"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 rehabbing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label rehabbing. Show all posts
Monday, May 5, 2008
Friday, April 25, 2008
If I Never Got Hurt Last Year...
It's done. There's nothing I can do about it. These are the two phrases I tell myself every morning that I wake up not with my team in New York but with a minor league franchise based out of Nashville. I got hurt a year ago. My surgery was 385 days ago. Physically, I'm fine. Mentally, I just can't get over myself. I've been a starting pitcher since Little League. Heck, in 1980 I threw my first no-hitter, all 6 innings of it (I hit a home run too). Relief pitchers can't throw no-hitters. Relief pitchers put out fires other people started, usually starting pitchers (like I used to be). Relief pitchers wait, warm up, sit down, warm up, sit down, get angry with their manager, then shower and never get in the game. Relief pitchers get frustrated and have to have incredible egos and incredible self-confidence. If I never got hurt last year, I wouldn't have to think about this. But I did get hurt. And now I'm a relief pitcher. There's nothing I can do about it.
I'm not a control freak, or never was before. But I think I'm becoming one. Is that possible? To change later in life from a colorful, flexible fellow to a colorful control freak? I guess so. It's happening to me. Just like that injury. It is what it is, as someone recently said.
I don't like to sulk. It generally doesn't get me anywhere. I spent about 180 of the last 385 days sulking and all it did was get me fat and help me notice the bald spot growing on my forehead. Valuable lesson learned. If I'd never gotten hurt last year, I'd never know sulking was bad.
Relief pitchers can't sulk. They have to be ready every day to play, kind of like outfielders, only more in charge than outfielders, who just stand around waiting for something to happen to them. Relief pitchers make things happen. Pitchers make things happen. I've always been a pitcher. Always tried to make things happen - good things. Maybe I've always been a control freak and didn't know it.
Imagine if you spent your whole life doing something, then something happens and you can't do that thing anymore. Like breathing. Imagine if you could breathe your whole life, then you suddenly can't. It stinks. Horrible metaphor, but that's how I felt while sulking. I couldn't breathe. I thank my lucky stars, I thank God, Yahweh, Buddha, Reagan - I thank who or whatever it is/was that taught me to breathe again. Now I'm breathing one inning a day, one day at a time. I'm used to 7 innings every fifth day. So if I can get around the possibility that I could conceivably pitch 7 innings in a week (one per day - stay with me), I'm therefore pitching just as much as I ever did before. I'm just spreading it out.
It's like if you put a big hamburger on your plate. You want to eat it. And there's a lot of it. Now put that same hamburger, cut up, onto 25 plates. It's not as effective, in terms of presentation to one's hunger palette, as one big burger on one plate. I used to eat one big burger every fifth day. Now I'm eating White Castle every day.
There's more. If I never got hurt last year, I wouldn't have spent as much time with my family last year as I did. Which makes this time, right now, even harder. You get used to things. I was used to a life on the road before the injury. Then I got used to life at home. Yes I was sulking, but I was doing it in the presence of my wife and daughters. They hated me for it, but that's their problem. Now, I'm healthy and on the road again (17 of the first 24 days of the Hounds' season are on the road - and my family isn't even staying with me in my Nashville trailer). And I'm missing my three girls (I threw my wife in there as a "girl" to make her feel better after my previous "that's their problem" statement regarding my sulking at home earlier in this paragraph. Oh, I could have deleted the statement and never had to throw in the "girl" line as an apology gift to my wife, but I didn't so sue me.) Bottom line: If I never got hurt, I never would have known how important my family is to me.
There are other things that have happened that may not have occurred. If I never got hurt last year...
I'm not a control freak, or never was before. But I think I'm becoming one. Is that possible? To change later in life from a colorful, flexible fellow to a colorful control freak? I guess so. It's happening to me. Just like that injury. It is what it is, as someone recently said.
I don't like to sulk. It generally doesn't get me anywhere. I spent about 180 of the last 385 days sulking and all it did was get me fat and help me notice the bald spot growing on my forehead. Valuable lesson learned. If I'd never gotten hurt last year, I'd never know sulking was bad.
Relief pitchers can't sulk. They have to be ready every day to play, kind of like outfielders, only more in charge than outfielders, who just stand around waiting for something to happen to them. Relief pitchers make things happen. Pitchers make things happen. I've always been a pitcher. Always tried to make things happen - good things. Maybe I've always been a control freak and didn't know it.
Imagine if you spent your whole life doing something, then something happens and you can't do that thing anymore. Like breathing. Imagine if you could breathe your whole life, then you suddenly can't. It stinks. Horrible metaphor, but that's how I felt while sulking. I couldn't breathe. I thank my lucky stars, I thank God, Yahweh, Buddha, Reagan - I thank who or whatever it is/was that taught me to breathe again. Now I'm breathing one inning a day, one day at a time. I'm used to 7 innings every fifth day. So if I can get around the possibility that I could conceivably pitch 7 innings in a week (one per day - stay with me), I'm therefore pitching just as much as I ever did before. I'm just spreading it out.
It's like if you put a big hamburger on your plate. You want to eat it. And there's a lot of it. Now put that same hamburger, cut up, onto 25 plates. It's not as effective, in terms of presentation to one's hunger palette, as one big burger on one plate. I used to eat one big burger every fifth day. Now I'm eating White Castle every day.
There's more. If I never got hurt last year, I wouldn't have spent as much time with my family last year as I did. Which makes this time, right now, even harder. You get used to things. I was used to a life on the road before the injury. Then I got used to life at home. Yes I was sulking, but I was doing it in the presence of my wife and daughters. They hated me for it, but that's their problem. Now, I'm healthy and on the road again (17 of the first 24 days of the Hounds' season are on the road - and my family isn't even staying with me in my Nashville trailer). And I'm missing my three girls (I threw my wife in there as a "girl" to make her feel better after my previous "that's their problem" statement regarding my sulking at home earlier in this paragraph. Oh, I could have deleted the statement and never had to throw in the "girl" line as an apology gift to my wife, but I didn't so sue me.) Bottom line: If I never got hurt, I never would have known how important my family is to me.
There are other things that have happened that may not have occurred. If I never got hurt last year...
- I never would have had the off season contract dispute with the team.
- The Vets wouldn't have had to fire Larry Picketts and hire Rick Churches to manage.
- I never would have gotten into heated arguments, many times publicly, with Rick Churches because he wouldn't be my manager, laid back Larry Picketts would be.
- Rick Churches would still be in the NYS (our regional sports network) broadcast booth, not managing, and my father, "Red" Scott, would still be anywhere but New York broadcasting games.
If I never got hurt last year...
- I'd already have my 300 wins. Now, as a reliever, it may take me 3 seasons to win 13 more games. Do I want to play that much longer? More important, does anybody else want me to play that much longer?
- I never would have started this blog.
- I'd still be talking to the media.
- I never would have "grown" and "matured" and would be my old, happy, ignorant, lovable self.
- I wouldn't be in as good a shape as I'm in right now.
- I wouldn't be playing in the minor leagues, on rehab assignment. I'd be in New York on a starting assignment.
If I never got hurt last year...
- My Nashville Hounds would probably have a better record than 4 and 16.
- I probably would not be a de facto owner of my Nashville Hounds, thanks to billionaire Charlie Walker.
- I never would have met Andy, my personal trainer who also serves as my security "detail" in Nashville. (He's very big. Don't mess with him.)
- I never would have been sued by the team psychologist (not psychiatrist - there's a difference), Dr. Henry Cohegans, for breaking the terms of our confidentiality agreement because I wouldn't be blogging or even going to him because I never got hurt.
If I never got hurt last year...
- I never would have had public run-ins with my father, "Red" Scott, NYS broadcaster who's mad at me for not talking to the media (him) on the record but blogging instead.
- I never would have been as fulfilled as I am right now with my life.
- I never would have been turned into a relief pitcher.
You know what? It happened. It just did. And there's nothing I can do about it except move on. No more sulking. No more regrets. I got hurt last year and now I'm better. I can't wait to prove myself again in New York.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Throwing Up
I am so sick. Not the doctor's note, all day TV watching, toilet-hugging, people feeling sorry for me, oh my God he's passed out on the floor call 9-11, somebody get a lone scientist to research and find a cure before it's too late kind of sick. No, I can breathe through my nose, eat a horse and sleep all night without getting up to pee once. My problem is I'm sick of me. Here, in my trailer overlooking the Pepsi Field parking lot (and my security agent Andy's trailer), after my protege, 17 year old wunderkind Rey Marcos has left to return to his hotel room - alone - so he doesn't catch a venereal disease from some Nashville Hounds groupie, I reflect on my stay here in Nashville and feel sick.
I keep throwing up. That's my biggest problem. I keep throwing up.
The ball, that is.
The reason I'm here with the Hounds is to gain arm strength so I can pitch one inning a game 4 times a week. Oh, it would also be a help if, when I pitched, I could get batters out. My arm strength is good. I pitched three times last week and pitched Sunday and Tuesday so far this week. I'll pitch tonight, Wednesday, to satisfy the back-to-back days criteria, then pitch Friday or Saturday. There. I'm plenty strong. Take me back New York. I want to eat a horse and sleep in my own bed again.
Only...
I'm throwing up all the time. I stand on the mound, go into my windup (or motion, you choose your own word for it), and release the ball from my pitching hand. The ball should slither around in the air before landing at or below the knees of the batter.
The ball is landing in the parking lot, denting my trailer.
Because I keep throwing up.
For a pitcher, the "release point" is hugely important. Where the ball leaves the fingers makes all the difference between its dropping low or rising high. My ball keeps rising. It rises twice lately: Once when I release it and a second time when the batter hits it to Kingdom Come.
My record so far down here:
Games: 6
Innings Pitched: 4.2
Strikeouts: 1
Walks: 4
Hits: 11
Home Runs Allowed: 5
ERA: 19.28
Saves: 1
Won/Loss: 0/3
My ERA is actually 19.29 because the math equates to 19.2857142857. But I didn't want to round up after the .28. It's too depressing.
My health is fine. Really. There is no pain. I feel good in the locker room before the game. I feel good on the field before the game. I feel good sitting in the bullpen during the game. I feel even better warming up during the game. I feel good jogging out to the mound. Physically, I mean. Mentally, I feel horrible jogging out to the mound because the whole time I'm getting booed. That's stinky, to get booed. Yes, it's the minors but, man, who wants to get booed? But the jog keeps me loose and I feel great on the mound throwing my last warmup pitches.
As soon as the batter jumps into that box, I feel awful. I feel like throwing up (the puking kind here). Nerves, I tell myself. Just nerves. "You want it so badly, but just relax," a little voice says in my mind. I'm unsure whose voice it is, because mine is kind of high and whiny. This one is low and mature with a hint of debonair. I think it's George Clooney's voice. It's deep and sounds like the speaker has gray hair. Yeah, it's got to be Clooney. We've never met, but I hear he used to be a big fan. Of something. Probably not me. Because the voice doesn't relax me, I still want to throw up (the puking kind), and then I go into my motion (or windup, your choice) and let the ball leave my fingers.
BAM!!!
There it goes. Don't break a window in my trailer.
Bobby Spencer is the New York pitching coach. He called me this morning and told me he's been watching film of me. "Everything's perfect," he said. "Your windup, or motion, depending upon how you want to describe it, is a-ok. Release point is fine. I think it's your arm slot that's giving you problems."
Oh, it's my arm slot.
An arm slot is the angle your arm flies through the air to help propel a baseball out of your fingers. He thinks my arm slot is too close to overhand. "You're at about 86 degrees," Bobby said. (He's a pure techno-geek.) "You want 77."
So tonight - whoa, wait a minute. Our game today is at noon!!! Let me rephrase. Today, sometime between noon and 3:00, I will try for a 77 degree arm slot. Maybe that will keep me from throwing up (the baseball kind).
Because if I don't fix this soon, I'm going to need to hug a toilet and throw up for real. This whole rehab process is starting to make me sick.
I keep throwing up. That's my biggest problem. I keep throwing up.
The ball, that is.
The reason I'm here with the Hounds is to gain arm strength so I can pitch one inning a game 4 times a week. Oh, it would also be a help if, when I pitched, I could get batters out. My arm strength is good. I pitched three times last week and pitched Sunday and Tuesday so far this week. I'll pitch tonight, Wednesday, to satisfy the back-to-back days criteria, then pitch Friday or Saturday. There. I'm plenty strong. Take me back New York. I want to eat a horse and sleep in my own bed again.
Only...
I'm throwing up all the time. I stand on the mound, go into my windup (or motion, you choose your own word for it), and release the ball from my pitching hand. The ball should slither around in the air before landing at or below the knees of the batter.
The ball is landing in the parking lot, denting my trailer.
Because I keep throwing up.
For a pitcher, the "release point" is hugely important. Where the ball leaves the fingers makes all the difference between its dropping low or rising high. My ball keeps rising. It rises twice lately: Once when I release it and a second time when the batter hits it to Kingdom Come.
My record so far down here:
Games: 6
Innings Pitched: 4.2
Strikeouts: 1
Walks: 4
Hits: 11
Home Runs Allowed: 5
ERA: 19.28
Saves: 1
Won/Loss: 0/3
My ERA is actually 19.29 because the math equates to 19.2857142857. But I didn't want to round up after the .28. It's too depressing.
My health is fine. Really. There is no pain. I feel good in the locker room before the game. I feel good on the field before the game. I feel good sitting in the bullpen during the game. I feel even better warming up during the game. I feel good jogging out to the mound. Physically, I mean. Mentally, I feel horrible jogging out to the mound because the whole time I'm getting booed. That's stinky, to get booed. Yes, it's the minors but, man, who wants to get booed? But the jog keeps me loose and I feel great on the mound throwing my last warmup pitches.
As soon as the batter jumps into that box, I feel awful. I feel like throwing up (the puking kind here). Nerves, I tell myself. Just nerves. "You want it so badly, but just relax," a little voice says in my mind. I'm unsure whose voice it is, because mine is kind of high and whiny. This one is low and mature with a hint of debonair. I think it's George Clooney's voice. It's deep and sounds like the speaker has gray hair. Yeah, it's got to be Clooney. We've never met, but I hear he used to be a big fan. Of something. Probably not me. Because the voice doesn't relax me, I still want to throw up (the puking kind), and then I go into my motion (or windup, your choice) and let the ball leave my fingers.
BAM!!!
There it goes. Don't break a window in my trailer.
Bobby Spencer is the New York pitching coach. He called me this morning and told me he's been watching film of me. "Everything's perfect," he said. "Your windup, or motion, depending upon how you want to describe it, is a-ok. Release point is fine. I think it's your arm slot that's giving you problems."
Oh, it's my arm slot.
An arm slot is the angle your arm flies through the air to help propel a baseball out of your fingers. He thinks my arm slot is too close to overhand. "You're at about 86 degrees," Bobby said. (He's a pure techno-geek.) "You want 77."
So tonight - whoa, wait a minute. Our game today is at noon!!! Let me rephrase. Today, sometime between noon and 3:00, I will try for a 77 degree arm slot. Maybe that will keep me from throwing up (the baseball kind).
Because if I don't fix this soon, I'm going to need to hug a toilet and throw up for real. This whole rehab process is starting to make me sick.
Monday, March 24, 2008
The State of Things
One week to opening day. Kind of exciting if you're me, very exciting if you're a fan. You, as a fan, should be excited because the team looks like it could possibly be the best team we've put on a field since 2000, coincidentally the last time we won a World Championship Series. Only a few questions marks:
1. Lyman Gaye's health - His auto accident last week was more scary than painful. If you think it looked rough on TV, double that if you were there. Strange how my family and I drove past his up-ended car last week on our way to Disney World and had no idea he was inside. He was back with the team over the weekend, but still stiff and sore. The coaching staff is looking at trying to get him into 1 or 2 spring training games by the end of the week. His fiance, who was driving the car, will not be around. Lyman filed a restraining order against her on Friday. Apparently, she was the cause of his injuries, not the accident.
2. Felipe Castro's presence - His mother is still in captivity somewhere in Venezuela. He has not reported to camp, but is expected this week. Rumors are flying around as to his physical shape. When I spoke with him in February, he admitted he wasn't close to being game-ready. I guess we'll know in the coming days.
3. Jimmy Scott's elbow - This is my elbow. Feels good. I still haven't pitched two days in a row. Everyone keeps telling me the bullpen, where I will work from this year, is the perfect place for me at this point in my career. I'll be in more games, be more active with the team... My head isn't there yet, however, which leads me to...
Me. If you're me and the new season is coming, here are some updates:
1. My lawsuit - Team psychologist, Dr. Henry Cohegans, and I settled his lawsuit very quietly last week. As he likes, the terms are under a confidentiality agreement. He also will no longer work with me. So I'm looking for another head-shrinker to help me fine-tune the rough edges of my psyche.
2. My Media Status - I've held pretty firm to my pledge not to speak on the record with the media. A few of my off-the-record comments have been printed, and attributed to me, which makes me pretty upset. I will say that the beat reporters around here have been very professional. These guys work their tails off and are, in nearly every case, people I can trust. Still, a few have tried to "do me in," as a teammate said to me a ways back. When I broke the story of Felipe being named captain and then was told I was off my rocker (meaning the story was untrue), I really had it out with the source who gave me the misinformation. As a result, I learned my lesson. I'm out of the scoop business. Unless I know it's true.
3. Connie - She finally - FINALLY - flew home on Saturday. There were a few days we thought she'd latch onto another family down here, but that was all wishful thinking. She was back to her parasitic ways by last Wednesday and Vanessa had to gently (over three days) negotiate with the woman to leave us along and fly back home. Tough situation. You want the woman out of your life, but she is your neighbor and she is a little off-center. In the movies, she'd come back and do something violent to us (maybe take me hostage and force Vanessa to save me). Just as my lawsuit with Dr. Cohegans was settled, I asked (free of charge) him if we had to worry about Connie. He said probably not. But he also said you never know. Truly helpful information. Somebody tell me if I just broke another confidentiality agreement with the man.
4. Nashville - The team is researching places for me to stay near the ballpark. It appears I will be in extended spring training for about 10 days then report to Nashville for the start of their season during the second week of April. The goal is once I can pitch 4 times a week (broken up as 2 days in a row, one day off, and 2 days in a row again), they'll call me up to New York. Meanwhile, I've thrown around the idea of living with a host family, preferably in their basement, instead of a hotel. The food might be better. And maybe they'll have a 12 year old kid who idolizes me and will make my ego soar to new heights. Or I'll just live in a trailer in the parking lot. You never know.
1. Lyman Gaye's health - His auto accident last week was more scary than painful. If you think it looked rough on TV, double that if you were there. Strange how my family and I drove past his up-ended car last week on our way to Disney World and had no idea he was inside. He was back with the team over the weekend, but still stiff and sore. The coaching staff is looking at trying to get him into 1 or 2 spring training games by the end of the week. His fiance, who was driving the car, will not be around. Lyman filed a restraining order against her on Friday. Apparently, she was the cause of his injuries, not the accident.
2. Felipe Castro's presence - His mother is still in captivity somewhere in Venezuela. He has not reported to camp, but is expected this week. Rumors are flying around as to his physical shape. When I spoke with him in February, he admitted he wasn't close to being game-ready. I guess we'll know in the coming days.
3. Jimmy Scott's elbow - This is my elbow. Feels good. I still haven't pitched two days in a row. Everyone keeps telling me the bullpen, where I will work from this year, is the perfect place for me at this point in my career. I'll be in more games, be more active with the team... My head isn't there yet, however, which leads me to...
Me. If you're me and the new season is coming, here are some updates:
1. My lawsuit - Team psychologist, Dr. Henry Cohegans, and I settled his lawsuit very quietly last week. As he likes, the terms are under a confidentiality agreement. He also will no longer work with me. So I'm looking for another head-shrinker to help me fine-tune the rough edges of my psyche.
2. My Media Status - I've held pretty firm to my pledge not to speak on the record with the media. A few of my off-the-record comments have been printed, and attributed to me, which makes me pretty upset. I will say that the beat reporters around here have been very professional. These guys work their tails off and are, in nearly every case, people I can trust. Still, a few have tried to "do me in," as a teammate said to me a ways back. When I broke the story of Felipe being named captain and then was told I was off my rocker (meaning the story was untrue), I really had it out with the source who gave me the misinformation. As a result, I learned my lesson. I'm out of the scoop business. Unless I know it's true.
3. Connie - She finally - FINALLY - flew home on Saturday. There were a few days we thought she'd latch onto another family down here, but that was all wishful thinking. She was back to her parasitic ways by last Wednesday and Vanessa had to gently (over three days) negotiate with the woman to leave us along and fly back home. Tough situation. You want the woman out of your life, but she is your neighbor and she is a little off-center. In the movies, she'd come back and do something violent to us (maybe take me hostage and force Vanessa to save me). Just as my lawsuit with Dr. Cohegans was settled, I asked (free of charge) him if we had to worry about Connie. He said probably not. But he also said you never know. Truly helpful information. Somebody tell me if I just broke another confidentiality agreement with the man.
4. Nashville - The team is researching places for me to stay near the ballpark. It appears I will be in extended spring training for about 10 days then report to Nashville for the start of their season during the second week of April. The goal is once I can pitch 4 times a week (broken up as 2 days in a row, one day off, and 2 days in a row again), they'll call me up to New York. Meanwhile, I've thrown around the idea of living with a host family, preferably in their basement, instead of a hotel. The food might be better. And maybe they'll have a 12 year old kid who idolizes me and will make my ego soar to new heights. Or I'll just live in a trailer in the parking lot. You never know.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Reel Games
I've been watching a lot of video of myself from when I was pitching with Chicago. Not that I feel like I can pitch with that velocity ever again, but I did have a very fluid pitching motion. It was so loose. Somewhere along the way, I developed this herky jerky style near the end of my windup that gave me incredible results but I think caused too much stress on my elbow. Thus, BOOM! No more elbow. I'm hoping watching old "home movies" will help bring me back to the days when I didn't need to worry so much about getting hurt.
I've pitched in two live games now. That puts me ahead of schedule. The problem is I've only pitched an inning in each. My arm strength is pretty much there. My head is on the way. I'll admit it, I get concerned that my elbow will act up and either explode again or cause me just enough pain to turn me into a scared, ineffective pitcher.
Those guys exist, and have existed my whole career, the guys who get hurt and can't come back all the way because they remember the pain too well and don't want to go through it all again. It's an unfair analogy to our military, but one guy once told me coming back from a major injury had to feel like going back to Iraq or Vietnam for another tour of duty. You never know when something's going to come out of the shadows or up from the sand and end it all for you.
As for me, I started meditation last week. Since Dr. Cohegans is suing me, he won't help me with my head, so I bought some new age music CDs and sit with the headphones on in the whirlpool, eyes closed (to block out the Cartoon Channel on the TV hanging from the wall). I try to put myself in a game, mentally, then throw to batters with the soft, gentle motion of my youth that I've memorized from the films. I throw again and again until I feel natural, until the motion is like breathing, involuntary.
I guess it's working. In my two "real" innings, I've faced six batters and gotten six outs. It was strange pitching the ninth inning yesterday. Normal closer Billy Weston had a stiff middle finger on his pitching hand and couldn't throw, so they juggled things and put me there. I pretended it was Game 7 of the World Championship Series and we had a one-run lead. It was fun. Three up, three down. Hit 89 on the gun once too.
The plan is for me to not throw at all today, then long toss again on Wednesday. Maybe I can get into another game Thursday or Friday and extend myself a little. Slowly, I'll get up to 3, then 4, then 5, 6 and hopefully 7 innings. By the first week in May, I should be in the rotation.
Until then, I'll stay behind in Florida for a week before heading to Nashville. Since I'll be on schedule to pitch every fifth day, I'll be a commuter, meaning I'll fly into Nashville (or wherever we're going to play) the night before I pitch and fly home the next morning. That way, I get to stay with the big club and still see my family (there's no way I'll be able to convince the girls to stay with me in Nashville for a month, even though it would probably be a positive influence on Alyssa's guitar playing).
I've come a long way since December, when I began to rehab in earnest. I'm proud of the hard work I put in and pleasantly surprised at how my body responded. I can sense, maybe through my meditation, that surprisingly good things are coming my way, and the team's way too. The season starts in two weeks. The countdown has begun.
I've pitched in two live games now. That puts me ahead of schedule. The problem is I've only pitched an inning in each. My arm strength is pretty much there. My head is on the way. I'll admit it, I get concerned that my elbow will act up and either explode again or cause me just enough pain to turn me into a scared, ineffective pitcher.
Those guys exist, and have existed my whole career, the guys who get hurt and can't come back all the way because they remember the pain too well and don't want to go through it all again. It's an unfair analogy to our military, but one guy once told me coming back from a major injury had to feel like going back to Iraq or Vietnam for another tour of duty. You never know when something's going to come out of the shadows or up from the sand and end it all for you.
As for me, I started meditation last week. Since Dr. Cohegans is suing me, he won't help me with my head, so I bought some new age music CDs and sit with the headphones on in the whirlpool, eyes closed (to block out the Cartoon Channel on the TV hanging from the wall). I try to put myself in a game, mentally, then throw to batters with the soft, gentle motion of my youth that I've memorized from the films. I throw again and again until I feel natural, until the motion is like breathing, involuntary.
I guess it's working. In my two "real" innings, I've faced six batters and gotten six outs. It was strange pitching the ninth inning yesterday. Normal closer Billy Weston had a stiff middle finger on his pitching hand and couldn't throw, so they juggled things and put me there. I pretended it was Game 7 of the World Championship Series and we had a one-run lead. It was fun. Three up, three down. Hit 89 on the gun once too.
The plan is for me to not throw at all today, then long toss again on Wednesday. Maybe I can get into another game Thursday or Friday and extend myself a little. Slowly, I'll get up to 3, then 4, then 5, 6 and hopefully 7 innings. By the first week in May, I should be in the rotation.
Until then, I'll stay behind in Florida for a week before heading to Nashville. Since I'll be on schedule to pitch every fifth day, I'll be a commuter, meaning I'll fly into Nashville (or wherever we're going to play) the night before I pitch and fly home the next morning. That way, I get to stay with the big club and still see my family (there's no way I'll be able to convince the girls to stay with me in Nashville for a month, even though it would probably be a positive influence on Alyssa's guitar playing).
I've come a long way since December, when I began to rehab in earnest. I'm proud of the hard work I put in and pleasantly surprised at how my body responded. I can sense, maybe through my meditation, that surprisingly good things are coming my way, and the team's way too. The season starts in two weeks. The countdown has begun.
Monday, March 10, 2008
A Quick One...
Yes, that was me on the mound yesterday in the 9th inning against Boston. It was my day to throw and I kind of weasled my way into throwing one inning of a "real" game; or at least as real as a spring training exhibition game can get. Felt good. No pain. We'll see how I rebound over the next day or two. My goal is to build up over the next couple of weeks so when I start the season in Nashville, I'll be able to be a mainstay in that rotation. The team goal is still for me to be in the New York rotation by May 1. I'm hoping.
Lower body workout today. Ran 8 simulated miles (meaning on a machine) and swam the equivalent of 1 mile. Andy just started me on the swimming about a week ago. It's more stamina exercise.
The team has won 5 in a row. Too bad nothing counts so far.
Lower body workout today. Ran 8 simulated miles (meaning on a machine) and swam the equivalent of 1 mile. Andy just started me on the swimming about a week ago. It's more stamina exercise.
The team has won 5 in a row. Too bad nothing counts so far.
Monday, March 3, 2008
Remembering A Best Friend
I've gone back to doing something I haven't done in years - carrying a baseball with me wherever I go. I stopped when I began to feel stupid. People would see me and think I was looking for attention. Or they'd ask me to sign it and hand it over. One guy at a sushi joint in LA even tried to steal it from me. But now I'm allegedly more mature. I remembered how holding the ball all the time helped me (except when driving). It created a feeling of "oneness." Not sure if I'm explaining myself well. Let me reboot.
There are days, not just during spring training, when players go through a "dead arm" period. There's no injury. It's mainly fatigue. Your body hasn't caught up with all of the things you want to do, so it rebels. You lift your arm and it feels like it's 500 pounds. This can screw up your legs, your mechanics, your head... It's best, during this period, to slow down, take a few days, and recharge.
I used to never get dead arms because of how I always held a ball. I'd take it everywhere with me, to workouts, to meals, to meetings, even to bed. For years I did this. And for years a baseball was like a second skin. It felt as natural in my hand as hair felt on my head. Now that I am in the full out process (and hopefully drawn out process) of going through male pattern baldness, hair on my head is no longer necessarily the most natural feeling. (ed. note: I took a break at this point to spend 20 minutes in front of a mirror, trying to push my scalp forward. Of course, all that did was wrinkle my forehead and nose and shift the impending baldness to the back of my neck. I looked like an insecure bulldog.) Uh, trying to get back on track. Hmm. Okay, I figured it out. Basically, I didn't get dead arms because of how a baseball felt in my hand. Something about how the muscles in the hand and forearm were always being used; something about my grip being employed so often the arm was pretty much in shape 365 days out of the year. And since I wasn't throwing much in the off season, the muscles were kept strong without the stress of an additional 4000 pitches.
Then I stopped. And guess what? The dead arms began.
I never missed a scheduled game in my whole career until last year, when I missed 34 of my possible 35 starts. Was this because I'd stopped with the year-round baseball exercise? Had all of my muscles atrophied enough that they never came back, allowing my UCL to fray and eventually snap?
I've thought about this a lot over the last month or so. No doctors have told me there's any medical evidence to support my theory. Yet, they also said that going back to holding the ball all the time couldn't hurt me. In fact, since I didn't really hold one at all from last April to this December, it would probably help my mind become familiar once again with my best friend, especially since I have a new elbow that wasn't introduced until recently.
The lesson for all of you out there? If something works for you, don't stop. Don't let your mother or your spousal equivalent or your pals convince you you're bananas. Who cares if people think you're a little quirky? Keep it up.
For me, it's nice to know I still have a healthy relationship with a piece of cowhide, some tightly wrapped string, and a handful of stitches. (FYI - don't try licking a baseball. There's no chocolate center.) Like any best friend, it has answered my call and been there for me when I needed him the most.
There are days, not just during spring training, when players go through a "dead arm" period. There's no injury. It's mainly fatigue. Your body hasn't caught up with all of the things you want to do, so it rebels. You lift your arm and it feels like it's 500 pounds. This can screw up your legs, your mechanics, your head... It's best, during this period, to slow down, take a few days, and recharge.
I used to never get dead arms because of how I always held a ball. I'd take it everywhere with me, to workouts, to meals, to meetings, even to bed. For years I did this. And for years a baseball was like a second skin. It felt as natural in my hand as hair felt on my head. Now that I am in the full out process (and hopefully drawn out process) of going through male pattern baldness, hair on my head is no longer necessarily the most natural feeling. (ed. note: I took a break at this point to spend 20 minutes in front of a mirror, trying to push my scalp forward. Of course, all that did was wrinkle my forehead and nose and shift the impending baldness to the back of my neck. I looked like an insecure bulldog.) Uh, trying to get back on track. Hmm. Okay, I figured it out. Basically, I didn't get dead arms because of how a baseball felt in my hand. Something about how the muscles in the hand and forearm were always being used; something about my grip being employed so often the arm was pretty much in shape 365 days out of the year. And since I wasn't throwing much in the off season, the muscles were kept strong without the stress of an additional 4000 pitches.
Then I stopped. And guess what? The dead arms began.
I never missed a scheduled game in my whole career until last year, when I missed 34 of my possible 35 starts. Was this because I'd stopped with the year-round baseball exercise? Had all of my muscles atrophied enough that they never came back, allowing my UCL to fray and eventually snap?
I've thought about this a lot over the last month or so. No doctors have told me there's any medical evidence to support my theory. Yet, they also said that going back to holding the ball all the time couldn't hurt me. In fact, since I didn't really hold one at all from last April to this December, it would probably help my mind become familiar once again with my best friend, especially since I have a new elbow that wasn't introduced until recently.
The lesson for all of you out there? If something works for you, don't stop. Don't let your mother or your spousal equivalent or your pals convince you you're bananas. Who cares if people think you're a little quirky? Keep it up.
For me, it's nice to know I still have a healthy relationship with a piece of cowhide, some tightly wrapped string, and a handful of stitches. (FYI - don't try licking a baseball. There's no chocolate center.) Like any best friend, it has answered my call and been there for me when I needed him the most.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Here We Go Again
You probably saw in the notes section of your paper today that Mike Murphy, who was signed to a 4-year deal 3 years ago and has pitched in 27 games (he was projected to have started 90+) suffered another setback yesterday. After showering, Mike used his hair dryer (I wish I still had the need for one) on high. Apparently, he was talking to someone and lost track of time. By holding the dryer with his right (pitching) arm cocked in place for too long, as if he was holding a gun, his hand and elbow stiffened up on him. Apparently, they had to pry the still-running dryer (couldn't anybody find the off switch?) out of his hand with, no joke, a pair of pliers and a screwdriver. His hand turned out to have a minor cramp, but his elbow - connected to his arm which is connected to his two-time surgically repaired shoulder - suffered severe swelling. After an MRI came back, it was announced that Mike had torn his UCL and would miss the entire season.
I feel horrible for the guy, who wanted to live up to his $56 million contract in the worst way. He'll never throw another pitch for us. It's a shame.
Mike is an example of all that has gone wrong for this team since we last won a championship in 2000. Terrible injuries (his, mine), age (me again), male pattern baldness (not valid for this discussion, but me again), underperforming superstars (I won't raise my hand for fear of damaging a shoulder), rookies out of their league, poor management... Across the board, we have made mistake after mistake while suffering from more than our fair share of bad luck.
I could tell the mood around here wasn't that of a winning, optimistic atmosphere after the latest Mike Murphy injury. Even our new high-ceiling guys - Kai Goto, Lyman Gaye - showed concern. This is part superstition, yes. But when superstition crawls into your psyche, it's damn hard to shed it and play as well as you're capable of playing.
There's not a lot a person can do to combat superstition. Manager, and my new buddy in detente, Rick Churches, has since banned hair dryers from the clubhouse, which will probably negatively affect GE stock for the next 12 months.
But there's superstition and there's also just bad, or in Mike's case, dumb luck. The worst injury of this sort that I know of happened to Yancy Breckman about ten years ago. That off season, he was dating a deaf girl and desperate to take things (you know what I mean) as far as they could go in the relationship. He tried to teach himself sign language and, in a bout of enthusiasm, poked himself in his right eye, damaging his cornea. The (then) lifetime .300 hitter didn't ever play a full season again and never hit higher than .220.
If manager back then, I wonder if Rick would have banned fingers from the clubhouse.
As for me, I'm scheduled to throw off a mound tomorrow for the first time. Nothing crazy. I'm not throwing all of my pitches yet. But my core and lower body feel great; honestly, better than they've felt in years. I've pulled back from three-a-day workouts to two-a-days. Our strength & conditioning coach Will Twain wants me to think full season now. He's concerned that I'll be exhausted in August.
We're 0 and 2 so far this spring, which doesn't mean anything. However, our owner, Mrs. Joan Delaney, is scheduled to be here this weekend. I just hope she's careful on her plane. We don't want her to strain her back getting up out of her seat.
Rick would probably ban air travel from the clubhouse for the rest of the season.
I feel horrible for the guy, who wanted to live up to his $56 million contract in the worst way. He'll never throw another pitch for us. It's a shame.
Mike is an example of all that has gone wrong for this team since we last won a championship in 2000. Terrible injuries (his, mine), age (me again), male pattern baldness (not valid for this discussion, but me again), underperforming superstars (I won't raise my hand for fear of damaging a shoulder), rookies out of their league, poor management... Across the board, we have made mistake after mistake while suffering from more than our fair share of bad luck.
I could tell the mood around here wasn't that of a winning, optimistic atmosphere after the latest Mike Murphy injury. Even our new high-ceiling guys - Kai Goto, Lyman Gaye - showed concern. This is part superstition, yes. But when superstition crawls into your psyche, it's damn hard to shed it and play as well as you're capable of playing.
There's not a lot a person can do to combat superstition. Manager, and my new buddy in detente, Rick Churches, has since banned hair dryers from the clubhouse, which will probably negatively affect GE stock for the next 12 months.
But there's superstition and there's also just bad, or in Mike's case, dumb luck. The worst injury of this sort that I know of happened to Yancy Breckman about ten years ago. That off season, he was dating a deaf girl and desperate to take things (you know what I mean) as far as they could go in the relationship. He tried to teach himself sign language and, in a bout of enthusiasm, poked himself in his right eye, damaging his cornea. The (then) lifetime .300 hitter didn't ever play a full season again and never hit higher than .220.
If manager back then, I wonder if Rick would have banned fingers from the clubhouse.
As for me, I'm scheduled to throw off a mound tomorrow for the first time. Nothing crazy. I'm not throwing all of my pitches yet. But my core and lower body feel great; honestly, better than they've felt in years. I've pulled back from three-a-day workouts to two-a-days. Our strength & conditioning coach Will Twain wants me to think full season now. He's concerned that I'll be exhausted in August.
We're 0 and 2 so far this spring, which doesn't mean anything. However, our owner, Mrs. Joan Delaney, is scheduled to be here this weekend. I just hope she's careful on her plane. We don't want her to strain her back getting up out of her seat.
Rick would probably ban air travel from the clubhouse for the rest of the season.
Wednesday, February 27, 2008
Back To School
Our first game against a team other than ourselves is this afternoon. We play the Riptide, who are trying to make all 3 of their fans call them The Tide. The game is in West Palm Beach, about an hour's drive from Ft. Pierce, and most of the regulars will stay behind with most of the coaches. It's not worth it yet to do the bus thing - the whole travel thing - when timing is still off, muscles are still being acclimated, and minds are still soft from an off season of Wii.
I'd be staying behind anyway, since I'm not as far along as many of my teammates. I've been throwing off of flat ground for a couple of weeks now and will throw a bullpen session to live batters (it's hard to find dead ones who can swing away) over the weekend.
Coming off of a major injury like mine takes a lot of patience and lots of hard work. I admittedly didn't rehab as hard as I should have right after my surgery last April 5th. If I had, there would have been a decent chance that I could have gone north with the team and been able to pitch that first week of the season. Instead, the plan is for me to be available by May 1 to contribute to the team.
So it's been me and Mike Murphy, who had a second shoulder surgery last June (he might be back by September, although no one is sure since he only threw 3 innings last year and 37 in 2006), kind of tossing the ball to each other like babies and listening to Bobby Spencer, our pitching coach, who's trying to teach us new ways to throw that will relieve stress on our surgically repaired parts.
How does it feel to re-learn how to pitch? It's weird. If you're right handed, take a baseball in your left hand, go into your motion, and see how it feels to throw your fastball. Awkward, huh? When I throw lefty, I throw like a girl (no offense, you dames). Throwing with my newer motion on my natural right side is kind of like me throwing like a lefty girl. Not as awkward, but just awkward enough to feel a little weird. Bobby says with repetition, I should get a good feel soon. He also says I should be able to reclaim a few miles an hour on my fastball, which was topping off around 88 right before my UCL and me got into that very public, and violent, argument. If I could get into the low 90s, and still have the movement I used to have, I could be pretty good. Maybe 2008 wouldn't have to be my last year...
That's what goes through your head during this process. You keep looking forward to the future because the present is so tough and, let's face it, boring. That means I have to not only re-learn how to pitch, I have to re-learn the old "Take it one day at a time, one game at a time, one inning at a time" line of thinking. That's a different kind of discipline. Being that most big leaguers are just big babies, and big babies want everything NOW, it's very difficult to teach us patience. But I'm working hard on that part of my game as well.
The rest of the coaching staff is doing the same with not only the other players coming off injury or off season "procedures," i.e. cleaning out a knee, but with the guys who are trying to improve off of last season, which on our team is most everyone.
It is a strange sight to see Chazz Waters back in camp. I know - and he knows, and the press knows, and you know - he wasn't Rick's first choice to be bench coach, but he's got a pedigree here. Two World Championship Series rings with us (1996, 2000) is nothing to sniff at (I don't know what that phrase means). And since we haven't been very competitive since left in 2002, maybe a little of his past will rub off on some of the guys here. And Rick, who can probably learn a thing or two from Chazz, especially since this is Rick's first camp as a manager.
Gums Murphy, our resident octogenarian who managed us for two "glorious" (his word) weeks at the end of last season (the team went 2 and 11 under his helm), is teaching bunting to anyone who will listen. He's also got lots of stories about the days when players took trains between cities and the farthest west anyone would go was St. Louis. Very different from today. But so is Gums.
By the way, Willie Fernandez, who we all remember as our third baseman who caught the last out of the 2000 Series team, is here as our new infield and third base coach. Willie's in great shape and could probably still hit a few home runs off the bench if he had wanted. But for him, coaching is less stressful on his knees. I haven't had five surgeries on mine, so I can't make too much fun of him for hanging up his spikes and waving other guys around third base to score. I can still make a little fun of him. It's more fun that way.
Home game tomorrow against the Sky that will be broadcast on NYS. That will be my dad's first game on the air for us. Listen in and see what he says about me. I'll be in the dugout watching the action. Who knows, maybe I'll learn a thing or two as well.
I'd be staying behind anyway, since I'm not as far along as many of my teammates. I've been throwing off of flat ground for a couple of weeks now and will throw a bullpen session to live batters (it's hard to find dead ones who can swing away) over the weekend.
Coming off of a major injury like mine takes a lot of patience and lots of hard work. I admittedly didn't rehab as hard as I should have right after my surgery last April 5th. If I had, there would have been a decent chance that I could have gone north with the team and been able to pitch that first week of the season. Instead, the plan is for me to be available by May 1 to contribute to the team.
So it's been me and Mike Murphy, who had a second shoulder surgery last June (he might be back by September, although no one is sure since he only threw 3 innings last year and 37 in 2006), kind of tossing the ball to each other like babies and listening to Bobby Spencer, our pitching coach, who's trying to teach us new ways to throw that will relieve stress on our surgically repaired parts.
How does it feel to re-learn how to pitch? It's weird. If you're right handed, take a baseball in your left hand, go into your motion, and see how it feels to throw your fastball. Awkward, huh? When I throw lefty, I throw like a girl (no offense, you dames). Throwing with my newer motion on my natural right side is kind of like me throwing like a lefty girl. Not as awkward, but just awkward enough to feel a little weird. Bobby says with repetition, I should get a good feel soon. He also says I should be able to reclaim a few miles an hour on my fastball, which was topping off around 88 right before my UCL and me got into that very public, and violent, argument. If I could get into the low 90s, and still have the movement I used to have, I could be pretty good. Maybe 2008 wouldn't have to be my last year...
That's what goes through your head during this process. You keep looking forward to the future because the present is so tough and, let's face it, boring. That means I have to not only re-learn how to pitch, I have to re-learn the old "Take it one day at a time, one game at a time, one inning at a time" line of thinking. That's a different kind of discipline. Being that most big leaguers are just big babies, and big babies want everything NOW, it's very difficult to teach us patience. But I'm working hard on that part of my game as well.
The rest of the coaching staff is doing the same with not only the other players coming off injury or off season "procedures," i.e. cleaning out a knee, but with the guys who are trying to improve off of last season, which on our team is most everyone.
It is a strange sight to see Chazz Waters back in camp. I know - and he knows, and the press knows, and you know - he wasn't Rick's first choice to be bench coach, but he's got a pedigree here. Two World Championship Series rings with us (1996, 2000) is nothing to sniff at (I don't know what that phrase means). And since we haven't been very competitive since left in 2002, maybe a little of his past will rub off on some of the guys here. And Rick, who can probably learn a thing or two from Chazz, especially since this is Rick's first camp as a manager.
Gums Murphy, our resident octogenarian who managed us for two "glorious" (his word) weeks at the end of last season (the team went 2 and 11 under his helm), is teaching bunting to anyone who will listen. He's also got lots of stories about the days when players took trains between cities and the farthest west anyone would go was St. Louis. Very different from today. But so is Gums.
By the way, Willie Fernandez, who we all remember as our third baseman who caught the last out of the 2000 Series team, is here as our new infield and third base coach. Willie's in great shape and could probably still hit a few home runs off the bench if he had wanted. But for him, coaching is less stressful on his knees. I haven't had five surgeries on mine, so I can't make too much fun of him for hanging up his spikes and waving other guys around third base to score. I can still make a little fun of him. It's more fun that way.
Home game tomorrow against the Sky that will be broadcast on NYS. That will be my dad's first game on the air for us. Listen in and see what he says about me. I'll be in the dugout watching the action. Who knows, maybe I'll learn a thing or two as well.
Thursday, February 14, 2008
What I Did On My Winter Vacation
Today is my last day off before the start of spring training. The report date for pitchers and catchers is tomorrow. The family flies down to Orlando today around noon and then we take the drive to Fort Pierce. The girls are still furious that they're going to spend the next six weeks in Florida schools instead of at home, but them's the breaks when your dad loves you.
It's been one of the more eventful off seasons I can remember in which my team did not win a world championship. The last big one like this in a bad team year was after the 1994 season, when I was traded from Chicago to New York and then I signed that huge (at the time) 5 year, $30 million contract. While the money is gone, long ago spent on products to stop my premature balding, I'm still with New York, about to start my 14th spring training with the team.
I met with team psychiatrist Henry Cochegans yesterday to talk about this busy off season. It was our seventh meeting since December. Due to the nature of the non-disclosure agreement he forced me to sign (not at gunpoint; rather, he threatened to make me blame all my problems on myself instead of my parents), I cannot reveal anything he said during our meeting. I can, however, let you know what I said.
Dr. Cochegans:
Me: There's no thread that connects all the stuff that happened to me this off season.
Dr. Cochegans:
Me: Say that to my face.
Dr. Cochegans:
Me: I know, I was just kidding. But seriously, the only, uh, controversial stuff that happened was my contract dispute with the team, my occasional flareup with my brand new favorite manager Rick Churches...
Dr. Cochegans:
Me: Yes, I was being facetious. May I continue?
Dr. Cochegans:
Me: You're funny when you're sarcastic. But getting back to me, there wasn't much more controversy than what I just said. Oh, maybe the stuff that happened that made me not speak with the media anymore and just blog instead. And...Um... Also when the team fined me $500,000 for the content of those blogs. Oh! There was my bad, then good, then bad again rehabilitation from the elbow injury. Uh, I had a little tiff with teammate Corey Belle before his arrest. And our home was vandalized three times.
Dr. Cohegans:
Me: Nope. The bad people are still on the loose.
Dr. Cohegans:
Me: How do you think that makes me feel? I'm happy for them.
Dr. Cohegans:
Me: You're funny when you're sarcastic. Back to me, redux. I guess the last two issues from the off season were my dad, "Red" Scott coming back into my life to be one of the team's TV broadcasters and then, I guess, needing an arbitrator to settle another dispute I had with the team. I'm going to win that, by the way.
Dr. Cohegans:
Me: Whatever. Is there a conflict of interest here, since team management wants me gone, you work for the team, and I tell you all of my personal, most innermost thoughts?
Dr. Cohegans:
Quite frankly, I spaced out during the doctor's response. He went on and on about professional courtesy, patient/doctor privacy issues, etc. When I awoke, he asked me again if my off season issues had any common thread.
Me: Bitter, angry conflict with authority figures?
He rang a big bell with a large metal pipe, which made me think I was right. But then I remembered that was his way of telling patients their sessions are over.
Is there a common thread? Was I right? I don't know. It doesn't matter. Those conflicts happened. I can't take any of them back. If I could, I don't know if I'd want to. It would have been a pretty boring New Jersey off season if all I did was watch Scooby Doo reruns morning, noon, and night. No, this was the way to end it. My final off season, my final winter vacation. Starting next October, I'll probably be done for good. Then, every day will be a vacation.
I just hope it comes with a little less conflict.
It's been one of the more eventful off seasons I can remember in which my team did not win a world championship. The last big one like this in a bad team year was after the 1994 season, when I was traded from Chicago to New York and then I signed that huge (at the time) 5 year, $30 million contract. While the money is gone, long ago spent on products to stop my premature balding, I'm still with New York, about to start my 14th spring training with the team.
I met with team psychiatrist Henry Cochegans yesterday to talk about this busy off season. It was our seventh meeting since December. Due to the nature of the non-disclosure agreement he forced me to sign (not at gunpoint; rather, he threatened to make me blame all my problems on myself instead of my parents), I cannot reveal anything he said during our meeting. I can, however, let you know what I said.
Dr. Cochegans:
Me: There's no thread that connects all the stuff that happened to me this off season.
Dr. Cochegans:
Me: Say that to my face.
Dr. Cochegans:
Me: I know, I was just kidding. But seriously, the only, uh, controversial stuff that happened was my contract dispute with the team, my occasional flareup with my brand new favorite manager Rick Churches...
Dr. Cochegans:
Me: Yes, I was being facetious. May I continue?
Dr. Cochegans:
Me: You're funny when you're sarcastic. But getting back to me, there wasn't much more controversy than what I just said. Oh, maybe the stuff that happened that made me not speak with the media anymore and just blog instead. And...Um... Also when the team fined me $500,000 for the content of those blogs. Oh! There was my bad, then good, then bad again rehabilitation from the elbow injury. Uh, I had a little tiff with teammate Corey Belle before his arrest. And our home was vandalized three times.
Dr. Cohegans:
Me: Nope. The bad people are still on the loose.
Dr. Cohegans:
Me: How do you think that makes me feel? I'm happy for them.
Dr. Cohegans:
Me: You're funny when you're sarcastic. Back to me, redux. I guess the last two issues from the off season were my dad, "Red" Scott coming back into my life to be one of the team's TV broadcasters and then, I guess, needing an arbitrator to settle another dispute I had with the team. I'm going to win that, by the way.
Dr. Cohegans:
Me: Whatever. Is there a conflict of interest here, since team management wants me gone, you work for the team, and I tell you all of my personal, most innermost thoughts?
Dr. Cohegans:
Quite frankly, I spaced out during the doctor's response. He went on and on about professional courtesy, patient/doctor privacy issues, etc. When I awoke, he asked me again if my off season issues had any common thread.
Me: Bitter, angry conflict with authority figures?
He rang a big bell with a large metal pipe, which made me think I was right. But then I remembered that was his way of telling patients their sessions are over.
Is there a common thread? Was I right? I don't know. It doesn't matter. Those conflicts happened. I can't take any of them back. If I could, I don't know if I'd want to. It would have been a pretty boring New Jersey off season if all I did was watch Scooby Doo reruns morning, noon, and night. No, this was the way to end it. My final off season, my final winter vacation. Starting next October, I'll probably be done for good. Then, every day will be a vacation.
I just hope it comes with a little less conflict.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
Fan Fest, Day 2
I didn't plan on attending Fan Fest for a second day, especially after the problems I had on Day 1. But super agent Jack Perry told me Pepsi had a booth there and asked me to stop by and say hello. Apparently, I'm Pepsi's new golden boy, standing up against media, management and the culture in today's sportsworld of either getting arrested or speaking only in cliches. So I drove back into NYC and paid my $65 (if you didn't buy a combined Day 1/Day2 ticket for $50, you had to pay $65 for Day 2 only). I waited in line with some fans who couldn't believe I was 1) waiting in line with them and 2) actually buying a ticket. I told them I didn't think Rick would let me in unless I paid. And besides, Pepsi was going to reimburse me for parking and gas. What's one more $65 expense?
Got inside and enjoyed the swarm of fans who swarmed around me. No interns for "security." No agent or agent's wife to hold my hand and lead me through the little people who spent $65 for the priviledge of buying wet $5 hot dogs served on soft, cold buns. I felt like the Pied Piper as I made my way to the Pepsi booth, which was not where I was told it would be. 20 minutes, 200 fans and one frankfurter later I found it. It was set up so kids, or older fans, could stand at a home plate and hit hard plastic balls shot through a hole in a screen that showed video of me, Kai Goto and the rest of the team's pitchers go through our motions and fire away. I had a blast when it was my turn to bat against myself. I struck myself out on 3 pitches.
But Jimmy, what about your elbow?
It doesn't hurt when I bat. Weird. Truthfully, it doesn't hurt at all anymore. It's been a week since the scar tissue was discovered and I was told to take it easy. So my three-a-days were scaled back a bit. I will start throwing again tomorrow.
By the way, it's only 8 days until spring training. Normally, I'd be excited to go. But this stuff with my manager and GM, occassionally supplemented by interference from our owner, Mrs. Joan Delaney, has soured me a bit. But as sour as I was, standing in and around so many fans today was incredible. The support I got, the pats on the back (a few hurt because the guys patting my back were like 10 feet tall Sumo wrestlers or something), the handshakes and shouts of "Go, Jimmy, go!" were pretty cool. It kind of wiped the slate clean for me and made me feel good again. So thanks to all of you.
As an aside, I did not see Rick there. I understand he was counseling the custodial staff on the proper way to use their brooms. I hope the man is as intense about whether or not to double-switch for me in the 8th inning come September. I have a feeling he doesn't think I'll be on a mound then, at least for him. But I've made a deal with myself to make it happen. I'm going to be a factor for the team this year. I'm going to make those fans who supported me today proud.
And maybe next year I can play for free. There's got to be a way to lower the price of a ballpark hot dog. I'll do my part. You keep doing yours.
Got inside and enjoyed the swarm of fans who swarmed around me. No interns for "security." No agent or agent's wife to hold my hand and lead me through the little people who spent $65 for the priviledge of buying wet $5 hot dogs served on soft, cold buns. I felt like the Pied Piper as I made my way to the Pepsi booth, which was not where I was told it would be. 20 minutes, 200 fans and one frankfurter later I found it. It was set up so kids, or older fans, could stand at a home plate and hit hard plastic balls shot through a hole in a screen that showed video of me, Kai Goto and the rest of the team's pitchers go through our motions and fire away. I had a blast when it was my turn to bat against myself. I struck myself out on 3 pitches.
But Jimmy, what about your elbow?
It doesn't hurt when I bat. Weird. Truthfully, it doesn't hurt at all anymore. It's been a week since the scar tissue was discovered and I was told to take it easy. So my three-a-days were scaled back a bit. I will start throwing again tomorrow.
By the way, it's only 8 days until spring training. Normally, I'd be excited to go. But this stuff with my manager and GM, occassionally supplemented by interference from our owner, Mrs. Joan Delaney, has soured me a bit. But as sour as I was, standing in and around so many fans today was incredible. The support I got, the pats on the back (a few hurt because the guys patting my back were like 10 feet tall Sumo wrestlers or something), the handshakes and shouts of "Go, Jimmy, go!" were pretty cool. It kind of wiped the slate clean for me and made me feel good again. So thanks to all of you.
As an aside, I did not see Rick there. I understand he was counseling the custodial staff on the proper way to use their brooms. I hope the man is as intense about whether or not to double-switch for me in the 8th inning come September. I have a feeling he doesn't think I'll be on a mound then, at least for him. But I've made a deal with myself to make it happen. I'm going to be a factor for the team this year. I'm going to make those fans who supported me today proud.
And maybe next year I can play for free. There's got to be a way to lower the price of a ballpark hot dog. I'll do my part. You keep doing yours.
Friday, February 1, 2008
Second Opinions
I visited a new doctor yesterday to get another opinion on my arm. It wasn't easy, seeing the new doctor. Not because the office was hard to find or my car wouldn't start. We had to negotiate with the team who it was I was going to see.
As Ricky would say to Lucy, "Let me 'splain."
My New York franchise has a team doctor who I've been seeing. I have no reason to believe he has given me poor care or done anything unprofessional. Dr. McGee is, in my opinion, an honest man who genuinely cares about the people he examines.
However, in my meeting with the team the other day, they produced a "second opinion" from an unknown doctor. Now, if the second opinion is about me, you'd think I would have been there for the examination. It is, after all, my arm we're talking about.
The team is now stating that the second opinion they acquired is based upon Dr. McGee's MRI and examination notes. Dr. McGee thought I was rehabbing well and would pitch pain-free this year. Of course, I had my setback which turned out to be scar tissue breaking up, but that's temporary. I should be throwing balls around from flat ground at this time next week.
The team says no. In their opinion, which is based on this second "independent" opinion (and probably upsets Dr. McGee, their official team physician), I'm done. My elbow is a minefield. Take one wrong step and BOOM! Because of this assessment, they've asked me to either retire or expect to be on the disabled list, unavailable to play, for the entire season. In either case, they wouldn't be on the hook for my $9+ million 2008 salary (if I retire, they don't have to pay me; if I'm on the DL all season, insurance will pick up the tab).
I think upper management is full of...crap. They won't tell super agent, Jack Perry, or me which doctor rendered the second opinion (it took 2 days for them to admit publicly they even had the second opinion - this after stating, in effect, that I lied about that part of our meeting). Jack subsequently filed a grievance with the union.
I've never been involved in a grievance with my employer. So far, it's not fun. We are in dispute with one another and I, as employee, am basically forcing them to lay out all of their cards. Employers don't like to have their decisions questioned, especially by employees who have no problem letting the world know what's going on step-by-step via the Internet. If this were a marriage, it would be one on the rocks.
I do not want a divorce.
Yesterday, I suggested two reasons why they might be doing this in the first place.
1. They want to save money.
2. They don't want me on the team anymore.
I just thought up a new one (after subscribing to Paranoia Magazine last night):
3. They don't want me on the team anymore, but fear the public backlash of cutting me, so they hope I will ask to be either released or traded.
I'm not sure which is their truth. My truth is this: I like my house. I like my town. I like playing in New York. While I didn't want my supposedly last active off season to be marred by one public dispute after another with team management, it's not enough to make me ask to be released or traded. I don't want a divorce. I want to work this out.
The grievance process is how we'll do our counseling.
Back to my new doctor. In the grievance, it states the second opinion must come from an independent party. The team doctor is their party. Their "second opinion doctor" is... well I'm not sure what he/she is. But we're disputing anything that person said about me (aside from mention of my thinning scalp). The true second opinion will come from a doctor both team and player/agent agree upon.
You'd think I was negotiating for a $150 million contract extension.
Jack was on the phone with GM Alvin Kirby nine times yesterday. Jack said total speaking time was well over 3 hours. They had real issues with various points of the grievance, which I won't go into publicly unless Alvin does first. Mainly, the team wouldn't agree to any of the doctors Jack suggested. In turn, Jack wouldn't agree to their suggestions. It's like I'm the one on trial and prosecution and defense attorneys are interviewing potential jurors. That's what this is. This doctor will be the jury determining whether or not I'm guilty (can't pitch ever again) or not guilty (will pitch).
After wrangling and all that, the doctor chosen was Dr. Leslie Hoffman. She's based in Tampa and is an orthopedic specialist. I was the first big league player she ever examined (she's focused on professional tennis and NHL players). Nonetheless, she's a professional and, like I said, a respected specialist. I flew down to Tampa and had a lovely time in first class talking to a woman who works for a pharmeaceutical company about marketing cough medicine to healthy people.
Dr. Hoffman did what Dr. McGee did - MRI, lots of poking and prodding and stretching and twisting. She spent 20 minutes and then did it again. We should have the results back today.
My mother once told me that honesty is the best policy. I wish the team had come to Jack and me and told me what they really wanted in the first place. Instead, they went the messy route and will be wiping egg off of their faces for a while. Because in the jury of public opinion, they have so far shown that they are guilty as charged.
As Ricky would say to Lucy, "Let me 'splain."
My New York franchise has a team doctor who I've been seeing. I have no reason to believe he has given me poor care or done anything unprofessional. Dr. McGee is, in my opinion, an honest man who genuinely cares about the people he examines.
However, in my meeting with the team the other day, they produced a "second opinion" from an unknown doctor. Now, if the second opinion is about me, you'd think I would have been there for the examination. It is, after all, my arm we're talking about.
The team is now stating that the second opinion they acquired is based upon Dr. McGee's MRI and examination notes. Dr. McGee thought I was rehabbing well and would pitch pain-free this year. Of course, I had my setback which turned out to be scar tissue breaking up, but that's temporary. I should be throwing balls around from flat ground at this time next week.
The team says no. In their opinion, which is based on this second "independent" opinion (and probably upsets Dr. McGee, their official team physician), I'm done. My elbow is a minefield. Take one wrong step and BOOM! Because of this assessment, they've asked me to either retire or expect to be on the disabled list, unavailable to play, for the entire season. In either case, they wouldn't be on the hook for my $9+ million 2008 salary (if I retire, they don't have to pay me; if I'm on the DL all season, insurance will pick up the tab).
I think upper management is full of...crap. They won't tell super agent, Jack Perry, or me which doctor rendered the second opinion (it took 2 days for them to admit publicly they even had the second opinion - this after stating, in effect, that I lied about that part of our meeting). Jack subsequently filed a grievance with the union.
I've never been involved in a grievance with my employer. So far, it's not fun. We are in dispute with one another and I, as employee, am basically forcing them to lay out all of their cards. Employers don't like to have their decisions questioned, especially by employees who have no problem letting the world know what's going on step-by-step via the Internet. If this were a marriage, it would be one on the rocks.
I do not want a divorce.
Yesterday, I suggested two reasons why they might be doing this in the first place.
1. They want to save money.
2. They don't want me on the team anymore.
I just thought up a new one (after subscribing to Paranoia Magazine last night):
3. They don't want me on the team anymore, but fear the public backlash of cutting me, so they hope I will ask to be either released or traded.
I'm not sure which is their truth. My truth is this: I like my house. I like my town. I like playing in New York. While I didn't want my supposedly last active off season to be marred by one public dispute after another with team management, it's not enough to make me ask to be released or traded. I don't want a divorce. I want to work this out.
The grievance process is how we'll do our counseling.
Back to my new doctor. In the grievance, it states the second opinion must come from an independent party. The team doctor is their party. Their "second opinion doctor" is... well I'm not sure what he/she is. But we're disputing anything that person said about me (aside from mention of my thinning scalp). The true second opinion will come from a doctor both team and player/agent agree upon.
You'd think I was negotiating for a $150 million contract extension.
Jack was on the phone with GM Alvin Kirby nine times yesterday. Jack said total speaking time was well over 3 hours. They had real issues with various points of the grievance, which I won't go into publicly unless Alvin does first. Mainly, the team wouldn't agree to any of the doctors Jack suggested. In turn, Jack wouldn't agree to their suggestions. It's like I'm the one on trial and prosecution and defense attorneys are interviewing potential jurors. That's what this is. This doctor will be the jury determining whether or not I'm guilty (can't pitch ever again) or not guilty (will pitch).
After wrangling and all that, the doctor chosen was Dr. Leslie Hoffman. She's based in Tampa and is an orthopedic specialist. I was the first big league player she ever examined (she's focused on professional tennis and NHL players). Nonetheless, she's a professional and, like I said, a respected specialist. I flew down to Tampa and had a lovely time in first class talking to a woman who works for a pharmeaceutical company about marketing cough medicine to healthy people.
Dr. Hoffman did what Dr. McGee did - MRI, lots of poking and prodding and stretching and twisting. She spent 20 minutes and then did it again. We should have the results back today.
My mother once told me that honesty is the best policy. I wish the team had come to Jack and me and told me what they really wanted in the first place. Instead, they went the messy route and will be wiping egg off of their faces for a while. Because in the jury of public opinion, they have so far shown that they are guilty as charged.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Shut Down
The MRI came back. Scar tissue. I don't have bone chips, tortilla chips or the t.v. show CHiPs floating around my arm like the ship in Fantastic Voyage. No need for another surgery and no reason to believe I can't come back sometime in April, possibly early-May.
But...
The team physician, my good Dr. McGee, said for now I have to shut down all "baseball activities." He meant don't throw a ball, but he made it sound like I couldn't talk about baseball, write about baseball or coach a Little League team, not that I'd be a good coach or that I'd even have the time or patience to coach a Little League team, but I'd still like the option to try.
Here's tomorrow's NY Post headline:
JIMMY SCOTT TO COACH LITTLE LEAGUE TEAM IN 2008
Not gonna happen, but go ahead and sell your papers. I read all my articles online - for free.
Yesterday's take by the various media outlets on my health and meeting with GM Alvin Kirby and Manager Rick Churches was interesting. Some quoted my blog. Others just quoted Kirby and/or Churches, who denied what took place actually took place. A few places referenced us both and realized we're in a "he said/he said/she said" situation (Rick is cringing as he reads this, wondering who the "she" is). Here's where we stand:
But...
The team physician, my good Dr. McGee, said for now I have to shut down all "baseball activities." He meant don't throw a ball, but he made it sound like I couldn't talk about baseball, write about baseball or coach a Little League team, not that I'd be a good coach or that I'd even have the time or patience to coach a Little League team, but I'd still like the option to try.
Here's tomorrow's NY Post headline:
JIMMY SCOTT TO COACH LITTLE LEAGUE TEAM IN 2008
Not gonna happen, but go ahead and sell your papers. I read all my articles online - for free.
Yesterday's take by the various media outlets on my health and meeting with GM Alvin Kirby and Manager Rick Churches was interesting. Some quoted my blog. Others just quoted Kirby and/or Churches, who denied what took place actually took place. A few places referenced us both and realized we're in a "he said/he said/she said" situation (Rick is cringing as he reads this, wondering who the "she" is). Here's where we stand:
- Alvin Kirby and Rick Churches met with me and told me, for health reasons, I should either retire or expect to spend the year on the disabled list.
- I told them there was no need, I'd just been to the doctor and was on progress to pitch all year.
- They told me a second opinion - a doctor I never saw and still don't know the identity of - said my arm is in such a state that my career is over, barring a miracle.
- My arm did, in fact, have a setback that day. But I should, according to the team doctor, be able to start throwing again in a week to ten days.
Nobody is quoting this phantom "second doctor" and Alvin and Rick aren't even bringing up that part of the conversation. They're saying there is no second doctor. They're saying, basically, that I'm lying.
No matter. You'll see my official grievance against the team filed today by my super agent, Jack Perry. Our wonderful team owner, Mrs. Joan Delaney, left a message at my house apologizing for any confusion, even though she had previously talked to Jack and, following what is now/was then the party line, said she didn't expect me back this season.
This has all come out of the blue. For some reason, the team is suddenly (or they planned this all along) low on funding and wants insurance to cover my salary. Or they truly don't think I'll be able to pitch, and pitch well, this season and don't want to subsidize a long and pointless rehabilitation program. Or they just want me out. Conspiracy theories fly like fleas on poop.
The columnists I'm reading are saying the same thing as me. ESPN just treats it like a sideshow. Meanwhile, Pepsi called Jack and is considering pulling the ad we just filmed and yanking away my endorsement deal. Why? Because they don't want to pay millions to someone who won't be playing in 2008. My grievance against the team will take on much greater weight should Pepsi pull out because of the actions of two men who don't appear to like me.
Here's the deal for you all to see. I'll use bullet points, because I feel bullets have been shot at my head (none self-inflicted, for once):
- I will pitch in 2008
- The team will not get any insurance money...
- ...because I will pitch in 2008
- I will participate in spring training
- I will probably start the season in extended spring training in Florida or with a minor league affiliate. A warm one.
That's it. Don't believe everything you read (note how this can hurt me since I'm not talking to anyone, just writing). Just believe the source, me, when I say I will pitch this season. Betting is illegal in baseball, but if I were a gambler, I'd put my money on me. The payout will be huge.
Anyone going to guess on tomorrow's Daily News headline?
JIMMY SCOTT GAMBLING HABITS UNDER INVESTIGATION
Just want you to be aware of the source of their story before they report it.
Have a nice day.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
Set Back
My house is not right on the road. There's a stretch of about six feet between road and the new fence we put up for security purposes. It's about 30 yards (or 90 feet, depending if you're a baseball or football fan) from the fence to our front door.
When I got to our new front gate yesterday, it wasn't working. I hit a remote. The gate remained closed. Got out of the car and hit a code on the new keypad nearby. Nothing. Already in a lousy mood, my mood grew still darker by the second. The pretty lighting switched on, making our trees seem like multiple-armed giants towering over me, their shadows and brightness now mixing about. I called the house to ask Vanessa to open the gate from there. No answer. I was stuck on the wrong side of the fence, about 93 feet (or 31 yards) from my house. The only thing to do was to hop the fence.
Only I couldn't. With timing straight out of an episode of Murder She Wrote, or more recently, Monk, my right arm - my multi-million dollar pitching arm which had been rehabbing incredibly well over the last two months - was dead. Long live the arm.
Okay, it wasn't completely dead. But it had been fine when I visited with my doctor earlier that day. It had been fine when I visited with GM Alvin Kirby and field manager Rick Churches. It had been fine when I made my call to super agent Jack Perry, telling him Kirby & Churches (not a law firm) wanted me to either retire or sit out the season due to last year's injury. It wasn't fine after I flipped close my phone - with my right hand - and slipped the phone into my pocket - with my right hand, wrist and arm.
That's where I injured it again...
As I walked and talked with Jack, holding my cell phone up to my ear with my right hand, coincidentally connected to my right arm - the injured one - I did something to the elbow that I hadn't done since the initial injury. I don't know what that something was, but whatever I did, I couldn't bend the arm anymore. I went from sitting down with Kirby & Churches, arguing that I'd be throwing simulated games by the end of spring training to hoping Dr. McGee wouldn't have to amputate by the time I got to the parking lot.
I looked at my house through the artificial light and saw a light inside flick on. A timer did it. Nobody was home.
I thought about my emergency return to Dr. McGee after my re-injury and how he took x-rays and did an MRI and twisted and massaged and stretched out my arm. "Scar tissue," he said. "Probably some got loose. At worst, you have bone chips in there floating around." I asked what his definition of "at worst" meant. "Another surgery. You might make it back on a mound by August or September."
In a baseball season, there's huge difference between August and September, even bigger if you're thinking August 1st vs. September 30th.
I said many bad words on the drive home. This is exactly what I didn't want, and I assume what Kirby & Churches did want. I felt betrayed by them; betrayed by the business side of baseball, a side that had always been good to me (proof is the distance between my very large house and quiet suburban street).
I sat in the car with the radio on, hoping for a song to cheer me up. Nothing. It was all hip hop or angst-rock. Even Lite FM was playing depressing stuff, "Another Day In Paradise" by Phil Collins, about homelessness. I looked through the gate at my house and couldn't help but feel a kinship for the homeless, as ridiculous as that sounds. I was trapped outside, in pain, wondering if I had a future or not.
By eight o'clock, Vanessa had shown up with Alyssa and Grace. They'd been out at the mall and her phone had been off (her friend down the street, Connie, is relentless with the phone calls). She hit a code on the keypad (the code I typed in was apparently my locker combination from junior year in high school) and the gate opened up. I twisted the key in my ignition and heard nothing. My car wouldn't move. The battery was dead. Or worse. Jumping it didn't help.
I looked up at my house like a runner on first base with two outs, hoping to make it to second on the next pitch and not get left stranded by strikeout. A tow truck would come by soon to take my car (actually a Hummer) down to the shop. I sat on the front seat and waited while my girls went into the house. One more setback on a horrible day. Somewhere, I could hear Kirby & Churches laughing at me.
When I got to our new front gate yesterday, it wasn't working. I hit a remote. The gate remained closed. Got out of the car and hit a code on the new keypad nearby. Nothing. Already in a lousy mood, my mood grew still darker by the second. The pretty lighting switched on, making our trees seem like multiple-armed giants towering over me, their shadows and brightness now mixing about. I called the house to ask Vanessa to open the gate from there. No answer. I was stuck on the wrong side of the fence, about 93 feet (or 31 yards) from my house. The only thing to do was to hop the fence.
Only I couldn't. With timing straight out of an episode of Murder She Wrote, or more recently, Monk, my right arm - my multi-million dollar pitching arm which had been rehabbing incredibly well over the last two months - was dead. Long live the arm.
Okay, it wasn't completely dead. But it had been fine when I visited with my doctor earlier that day. It had been fine when I visited with GM Alvin Kirby and field manager Rick Churches. It had been fine when I made my call to super agent Jack Perry, telling him Kirby & Churches (not a law firm) wanted me to either retire or sit out the season due to last year's injury. It wasn't fine after I flipped close my phone - with my right hand - and slipped the phone into my pocket - with my right hand, wrist and arm.
That's where I injured it again...
As I walked and talked with Jack, holding my cell phone up to my ear with my right hand, coincidentally connected to my right arm - the injured one - I did something to the elbow that I hadn't done since the initial injury. I don't know what that something was, but whatever I did, I couldn't bend the arm anymore. I went from sitting down with Kirby & Churches, arguing that I'd be throwing simulated games by the end of spring training to hoping Dr. McGee wouldn't have to amputate by the time I got to the parking lot.
I looked at my house through the artificial light and saw a light inside flick on. A timer did it. Nobody was home.
I thought about my emergency return to Dr. McGee after my re-injury and how he took x-rays and did an MRI and twisted and massaged and stretched out my arm. "Scar tissue," he said. "Probably some got loose. At worst, you have bone chips in there floating around." I asked what his definition of "at worst" meant. "Another surgery. You might make it back on a mound by August or September."
In a baseball season, there's huge difference between August and September, even bigger if you're thinking August 1st vs. September 30th.
I said many bad words on the drive home. This is exactly what I didn't want, and I assume what Kirby & Churches did want. I felt betrayed by them; betrayed by the business side of baseball, a side that had always been good to me (proof is the distance between my very large house and quiet suburban street).
I sat in the car with the radio on, hoping for a song to cheer me up. Nothing. It was all hip hop or angst-rock. Even Lite FM was playing depressing stuff, "Another Day In Paradise" by Phil Collins, about homelessness. I looked through the gate at my house and couldn't help but feel a kinship for the homeless, as ridiculous as that sounds. I was trapped outside, in pain, wondering if I had a future or not.
By eight o'clock, Vanessa had shown up with Alyssa and Grace. They'd been out at the mall and her phone had been off (her friend down the street, Connie, is relentless with the phone calls). She hit a code on the keypad (the code I typed in was apparently my locker combination from junior year in high school) and the gate opened up. I twisted the key in my ignition and heard nothing. My car wouldn't move. The battery was dead. Or worse. Jumping it didn't help.
I looked up at my house like a runner on first base with two outs, hoping to make it to second on the next pitch and not get left stranded by strikeout. A tow truck would come by soon to take my car (actually a Hummer) down to the shop. I sat on the front seat and waited while my girls went into the house. One more setback on a horrible day. Somewhere, I could hear Kirby & Churches laughing at me.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
My Arm
On Monday I had a checkup with the team's physician, Dr. Stanley McGee. He put my right arm, the one I throw with and, coincidentally, the one that was operated on by the aforementioned doctor last April 15th. Nine months and 14 days. I feel like an on-the-wagon alcoholic, counting the days since my last drink. Only I'm counting the days since my last operation. On the day of month ten, I report to spring training. As my mother used to say when she saw me bat in Little League games, "How queer."
Dr. McGee gave a positive report. All is well. He turned the arm and twisted the arm and stomped on the arm with a pair of lead boots. No pain. He squished it in a metal vice and stretched it like a noodle and bit on it with the jaws of a crocodile. No pain. "Strong as an ox," he said. Then he stuck his head out of room and said, "Next!" It was my turn to be examined.
Just kidding.
The examination went well. He gave me a clean bill of health and suggested implants for my semi-balding scalp. Since he's not a psychiatrist, I ignored his comments and decided to crawl into the fetal position on his examination table and suck my thumb. He's a good man.
Afterward, it was a meeting at the stadium with GM Alvin Kirby and new manager Rick Churches. They asked how the exam went, fully knowing since Dr. Stanley's report had been faxed over already and was sitting on Alvin's desk. But I played along. "Amputation scheduled for Thursday. I hope they chop off the right arm. Literally." We laughed. Well, I did. Rick doesn't laugh much. He's always been serious, but now, since he's our manager, he's intense. There are managers who are "players managers" and managers who are "field generals" and managers who don't know who the hell they are. I've played for all three. As long as the team wins, it doesn't matter who the old guy n the funny outfit is at the end of the bench. A manager rarely affects the outcome of a game. But they're lots of fun to criticize!
Being a starting pitcher all my life, I am generally up for criticism once every 5 days. A manager is available to have his ego dragged through the mud 7 days a week. It's not a job I would want, especially with my hair thinning on top. My ego is fragile without the public criticism.
It was a pleasant "sit down" at first, the meeting between Alvin, Rick and me. They asked how my rehab was progressing, asked if I planned on coming to spring training... I stopped them on that. What did they mean, did I plan on coming to spring training? Yes. I have a contract. I'm going to pitch. Then this exchange happened:
Alvin: We're not sure if your arm will be ready for the season.
Me: Dr. Stanley thinks it will be.
Rick: Does he?
Me: Does he? (I made fun of Rick's voice right there. Once again, he didn't laugh.) Of course. he told me himself.
Alvin: We have a second opinion that thinks your arm won't last a bullpen session.
Rick: No shot.
Alvin: You might want to consider retiring.
At this point, I was somewhat angry. Retire? Hadn't we been through all of this in December? We had a little contract trouble, but we worked it out. Then I started working out. I feel good. What were they doing.
Me: I think my agent should be here for this.
Rick: He doesn't have to be here.
Me: Neither do you. (That line pissed him off. It was so cool.)
Rick: I'm the manager of this team.
Me: One you're trying to break it up. Good job, skipper.
Rick: Shut the hell up -
Let me cut in and state some nasty words were used at this point by various parties, including a woman who came in to empty Alvin's ash tray (he's a chain smoker). Alvin asked her nicely to shove the ashes up her poop shoot.
With that in mind, the woman left and we continued with this shocking meeting.
Me: I feel like you guys are ambushing me. No agent. No warning that you now want me off the team. I'm not going to retire and give up the $9 million plus bonuses you're going to pay me.
Alvin: Then insurance will cover everything.
He held up Dr. McGee's report and said it, along with this phantom "second opinion," would be sent to the insurance company. I was welcome to come to spring training and "test out" my arm, but they expected me to spend the year on the disabled list. The insurance company would subsidize the cost of my contract. The team would pay nothing.
We didn't end the meeting on good terms. I stormed out when Rick started talking about team chemistry. The guy probably failed high school chemistry, and now he wants to talk about how he's going to motivate 25 guys to piss where and when he tells them to. I don't think so, Ricky.
I didn't make it 10 feet down the hall before I got a call from Jack Perry, super agent.
Me: Did you hear?
Jack: Mrs. Delaney told me.
Me: This isn't right.
Jack: I'm already filing a grievance with the players association.
Me: My arm is fine.
Jack: I'm sure it is.
We were done. I made it to the parking lot and tried to pull the car key out of my pocket. I couldn't. It was my right arm. Suddenly, I couldn't bend it.
With my good arm, I called Dr. McGee. This wasn't good.
Dr. McGee gave a positive report. All is well. He turned the arm and twisted the arm and stomped on the arm with a pair of lead boots. No pain. He squished it in a metal vice and stretched it like a noodle and bit on it with the jaws of a crocodile. No pain. "Strong as an ox," he said. Then he stuck his head out of room and said, "Next!" It was my turn to be examined.
Just kidding.
The examination went well. He gave me a clean bill of health and suggested implants for my semi-balding scalp. Since he's not a psychiatrist, I ignored his comments and decided to crawl into the fetal position on his examination table and suck my thumb. He's a good man.
Afterward, it was a meeting at the stadium with GM Alvin Kirby and new manager Rick Churches. They asked how the exam went, fully knowing since Dr. Stanley's report had been faxed over already and was sitting on Alvin's desk. But I played along. "Amputation scheduled for Thursday. I hope they chop off the right arm. Literally." We laughed. Well, I did. Rick doesn't laugh much. He's always been serious, but now, since he's our manager, he's intense. There are managers who are "players managers" and managers who are "field generals" and managers who don't know who the hell they are. I've played for all three. As long as the team wins, it doesn't matter who the old guy n the funny outfit is at the end of the bench. A manager rarely affects the outcome of a game. But they're lots of fun to criticize!
Being a starting pitcher all my life, I am generally up for criticism once every 5 days. A manager is available to have his ego dragged through the mud 7 days a week. It's not a job I would want, especially with my hair thinning on top. My ego is fragile without the public criticism.
It was a pleasant "sit down" at first, the meeting between Alvin, Rick and me. They asked how my rehab was progressing, asked if I planned on coming to spring training... I stopped them on that. What did they mean, did I plan on coming to spring training? Yes. I have a contract. I'm going to pitch. Then this exchange happened:
Alvin: We're not sure if your arm will be ready for the season.
Me: Dr. Stanley thinks it will be.
Rick: Does he?
Me: Does he? (I made fun of Rick's voice right there. Once again, he didn't laugh.) Of course. he told me himself.
Alvin: We have a second opinion that thinks your arm won't last a bullpen session.
Rick: No shot.
Alvin: You might want to consider retiring.
At this point, I was somewhat angry. Retire? Hadn't we been through all of this in December? We had a little contract trouble, but we worked it out. Then I started working out. I feel good. What were they doing.
Me: I think my agent should be here for this.
Rick: He doesn't have to be here.
Me: Neither do you. (That line pissed him off. It was so cool.)
Rick: I'm the manager of this team.
Me: One you're trying to break it up. Good job, skipper.
Rick: Shut the hell up -
Let me cut in and state some nasty words were used at this point by various parties, including a woman who came in to empty Alvin's ash tray (he's a chain smoker). Alvin asked her nicely to shove the ashes up her poop shoot.
With that in mind, the woman left and we continued with this shocking meeting.
Me: I feel like you guys are ambushing me. No agent. No warning that you now want me off the team. I'm not going to retire and give up the $9 million plus bonuses you're going to pay me.
Alvin: Then insurance will cover everything.
He held up Dr. McGee's report and said it, along with this phantom "second opinion," would be sent to the insurance company. I was welcome to come to spring training and "test out" my arm, but they expected me to spend the year on the disabled list. The insurance company would subsidize the cost of my contract. The team would pay nothing.
We didn't end the meeting on good terms. I stormed out when Rick started talking about team chemistry. The guy probably failed high school chemistry, and now he wants to talk about how he's going to motivate 25 guys to piss where and when he tells them to. I don't think so, Ricky.
I didn't make it 10 feet down the hall before I got a call from Jack Perry, super agent.
Me: Did you hear?
Jack: Mrs. Delaney told me.
Me: This isn't right.
Jack: I'm already filing a grievance with the players association.
Me: My arm is fine.
Jack: I'm sure it is.
We were done. I made it to the parking lot and tried to pull the car key out of my pocket. I couldn't. It was my right arm. Suddenly, I couldn't bend it.
With my good arm, I called Dr. McGee. This wasn't good.
Sunday, January 27, 2008
Having A Catch
It's Sunday, it's sunny and it's 22 days from the official start of spring training. My head has come a long way from being up my hole when I started posting back in November. Since then, my health has improved, the diet has improved, our team has improved... Well, the Cory Belle arrest from the other day may hurt us. But maybe not. If the league suspends him for his off the field problems, it'll hopefully just be for a handful of games and nothing crazy.
Anyway, back to Sunday sunny thoughts. Just wanted to throw a short post out to let you know I've begun throwing again. I quietly started about a week ago throwing from flat ground. No pain - in the elbow or the wrist. Today, day 7 of the throwing regimen, was great. My catcher was none other than my lovely wife, Vanessa. I paced her off about 50 yards (since it's still winter and we're a week away from the Super Bowl, that's half a football field) and threw. I wasn't whipping it, but I was able to put some pepper on it. I felt great.
You should know Vanessa's a good catcher. The fun thing about her is we do have a catch a few times a year. She was a standout softball player for her little hole in the wall college. She never had a shot at the Olympics or anything, but she was, from what she tells me, a solid shortstop with a little pop in her bat. So when I tell you I had a catch with her, it wasn't some lazy Sunday afternoon catch. I made her sweat.
Just wanted to make the official announcement. I visit with the team physician tomorrow in New York, meet with manager Rick Churches and GM Alvin Kirby afterward, and spend the afternoon working out with Andy, my personal trainer.
By the way, Andy is singing next week an open mic night at The Apollo Theater next weekend. Go and check it out if you're in the area.
Finally, the filming of the Pepsi commercial went great on Friday. More on that in the coming days. And I thought the Diane Sawyer special Friday night on ABC was pretty good. I looked balding though, didn't I? Time for some performance enhancers for my scalp.
Anyway, back to Sunday sunny thoughts. Just wanted to throw a short post out to let you know I've begun throwing again. I quietly started about a week ago throwing from flat ground. No pain - in the elbow or the wrist. Today, day 7 of the throwing regimen, was great. My catcher was none other than my lovely wife, Vanessa. I paced her off about 50 yards (since it's still winter and we're a week away from the Super Bowl, that's half a football field) and threw. I wasn't whipping it, but I was able to put some pepper on it. I felt great.
You should know Vanessa's a good catcher. The fun thing about her is we do have a catch a few times a year. She was a standout softball player for her little hole in the wall college. She never had a shot at the Olympics or anything, but she was, from what she tells me, a solid shortstop with a little pop in her bat. So when I tell you I had a catch with her, it wasn't some lazy Sunday afternoon catch. I made her sweat.
Just wanted to make the official announcement. I visit with the team physician tomorrow in New York, meet with manager Rick Churches and GM Alvin Kirby afterward, and spend the afternoon working out with Andy, my personal trainer.
By the way, Andy is singing next week an open mic night at The Apollo Theater next weekend. Go and check it out if you're in the area.
Finally, the filming of the Pepsi commercial went great on Friday. More on that in the coming days. And I thought the Diane Sawyer special Friday night on ABC was pretty good. I looked balding though, didn't I? Time for some performance enhancers for my scalp.
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
Bad Sun Risin'
Not a good day yesterday. Let's set aside my personal issues with the media and baseball world for a minute and get back into reality. I got up early, 5:17 AM, and was out running by 5:31. My driveway was clear. My lawn was clear. Our new fence, which is to surround the perimeter of our home, has been partially erected. At least the front is done and part of the right side (the right side if you're facing the house from the front). We have a gate in front of the driveway that I jumped over rather than opened electronically. I don't know the combination yet and probably won't for another year or two. (Guess who could never get into his locker at school.) I started my run by passing our two garbage cans, set out neatly for garbage pickup.
It was a good run. My right wrist is no longer wrapped from my fall, and the pain has mostly subsided. I didn't have to pre-medicate myself with Advil before the run. The up and down shaking of my arms was painful in the wrist for about 3 weeks. Four or five Advil taken 30 minutes before a run would help the wrist. Probably did damage to my heart. I'll let you know when I'm seventy (or "sempty" as Grandpappy Scott used to say).**
I ran for about 45 minutes. Doing about a 7 1/2 minute mile, that means I ran about, uh... You know. You do the math. Fact is, I ran far and hard and wasn't struck once by any flying newspapers from the army of paperboys driving around town in their 1996 Caravans, Mega 97 blasting from their open windows like gunfire. When I was a paperboy, I rode a bike. And wore headphones. And listened to tapes of the Rolling Stones. Plus, I was not 35 years old. Where have all the 11 year olds gone? Here's why immigration is such a huge issue in the upcoming election. The Hispanic population has taken all of the good paperboy jobs from the domestic 11 year olds. Now these boys are stuck at home every morning, unemployed, sleeping and thinking about potential plotlines for Halo IV.
I'm cynical today; a little surly. That's because I finished the run, like I always do, with a walk of about half a mile. Made it onto my street, the sky becoming colored with the sun due to rise shortly. And I looked ahead and saw something on my driveway that wasn't there before. I stopped walking. Instead, I started to run again, got to my driveway and almost puked. The stench was incredible. Somehow, within the previous 45 minutes, somebody, or somebodies, had taken what looked like every garbage can in the state of New Jersey and emptied it onto the front of my driveway. I could tell because cluttered in front of my new fence, just slightly away from the torn up garbage bags and loose food scraps, wet paper towels, moldy cans, and influenza-carrying used tissues, were about 35 empty garbage cans.
Needless to say, I hopped the fence, ran inside and called the police.
This was all on a day when Alyssa and Grace had to get to school by 7 AM for their early-morning extra curricular stuff. The car couldn't get out because of the trash, so I got out a snow shovel and carved out a path for Vanessa's Hummer. She drove away, her tires covered in banana peels and gum.
The police were mad at me.
Policewoman: Mr. Scott, why did you move the evidence?
Me: So my kids could go to school.
Policewoman: You compromised a crime scene.
Me: Do you think the bad people who did this deed left a clue amongst the rubble of suburban life that is now trapped between the grooves of my wife's car?
Policewoman: You joke, yet keep in mind who's going to have to clean all this up when we're done.
Me: Who?
Policewoman: You.
They were done after an hour or so. By then, half the community had come to pick up their garbage cans. I wasn't sure how so many people could look at a large, gray cylindrical instrument of waste collection which looked just like the other 33 large, gray cylindrical instruments of waste collection, and know which one(s) were theirs. People must have a spiritual connection to their garbage cans, I guess.
Our newly installed video cameras didn't catch the perpetrator(s) of this crime. They'd just been installed last week and weren't pointed in the right directions. I think they will be now, after we sue the company for negligence. I mean, how hard is it to point security cameras at a home's point of entry?
By midday, the debris was basically gone. The cleanup crew missed a few scraps which had become embedded between tiny cracks in the driveway, but otherwise the place looked as good as it did before this fourth act of vandalism on our home.
I called the police around 4:00. No witnesses. No leads.
Somebody out there doesn't like me.
** Just kidding. There's no "Grandpappy Scott." My father, "Red" Scott, had his family deported to Scotland many years before English was the official language of the United States.
It was a good run. My right wrist is no longer wrapped from my fall, and the pain has mostly subsided. I didn't have to pre-medicate myself with Advil before the run. The up and down shaking of my arms was painful in the wrist for about 3 weeks. Four or five Advil taken 30 minutes before a run would help the wrist. Probably did damage to my heart. I'll let you know when I'm seventy (or "sempty" as Grandpappy Scott used to say).**
I ran for about 45 minutes. Doing about a 7 1/2 minute mile, that means I ran about, uh... You know. You do the math. Fact is, I ran far and hard and wasn't struck once by any flying newspapers from the army of paperboys driving around town in their 1996 Caravans, Mega 97 blasting from their open windows like gunfire. When I was a paperboy, I rode a bike. And wore headphones. And listened to tapes of the Rolling Stones. Plus, I was not 35 years old. Where have all the 11 year olds gone? Here's why immigration is such a huge issue in the upcoming election. The Hispanic population has taken all of the good paperboy jobs from the domestic 11 year olds. Now these boys are stuck at home every morning, unemployed, sleeping and thinking about potential plotlines for Halo IV.
I'm cynical today; a little surly. That's because I finished the run, like I always do, with a walk of about half a mile. Made it onto my street, the sky becoming colored with the sun due to rise shortly. And I looked ahead and saw something on my driveway that wasn't there before. I stopped walking. Instead, I started to run again, got to my driveway and almost puked. The stench was incredible. Somehow, within the previous 45 minutes, somebody, or somebodies, had taken what looked like every garbage can in the state of New Jersey and emptied it onto the front of my driveway. I could tell because cluttered in front of my new fence, just slightly away from the torn up garbage bags and loose food scraps, wet paper towels, moldy cans, and influenza-carrying used tissues, were about 35 empty garbage cans.
Needless to say, I hopped the fence, ran inside and called the police.
This was all on a day when Alyssa and Grace had to get to school by 7 AM for their early-morning extra curricular stuff. The car couldn't get out because of the trash, so I got out a snow shovel and carved out a path for Vanessa's Hummer. She drove away, her tires covered in banana peels and gum.
The police were mad at me.
Policewoman: Mr. Scott, why did you move the evidence?
Me: So my kids could go to school.
Policewoman: You compromised a crime scene.
Me: Do you think the bad people who did this deed left a clue amongst the rubble of suburban life that is now trapped between the grooves of my wife's car?
Policewoman: You joke, yet keep in mind who's going to have to clean all this up when we're done.
Me: Who?
Policewoman: You.
They were done after an hour or so. By then, half the community had come to pick up their garbage cans. I wasn't sure how so many people could look at a large, gray cylindrical instrument of waste collection which looked just like the other 33 large, gray cylindrical instruments of waste collection, and know which one(s) were theirs. People must have a spiritual connection to their garbage cans, I guess.
Our newly installed video cameras didn't catch the perpetrator(s) of this crime. They'd just been installed last week and weren't pointed in the right directions. I think they will be now, after we sue the company for negligence. I mean, how hard is it to point security cameras at a home's point of entry?
By midday, the debris was basically gone. The cleanup crew missed a few scraps which had become embedded between tiny cracks in the driveway, but otherwise the place looked as good as it did before this fourth act of vandalism on our home.
I called the police around 4:00. No witnesses. No leads.
Somebody out there doesn't like me.
** Just kidding. There's no "Grandpappy Scott." My father, "Red" Scott, had his family deported to Scotland many years before English was the official language of the United States.
Wednesday, January 2, 2008
A Quiet Period
We're in the part of the baseball off season where nothing happens. Most, if not all, of the big trades have occurred. The big name free agents have been signed. Managers have been fired and hired. Same with GMs. Players are spread around the Western Hemisphere right now, some working out, some languishing, internally begging for motivation yet externally enjoying just one more day off... And another... And another... Until spring training is 10 days away and they realize they haven't picked up a bat or ball or anything heavier than a TV remote for the last four months. Those are the guys in for a beating.
Now if spring training had started in December, I would have been one of those guys. I did nothing - NOTHING - from the moment my elbow exploded on that opening day ballfield until I opted in to play one more year around Thanksgiving. I got fat. I got more bald. The good part of it was my body had a rest; it's first real rest since I was a little kid. Yes, it's important to keep physically fit. But, he said defensively and somewhat ignorantly, it's also important to rest the body and mind, get them away from what they're used to. Depression can kill your psyche, but can also be a wonder for your tired muscles.
With that said, I threw this theory out to my new shrink on Monday, New Year's Eve. Because of the non-disclosure agreement he made me sign, you can't see his brilliant responses:
Me: I don't know... I'm kind of glad I didn't work out or anything for 10 months.
Shrink:
Me: I don't feel guilty, well, I didn't. Should I?
Shrink:
Me: Oh.
Shrink:
Me: Oh.
Shrink:
Me: Oh.
Shrink:
Me: Well don't I feel like the perfect jerk.
Are you supposed to go into a visit with a shrink and feel good but leave feeling like the world just collapsed? Maybe denial is a healthy thing. Like breakfast cereal.
So my mind is a little screwy right now. My "homework" before my next session is to write thank you notes to everyone in the front office for supporting me during my convalescence. Only most of the people who supported me - manager, GM, assistant GM, coaching staff - are gone, replaced by people who have, let's say, not been as supportive. Maybe instead of thank you notes, I'll just have my agent send them an email. After all, I don't have time to write to them. I've got to get in shape before it's too late.
Now if spring training had started in December, I would have been one of those guys. I did nothing - NOTHING - from the moment my elbow exploded on that opening day ballfield until I opted in to play one more year around Thanksgiving. I got fat. I got more bald. The good part of it was my body had a rest; it's first real rest since I was a little kid. Yes, it's important to keep physically fit. But, he said defensively and somewhat ignorantly, it's also important to rest the body and mind, get them away from what they're used to. Depression can kill your psyche, but can also be a wonder for your tired muscles.
With that said, I threw this theory out to my new shrink on Monday, New Year's Eve. Because of the non-disclosure agreement he made me sign, you can't see his brilliant responses:
Me: I don't know... I'm kind of glad I didn't work out or anything for 10 months.
Shrink:
Me: I don't feel guilty, well, I didn't. Should I?
Shrink:
Me: Oh.
Shrink:
Me: Oh.
Shrink:
Me: Oh.
Shrink:
Me: Well don't I feel like the perfect jerk.
Are you supposed to go into a visit with a shrink and feel good but leave feeling like the world just collapsed? Maybe denial is a healthy thing. Like breakfast cereal.
So my mind is a little screwy right now. My "homework" before my next session is to write thank you notes to everyone in the front office for supporting me during my convalescence. Only most of the people who supported me - manager, GM, assistant GM, coaching staff - are gone, replaced by people who have, let's say, not been as supportive. Maybe instead of thank you notes, I'll just have my agent send them an email. After all, I don't have time to write to them. I've got to get in shape before it's too late.
Friday, December 28, 2007
Top 12 of 2007
Everybody does top 10 lists at this time of year. I have so many favorite moments from 2007, I had to expand the list to 12. I was going to present them in order of importance, but really, what's important to me may not be important to you. So I decided to list them alphabetically, starting with the second letter of the third word from each. Very random. Hard to offend that way. But what if an entry only has two words? I'd suddenly be limited, constricted. That wouldn't be fair to me. So, after moments of soul searching and flogging myself with a box of dry noodles (thin Ronzoni linguini), I elected to show my top moments to you on a month by month basis, starting with January and ending with December. We know there are 12 months and my list is 12 strong, so if I use "March" as a header and March is the third month, you should know that it is my third entry. Are we clear? Thought so.
Thus, Jimmy Scott's Top 12 of 2008, presented by the Months of the Year:
JANUARY
My favorite New York franchise signs former Milwaukee outfielder Felipe Lopez to a 7-year, $103 million contract. Felipe goes on to hit an underwhelming 17 home runs, drive in 66 and suffer from the wrath of fans all season long.
FEBRUARY
My favorite New York franchise is sold to former Manhattan congresswoman Joan Delaney. Mrs. Delaney calls 2007 her "wait and see" season. She waits all season to watch us win and sees we can't when half of the starters, including yours truly, go down with injuries.
MARCH
On the first day of spring training (sing Twelve Days of Christmas along to this one) our union gave to us, a lecture on how to save cash. (stop singing) We all know that 2008 is the final season under the current labor/management agreement, and with a wee bit of tension on both sides, union leader Howard Phillips felt it prudent to tell us to save our money should there be a lockout or strike at some point in 2008. All I can tell you now is nobody's talking. Not because anybody's mad, but because the current agreement expires on October 31, 2008. I know a meeting is scheduled for the first full week of January in New York. I'll be attending. Hopefully all will be cordial. If not, expect to hear war drums beating from coast to coast on both sides.
APRIL
Ahh, spring. When Hope blooms for every big league team. Only hope for a certain favorite New York franchise, one in "wait and see" mode, really only lasts up until the first pitch of the season. It was then that the wheels fell off for me, personally and professionally. Home run ball on pitch one. Elbow explosion on pitch two. I never threw a pitch three. Still haven't. We go on to win 77 games in a season in which many "pundits" predicted we'd win 92. My replacements, all five of them, can't come close to the 14 games I was projected to win (they win a combined 6). Unfortunately, they blow away the number of games I was projected to lose (7) by reaching 15. I have surgery on April 12 - my birthday - and can't comb my hair until mid-May. My head rebels and starts to go bald. Not a good year for New York baseball.
MAY
Things get worse for my favorite New York franchise before they get better (which doesn't happen until December). Former two-time MVP, third baseman Willie Fernandez, goes down with a knee injury and doesn't play another game all season. Reconstructive surgery spells the end of a career in which Willie hit 375 home runs, won three rings, and got divorced twice. A great teammate with a wonderful wardrobe, Willie will be our third base coach in 2008. Once you're in the game, it's hard to get out.
JUNE
Continuing unpleasantness surrounds a team that only wins 10 games in April and 12 in May. (On June 15th, we're 27 and 48.) Derek Henderson enters the pre-game locker room on June 15th and makes three mistakes. First, he carries a firearm with him. Second, it's loaded. Third, he discharges it. Nobody is hurt, but a water pipe directly above his head is maimed beyond recognition. Flooded out of the clubhouse for two games, the team is forced to dress in the press room. Henderson is cut on June 18th and doesn't play another big league game all season. Mrs. Delaney uses the flooded locker room as an excuse to begin asking for a new stadium. Apparently, all the new ones have bulletproof piping.
JULY
Lyman Gaye gets the game-winning hit in the 13th inning of the 83rd annual All Star game, this one held in Pittsburgh. Lyman, not voted in or chosen but a player by default because five other players ahead of him in the pecking order either suddenly come down with hamstring strains or the need to spend time with "family" in the Dominican, goes on to have a solid season. He hits .305 and wins the Defensive Achievement Award for excellence in right field. Kansas City, his team, wins 59 games and dismantles the club beginning 5 days later. Lyman is the last to go. He claims to have never owned a loaded firearm in his life. Good enough for us, we trade for him in December.
AUGUST
Mrs. Delaney's husband is indicted for tax evasion. Rather than hide, Mrs. Delaney goes on a media offensive. Charges are never dropped, but we suddenly have one of the most vocal owners in the sport. Her "wait and see" attitude wanes and General Manager Roddy McEllroy is fired and replaced by Alvin Kirby, the first black GM in New York baseball, not a big deal until Alvin's wife brings it up in her own media offensive. On November 3rd, Alvin files for divorce.
SEPTEMBER
In an outburst still playing 127,000 times a day on YouTube, now former/then current manager of my favorite New York franchise, Larry Picketts, goes on an obscenity-laced rampage. Unfortunately, he does it during his daily WTEM (You're on The Team!) radio call in show. A frustrating season gets worse. Larry is fired with 10 games remaining in the season...
OCTOBER
...And replaced by everybody's favorite New York sports television personality and 1996 MVP runner up, Rick Churches. While Rick has never managed or coached a game in his life, we've known for years that he can talk a good one. A former player with two championship rings, #1 draft choice in 1983 out of Wichita State and that one incredible season in '96 when he hit 25 home runs, drove in 111 and stole 55 bases, the pedigree is there. He just has to put it to good use.
NOVEMBER
I start my blog. My fatness is exposed (along with the news of my scalp deciding to bare itself to the world). Rather than accept the team's generous contract buyout offer, I opt to play one more season. We get mad at each other and meet in a locker room duel with Derek Henderson serving as referee. We settle our differences somewhat amicably, but the locker room needs a whole new piping system now before opening day.
DECEMBER
I haven't spoken on this much, but having a year off, basically, gave me more time to spend with the Jimmy & Vanessa Scott Foundation. We raised more money for M.S. and Lyme Disease in 2007 than we had in 2005 and 2006 combined, over $4 million. Much of that money will go to research, although I may embezzle some to pay for the security system we're putting in around our house to discourage vandalism. It's been quiet on that front for the last week, but all crooks and vandals take the holidays off to "recharge" their batteries. Vandalism Season starts January 2nd. I hope we don't have as good seats as we did last year.
So there you go. My top 12 "happenings' for 2007. Listen to me Friday afternoon around 3:05 on The Team sports radio to discuss my list, my blog, my rehab, and my balding scalp (I'm not fat so much anymore, so I can't complain about that). Charity events this weekend and a quiet New Year's Eve on Monday.
Have a Happy New Year and healthy 2008!
- Jimmy Scott
Thus, Jimmy Scott's Top 12 of 2008, presented by the Months of the Year:
JANUARY
My favorite New York franchise signs former Milwaukee outfielder Felipe Lopez to a 7-year, $103 million contract. Felipe goes on to hit an underwhelming 17 home runs, drive in 66 and suffer from the wrath of fans all season long.
FEBRUARY
My favorite New York franchise is sold to former Manhattan congresswoman Joan Delaney. Mrs. Delaney calls 2007 her "wait and see" season. She waits all season to watch us win and sees we can't when half of the starters, including yours truly, go down with injuries.
MARCH
On the first day of spring training (sing Twelve Days of Christmas along to this one) our union gave to us, a lecture on how to save cash. (stop singing) We all know that 2008 is the final season under the current labor/management agreement, and with a wee bit of tension on both sides, union leader Howard Phillips felt it prudent to tell us to save our money should there be a lockout or strike at some point in 2008. All I can tell you now is nobody's talking. Not because anybody's mad, but because the current agreement expires on October 31, 2008. I know a meeting is scheduled for the first full week of January in New York. I'll be attending. Hopefully all will be cordial. If not, expect to hear war drums beating from coast to coast on both sides.
APRIL
Ahh, spring. When Hope blooms for every big league team. Only hope for a certain favorite New York franchise, one in "wait and see" mode, really only lasts up until the first pitch of the season. It was then that the wheels fell off for me, personally and professionally. Home run ball on pitch one. Elbow explosion on pitch two. I never threw a pitch three. Still haven't. We go on to win 77 games in a season in which many "pundits" predicted we'd win 92. My replacements, all five of them, can't come close to the 14 games I was projected to win (they win a combined 6). Unfortunately, they blow away the number of games I was projected to lose (7) by reaching 15. I have surgery on April 12 - my birthday - and can't comb my hair until mid-May. My head rebels and starts to go bald. Not a good year for New York baseball.
MAY
Things get worse for my favorite New York franchise before they get better (which doesn't happen until December). Former two-time MVP, third baseman Willie Fernandez, goes down with a knee injury and doesn't play another game all season. Reconstructive surgery spells the end of a career in which Willie hit 375 home runs, won three rings, and got divorced twice. A great teammate with a wonderful wardrobe, Willie will be our third base coach in 2008. Once you're in the game, it's hard to get out.
JUNE
Continuing unpleasantness surrounds a team that only wins 10 games in April and 12 in May. (On June 15th, we're 27 and 48.) Derek Henderson enters the pre-game locker room on June 15th and makes three mistakes. First, he carries a firearm with him. Second, it's loaded. Third, he discharges it. Nobody is hurt, but a water pipe directly above his head is maimed beyond recognition. Flooded out of the clubhouse for two games, the team is forced to dress in the press room. Henderson is cut on June 18th and doesn't play another big league game all season. Mrs. Delaney uses the flooded locker room as an excuse to begin asking for a new stadium. Apparently, all the new ones have bulletproof piping.
JULY
Lyman Gaye gets the game-winning hit in the 13th inning of the 83rd annual All Star game, this one held in Pittsburgh. Lyman, not voted in or chosen but a player by default because five other players ahead of him in the pecking order either suddenly come down with hamstring strains or the need to spend time with "family" in the Dominican, goes on to have a solid season. He hits .305 and wins the Defensive Achievement Award for excellence in right field. Kansas City, his team, wins 59 games and dismantles the club beginning 5 days later. Lyman is the last to go. He claims to have never owned a loaded firearm in his life. Good enough for us, we trade for him in December.
AUGUST
Mrs. Delaney's husband is indicted for tax evasion. Rather than hide, Mrs. Delaney goes on a media offensive. Charges are never dropped, but we suddenly have one of the most vocal owners in the sport. Her "wait and see" attitude wanes and General Manager Roddy McEllroy is fired and replaced by Alvin Kirby, the first black GM in New York baseball, not a big deal until Alvin's wife brings it up in her own media offensive. On November 3rd, Alvin files for divorce.
SEPTEMBER
In an outburst still playing 127,000 times a day on YouTube, now former/then current manager of my favorite New York franchise, Larry Picketts, goes on an obscenity-laced rampage. Unfortunately, he does it during his daily WTEM (You're on The Team!) radio call in show. A frustrating season gets worse. Larry is fired with 10 games remaining in the season...
OCTOBER
...And replaced by everybody's favorite New York sports television personality and 1996 MVP runner up, Rick Churches. While Rick has never managed or coached a game in his life, we've known for years that he can talk a good one. A former player with two championship rings, #1 draft choice in 1983 out of Wichita State and that one incredible season in '96 when he hit 25 home runs, drove in 111 and stole 55 bases, the pedigree is there. He just has to put it to good use.
NOVEMBER
I start my blog. My fatness is exposed (along with the news of my scalp deciding to bare itself to the world). Rather than accept the team's generous contract buyout offer, I opt to play one more season. We get mad at each other and meet in a locker room duel with Derek Henderson serving as referee. We settle our differences somewhat amicably, but the locker room needs a whole new piping system now before opening day.
DECEMBER
I haven't spoken on this much, but having a year off, basically, gave me more time to spend with the Jimmy & Vanessa Scott Foundation. We raised more money for M.S. and Lyme Disease in 2007 than we had in 2005 and 2006 combined, over $4 million. Much of that money will go to research, although I may embezzle some to pay for the security system we're putting in around our house to discourage vandalism. It's been quiet on that front for the last week, but all crooks and vandals take the holidays off to "recharge" their batteries. Vandalism Season starts January 2nd. I hope we don't have as good seats as we did last year.
So there you go. My top 12 "happenings' for 2007. Listen to me Friday afternoon around 3:05 on The Team sports radio to discuss my list, my blog, my rehab, and my balding scalp (I'm not fat so much anymore, so I can't complain about that). Charity events this weekend and a quiet New Year's Eve on Monday.
Have a Happy New Year and healthy 2008!
- Jimmy Scott
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Been Busy...
Sorry for the sudden lack of posting. Family is in for the holidays - Vanessa's mother paid a surprise visit. (Keep an eye on your wallets.) My mom & dad decided to spend as much time at our house as possible to compete with the rival grandparent. Meanwhile, both Julia and Grace have taken advantage of all the attention by NOT being at home much at all. No school this week, so the last thing a couple of teens want to do is hang out at a household of people fighting over how many Christmas cookies should be allocated to each guest.
I visited with the team shrink yesterday and, funny thing, he made me sign a non-disclosure agreement before we spoke. In other words, he knows about my blog and is nervous I'll reveal his trade secrets to keeping me sane. So what happens between him and me (or is it he and I?) will have to cut out my new doctor. For example:
Doctor -
Me - Well, it all started when my father, "Red" Scott - you may have heard of him - forced me to spend Father's Day 1977 with my mother while he pitched a third of an inning in Cincinnati and gave up 7 runs on 5 hits, 2 walks and a hit batsman.
Doctor -
Me - You think so?
Doctor -
Me - I never thought of it that way. You're brilliant.
Doctor -
Me - You must write a book about this.
And so on. Not very interesting if you don't hear his advice, which is a cross between Dr. Phil, John Gray and Yanni. Still, we meet again next week. He claims I'll heal faster by talking to him. I told him it's my arm that's the problem, not my head. He laughed and showed me the door. Guess who thinks I'm nuts.
The next three nights are busy with Vanessa and me fulfilling charitable obligations. That means I'm being honored for something. In exchange for my appearance, the respective charity gets to charge people to sit and listen to Vanessa and I banter like Abbott & Costello. Yes, I'm the fat one. But we have the act down pretty good. She talks about something serious. I come on and talk about throwing a ball really fast, then she comes up and disputes everything I've ever said as "sweet nothings." I call her my "sweet little nothing" and then we go on from there. Very funny if you've paid $500 to eat cold, fatty steak and room temperature gazpacho.
We go back to church on Sunday. This is Vanessa's new thing. The family that goes to church together does other things together. She hasn't specified what those other things are. I know it won't be easy to get Julia and Grace out of bed on a weekend before 11:00. Ah, the secret lives of teens.
Andy is back today, so our rehab will be a Thursday, Friday, Saturday schedule, off on Sunday (Andy wants to go to church with us and sing in the choir), only a two-a-day on Monday (New Year's Eve), Tuesday off, then 6 days a week, three times a day through spring training. My wrist is still sore, but it'll get better in a couple more weeks. In the meantime, I'm getting my legs strong, my tummy thin, and my head in the game.
Dinner tonight with the family. Vanessa's ordering in Chinese. It'll be fun watching the grandparents argue over who gets to sit next to the twins while Julia and Grace don't show up to go see Charlie Wilson's War. I think they think it's a Tom Hanks/Julia Roberts romantic comedy. Maybe one day they'll learn to read movie reviews before going out to see a movie about the mujadeen.
I visited with the team shrink yesterday and, funny thing, he made me sign a non-disclosure agreement before we spoke. In other words, he knows about my blog and is nervous I'll reveal his trade secrets to keeping me sane. So what happens between him and me (or is it he and I?) will have to cut out my new doctor. For example:
Doctor -
Me - Well, it all started when my father, "Red" Scott - you may have heard of him - forced me to spend Father's Day 1977 with my mother while he pitched a third of an inning in Cincinnati and gave up 7 runs on 5 hits, 2 walks and a hit batsman.
Doctor -
Me - You think so?
Doctor -
Me - I never thought of it that way. You're brilliant.
Doctor -
Me - You must write a book about this.
And so on. Not very interesting if you don't hear his advice, which is a cross between Dr. Phil, John Gray and Yanni. Still, we meet again next week. He claims I'll heal faster by talking to him. I told him it's my arm that's the problem, not my head. He laughed and showed me the door. Guess who thinks I'm nuts.
The next three nights are busy with Vanessa and me fulfilling charitable obligations. That means I'm being honored for something. In exchange for my appearance, the respective charity gets to charge people to sit and listen to Vanessa and I banter like Abbott & Costello. Yes, I'm the fat one. But we have the act down pretty good. She talks about something serious. I come on and talk about throwing a ball really fast, then she comes up and disputes everything I've ever said as "sweet nothings." I call her my "sweet little nothing" and then we go on from there. Very funny if you've paid $500 to eat cold, fatty steak and room temperature gazpacho.
We go back to church on Sunday. This is Vanessa's new thing. The family that goes to church together does other things together. She hasn't specified what those other things are. I know it won't be easy to get Julia and Grace out of bed on a weekend before 11:00. Ah, the secret lives of teens.
Andy is back today, so our rehab will be a Thursday, Friday, Saturday schedule, off on Sunday (Andy wants to go to church with us and sing in the choir), only a two-a-day on Monday (New Year's Eve), Tuesday off, then 6 days a week, three times a day through spring training. My wrist is still sore, but it'll get better in a couple more weeks. In the meantime, I'm getting my legs strong, my tummy thin, and my head in the game.
Dinner tonight with the family. Vanessa's ordering in Chinese. It'll be fun watching the grandparents argue over who gets to sit next to the twins while Julia and Grace don't show up to go see Charlie Wilson's War. I think they think it's a Tom Hanks/Julia Roberts romantic comedy. Maybe one day they'll learn to read movie reviews before going out to see a movie about the mujadeen.
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