saw, however, that it is being treated like a big deal. Katie Couric did a whole thing about this last night on the CBS Evening News With Walter Cronkite. The NY Times had something on their front page - not the sports section - about how this story was symptomatic of the problem with "amateur journalism" and "the ego of the masses." Or, in my case, a "massive ego." Just take my embarrassment quotient and multiply it by ten. Summing this part up, it's not a big deal compared to the real world, but you'd never know it.
From a team and personal perspective, yes, it's a pretty big deal. I've already told you how embarrassing this is. But even more important, I was misled by someone who I never would have thought would have misled me like this; someone I've known for a long time. That's more than disappointing. I will have a conversation with this person. Just need to find him (or her) first.
Teamwise, I created dissension when there didn't need to be any. I wrote how a number of guys who've been with the team for a long time would be mad that Felipe was made captain. This was very, very true. There was some serious Felipe Bashing going on inside this locker room yesterday late. None of it needed to happen. Not one word needed to be said against this innocent man; my teammate. The reactions were based on an untruth. I owe a huge apology to Felipe. I owe a big one to my team as well. I'm sure they feel quite guilty today. They're embarrassed too. That part is all my fault and doesn't help us win a championship. It just distracts them from their - our - goal. Sorry.
Where do I go from here? Nowhere. I admit my mistake. I apologize for it. I won't make any excuses for what I wrote or why I wrote it. I can whine about how I was probably set up (I probably was), but without proof or reason, what's the point? Setup or not, I hurt Felipe and I hurt my team. I hope that's something I never do again.
Here's something that I think is very important: I am not going to stop writing this blog. My face is getting sore from the amount of blushing I've been doing since yesterday, yet that won't stop me from doing this. I'd be more embarrassed, my "massive ego" would take a bigger hit, if I did stop. I'd rather swallow my pride and apologize than stomp on it and quit. No, I'm in this for the long haul, taking my bumps and bruises as I go. I hope you stay along for the ride.
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