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.
Showing posts with label vandalism. Show all posts
Showing posts with label vandalism. Show all posts
Thursday, February 14, 2008
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.
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
Home Security
Received an email today, and then the same stuff in regular mail, from NBL Security. A mass mailing to all players, coaches and management. It addressed the Felipe Castro situation, how his mother was kidnapped three weeks ago and how future kidnappings can be prevented. Scary stuff. Mrs. Castro has not been heard directly from since, although I know Felipe did receive some communication from her captors. From what I understand, he got an email from them that included video of her incarceration. She's alive and being treated as well as can be expected. Not sure if that's good or not.
I haven't spoken directly with Felipe since the abduction. What would I say? And why would he talk to me? He's got to be completely frazzled, worrying about the safety of his mother and the expectations from the team. If you're him, are you still working out? He uses this ocular enhancer machine that whips numbered tennis balls toward home plate at 150 mph. Is he using it to focus? Can he expend his negative energy toward swinging a bat extremely hard at balls being surged toward him even harder? Is he running and lifting and throwing? He had, for him, a horrible season last year (only 16 HR, down from 38 in 2006). I know he wanted to justify the $100 million the team spent on him. Now this.
Commissioner Elliott Pollock gave his state of the state, so to speak, address to reporters yesterday. In what was supposed to be his spin on how well the game is being run, much of the q&a period was about the collective bargaining agreement due to expire and security issues for players. Truth be told, there's not much the league can do in the off season for players in other countries besides send emails out with PDF attachments (and no pictures). Translation: Players care enough to open the attachments and try to read through the documents. They don't have the patience to make it through though. Just ask me. After page two of the first set of documents, my eyes grew as heavy as concrete pilings set into the ground to support a massive outdoor deck.
No, we're not putting a massive outdoor deck onto our house. Our neighbors are.
Elliott (our union head, Howard Philips, keeps begging me to call him Mr. Pollock) mentioned my situation with home security in his speech. As you've read here and also in the papers, we've had three acts of vandalism on our property over the last two months. One man was caught last week, but was released. Like our stalking neighbor, Connie, who was keeping an eye on our house for us, this man was doing the same under his position with the Star Ledger. Seems he lives nearby and thought he'd have a great scoop if he could catch the perpetrator in the act. He got a couple of good articles out of it. Unfortunately, they were more about him than the bad man, or men, or men & women, or just women, who have papered our yard with toilet tissue and iced our driveway so badly that I slipped and sprained my pitching wrist.
We have installed some security measures here, none of which I am allowed to divulge. We thought long and hard about erecting a fence or wall around the perimeter of the property. But the expense was going to be incredible. And people can climb over walls. I suggested an electric fence or something with razor wire at its zenith, but Vanessa said the town would probably consider bleeding bodies hanging from our fence an eyesore.
The neighborhood watch program Vanessa started has been successful so far, in the fact that nobody around has had any problems with break ins or vandalistic acts. I think it's more coincidence than anything. We just had the holidays. Like how crime is always lowest on Super Bowl Sunday, I think the bad people out to get us just went away for a nice break. There's a big university in town. Maybe it's college students doing this. Classes don't start for another two weeks.
I have no leads. The police have no leads. Yet I still work out. I don't focus on these events, as I have little control over the actions of others. Instead, life goes on and I act as normally as I can.
I wonder if Felipe can do the same?
I haven't spoken directly with Felipe since the abduction. What would I say? And why would he talk to me? He's got to be completely frazzled, worrying about the safety of his mother and the expectations from the team. If you're him, are you still working out? He uses this ocular enhancer machine that whips numbered tennis balls toward home plate at 150 mph. Is he using it to focus? Can he expend his negative energy toward swinging a bat extremely hard at balls being surged toward him even harder? Is he running and lifting and throwing? He had, for him, a horrible season last year (only 16 HR, down from 38 in 2006). I know he wanted to justify the $100 million the team spent on him. Now this.
Commissioner Elliott Pollock gave his state of the state, so to speak, address to reporters yesterday. In what was supposed to be his spin on how well the game is being run, much of the q&a period was about the collective bargaining agreement due to expire and security issues for players. Truth be told, there's not much the league can do in the off season for players in other countries besides send emails out with PDF attachments (and no pictures). Translation: Players care enough to open the attachments and try to read through the documents. They don't have the patience to make it through though. Just ask me. After page two of the first set of documents, my eyes grew as heavy as concrete pilings set into the ground to support a massive outdoor deck.
No, we're not putting a massive outdoor deck onto our house. Our neighbors are.
Elliott (our union head, Howard Philips, keeps begging me to call him Mr. Pollock) mentioned my situation with home security in his speech. As you've read here and also in the papers, we've had three acts of vandalism on our property over the last two months. One man was caught last week, but was released. Like our stalking neighbor, Connie, who was keeping an eye on our house for us, this man was doing the same under his position with the Star Ledger. Seems he lives nearby and thought he'd have a great scoop if he could catch the perpetrator in the act. He got a couple of good articles out of it. Unfortunately, they were more about him than the bad man, or men, or men & women, or just women, who have papered our yard with toilet tissue and iced our driveway so badly that I slipped and sprained my pitching wrist.
We have installed some security measures here, none of which I am allowed to divulge. We thought long and hard about erecting a fence or wall around the perimeter of the property. But the expense was going to be incredible. And people can climb over walls. I suggested an electric fence or something with razor wire at its zenith, but Vanessa said the town would probably consider bleeding bodies hanging from our fence an eyesore.
The neighborhood watch program Vanessa started has been successful so far, in the fact that nobody around has had any problems with break ins or vandalistic acts. I think it's more coincidence than anything. We just had the holidays. Like how crime is always lowest on Super Bowl Sunday, I think the bad people out to get us just went away for a nice break. There's a big university in town. Maybe it's college students doing this. Classes don't start for another two weeks.
I have no leads. The police have no leads. Yet I still work out. I don't focus on these events, as I have little control over the actions of others. Instead, life goes on and I act as normally as I can.
I wonder if Felipe can do the same?
Thursday, January 3, 2008
Arresting Developments
A suspect has been caught and charged with performing the vandalism on our house and property. We got a call late last night. Connie, our stalking neighbor - or should I say Vanessa's stalking neighbor/friend - saw someone (unsure of the sex) lingering around the street right near our house. Being that it was about 20 degrees at the time with a wind chill of minus 2, it was strange for this person to just skulk around for half an hour, which is how long Connie observed before calling the police.
What Connie was doing observing for 30 minutes is another story that I'm sure she'll discuss in depth with Vanessa this morning.
The police didn't say who the person was or even if they charged that person. Just that they brought a suspicious person "downtown" for questioning.
We're all tentatively relieved. Except Grace took it very strangely. No smile. No big sigh of weight off her shoulders. Instead, it looked like she'd just swallowed a stick of melted butter. Then she excused herself and retreated back to her bedroom. Maybe it all finally hit home for her that something weird was going on around us. As if the wrap around my sprained right wrist wasn't enough for her.
But her reaction reminded me of something that happened one winter when I was about 13 years old. Dad, I mean "Red" Scott was home for an extended period of time. It might have been the winter between his last season playing and first broadcasting. Must have been, because he was pretty depressed, sort of stuck between two places and unsure what step to take next. (My shrink is going to have a field day with this.)
He needed to go to the Sheetz, a mini mart type of place downtown, to buy something. I forget what exactly he needed. But he asked me to go with him. No. He told me to go with him. I dropped whatever I was doing that was probably way more important at the time and joined him in our Subaru wagon. It had snowed recently, so the roads were slippery. I remember thinking we'd never get out of the parking spot he chose. It was more than half covered with thick black ice.
We went inside and made our way to the rear of the store, the refrigerated section. "Red" reached into a case and BAM! Some guy had entered the store with a gun and fired a shot. We both dropped to the floor. BAM! If you think we were scared after the first shot, I'm glad you didn't see us after the second. I peed in my pants. Literally. Only later would embarrassment creep into my totally self-conscious teenage head.
"Red" pulled on my leg and I realized I'd been almost comatose for a few seconds. I followed him as he crawled further back in the store.
Still no words from up front. Just the two shots, a pair of screams from inside the store, but no yelling or threats. Within moments - although it seemed like forever - the gunman left. "Red" was peeking through the canned treats section and saw the guy, dressed in a big green parka with a hood lined around its edges with fur. Once he was gone, "Red" jumped up and ran to the front. The man who had been working behind the counter was on the floor bleeding, but not dead. The register drawer was open and mostly empty. "Red" hopped the counter and started to help the wounded man while I finally found the courage to stand up. It was then that I looked out the big front window and saw the gunman trying to steal our car. He wasn't getting anywhere because of the black ice we had parked on. He was just about to finally make it out of the spot when two police cars raced into the parking lot. The man was caught. His eyes searched and rested on mine. The look on his face... It was like he'd just swallowed a stick of melted butter.
In school the next day, the story was about "Red" helping to save a dying man with CPR and me making eye contact with a potential murderer. I didn't tell anybody about my pee stain. Thirteen year olds are supposed to be stronger than that.
The problem is, if I was put in the same situation today, I'd probably do the same thing. And so would "Red."
I guess time doesn't do much to change people. They have to do it themselves.
What Connie was doing observing for 30 minutes is another story that I'm sure she'll discuss in depth with Vanessa this morning.
The police didn't say who the person was or even if they charged that person. Just that they brought a suspicious person "downtown" for questioning.
We're all tentatively relieved. Except Grace took it very strangely. No smile. No big sigh of weight off her shoulders. Instead, it looked like she'd just swallowed a stick of melted butter. Then she excused herself and retreated back to her bedroom. Maybe it all finally hit home for her that something weird was going on around us. As if the wrap around my sprained right wrist wasn't enough for her.
But her reaction reminded me of something that happened one winter when I was about 13 years old. Dad, I mean "Red" Scott was home for an extended period of time. It might have been the winter between his last season playing and first broadcasting. Must have been, because he was pretty depressed, sort of stuck between two places and unsure what step to take next. (My shrink is going to have a field day with this.)
He needed to go to the Sheetz, a mini mart type of place downtown, to buy something. I forget what exactly he needed. But he asked me to go with him. No. He told me to go with him. I dropped whatever I was doing that was probably way more important at the time and joined him in our Subaru wagon. It had snowed recently, so the roads were slippery. I remember thinking we'd never get out of the parking spot he chose. It was more than half covered with thick black ice.
We went inside and made our way to the rear of the store, the refrigerated section. "Red" reached into a case and BAM! Some guy had entered the store with a gun and fired a shot. We both dropped to the floor. BAM! If you think we were scared after the first shot, I'm glad you didn't see us after the second. I peed in my pants. Literally. Only later would embarrassment creep into my totally self-conscious teenage head.
"Red" pulled on my leg and I realized I'd been almost comatose for a few seconds. I followed him as he crawled further back in the store.
Still no words from up front. Just the two shots, a pair of screams from inside the store, but no yelling or threats. Within moments - although it seemed like forever - the gunman left. "Red" was peeking through the canned treats section and saw the guy, dressed in a big green parka with a hood lined around its edges with fur. Once he was gone, "Red" jumped up and ran to the front. The man who had been working behind the counter was on the floor bleeding, but not dead. The register drawer was open and mostly empty. "Red" hopped the counter and started to help the wounded man while I finally found the courage to stand up. It was then that I looked out the big front window and saw the gunman trying to steal our car. He wasn't getting anywhere because of the black ice we had parked on. He was just about to finally make it out of the spot when two police cars raced into the parking lot. The man was caught. His eyes searched and rested on mine. The look on his face... It was like he'd just swallowed a stick of melted butter.
In school the next day, the story was about "Red" helping to save a dying man with CPR and me making eye contact with a potential murderer. I didn't tell anybody about my pee stain. Thirteen year olds are supposed to be stronger than that.
The problem is, if I was put in the same situation today, I'd probably do the same thing. And so would "Red."
I guess time doesn't do much to change people. They have to do it themselves.
Friday, December 21, 2007
Miscellaneous Notes
Got word today that Felipe Castro's mother wasn't kidnapped in her home in Venezuela over the weekend. She was kidnapped in Felipe's house. Forced entry. They broke right in through the front door. Also missing is Felipe's gardener. They're not sure if that man is kidnapped or a suspect. Obviously, I haven't been able to speak with Felipe. But I know this has to be a terrible time for him.
My dad, "Red" Scott, said if he could, he'd switch places with Felipe's mother. At first, I was tempted to reach out to Hugo Chavez myself and ask him to broadcast the offer throughout the country with the hopes of an exchange actually taking place. But then I got to thinking, this is exactly what my dad would want. He'd become the kidnapping victim just long enough to establish residency, then he'd escape and become a hero. I'd never hear the end of it. No, Dad, just come over to my house this Christmas and brag about something else you've done. I stopped listening in 1986 anyway.
I saw we traded for Sergio Dunn yesterday. He's an amazing athlete. I just hope he's in one piece when we see him in spring training. To be a tight end for the Dallas Cowboys and play left field for us, there's a lot of ice needed to keep that soreness away. If you think he's good now, how good would he be if he focused on just one sport? I'm just glad I won't be pitching against him this year. He's hit two grand slams off of me over the years. I'm unhappy when that happens.
My personal trainer, who I own, is trying to make me left handed. Since my right wrist is all wrapped up for a few weeks, Andy wants to take advantage and make my left side "stronger than one of those X-Men people." Since the X-Men are mutants (well, they as characters are mutants; real X-Men don't exist), Andy thinks my body will mutate from human to inhuman over the next three weeks with his patent pending Left Side Workout. I told him I should still have a strong right leg. And my right elbow needs the rehab, since it's the thing that was surgically repaired. And my right hip, right tricep, right pectoral, and right ear should all not atrophy just because my wrist reacted badly when I landed on it after slipping in my icy driveway. Andy listened carefully and quickly abandoned his patent pending Left Side Workout. Instead, he had me chasing roosters again. And yes, I am crapping thunder now.
We're having a holiday party at the house tomorrow night. A gaggle of strangers have been inside and outside the house, stringing up lights, greenery... That's really all they've done. But since they've been here for two days, I guess it's a lot of lights and greenery. It's a big house, so that makes sense. Mostly neighbors and family invited. Parents of Julia and Grace's friends. But I'll be keeping my eye open for anything out of the ordinary. I'm thinking the vandals will want to crash and try to learn more about the house and our habits. We've hired some security (Andy) for the bash, so nobody's getting past the door without a full crevice strip search.
I'm thinking Vanessa won't allow this for very long, so hopefully the vandals/party crashers come early. Plus, the food will be fresher too.
My dad, "Red" Scott, said if he could, he'd switch places with Felipe's mother. At first, I was tempted to reach out to Hugo Chavez myself and ask him to broadcast the offer throughout the country with the hopes of an exchange actually taking place. But then I got to thinking, this is exactly what my dad would want. He'd become the kidnapping victim just long enough to establish residency, then he'd escape and become a hero. I'd never hear the end of it. No, Dad, just come over to my house this Christmas and brag about something else you've done. I stopped listening in 1986 anyway.
I saw we traded for Sergio Dunn yesterday. He's an amazing athlete. I just hope he's in one piece when we see him in spring training. To be a tight end for the Dallas Cowboys and play left field for us, there's a lot of ice needed to keep that soreness away. If you think he's good now, how good would he be if he focused on just one sport? I'm just glad I won't be pitching against him this year. He's hit two grand slams off of me over the years. I'm unhappy when that happens.
My personal trainer, who I own, is trying to make me left handed. Since my right wrist is all wrapped up for a few weeks, Andy wants to take advantage and make my left side "stronger than one of those X-Men people." Since the X-Men are mutants (well, they as characters are mutants; real X-Men don't exist), Andy thinks my body will mutate from human to inhuman over the next three weeks with his patent pending Left Side Workout. I told him I should still have a strong right leg. And my right elbow needs the rehab, since it's the thing that was surgically repaired. And my right hip, right tricep, right pectoral, and right ear should all not atrophy just because my wrist reacted badly when I landed on it after slipping in my icy driveway. Andy listened carefully and quickly abandoned his patent pending Left Side Workout. Instead, he had me chasing roosters again. And yes, I am crapping thunder now.
We're having a holiday party at the house tomorrow night. A gaggle of strangers have been inside and outside the house, stringing up lights, greenery... That's really all they've done. But since they've been here for two days, I guess it's a lot of lights and greenery. It's a big house, so that makes sense. Mostly neighbors and family invited. Parents of Julia and Grace's friends. But I'll be keeping my eye open for anything out of the ordinary. I'm thinking the vandals will want to crash and try to learn more about the house and our habits. We've hired some security (Andy) for the bash, so nobody's getting past the door without a full crevice strip search.
I'm thinking Vanessa won't allow this for very long, so hopefully the vandals/party crashers come early. Plus, the food will be fresher too.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Neighborhood Watching
We had our first neighborhood watch meeting last night. Vanessa is great at organizing. She's the chief reason why we've been able to raise more than $35 million through the Jimmy Scott Foundation over the last 20 years. If she had been Secretary of Defense at the time we invaded Iraq, you can bet things would be in a lot better shape than they are now. She'd have been like Shane, remember him, from the movie? He put a stop to the bullying, helped the commonfolk, and rode into a beautiful western sunset.
But I digress.
We've lived in our current residence for the last 11 years, but we don't know our neighbors really well. Let me re-phrase: I don't know them very well. Julia and Grace are friendly with whatever kids live around here and Vanessa pretty much knows everyone too. I don't. I recognized faces tonight. Had no idea what their names were. Maybe I don't pay attention when introduced. It must be that. If you put all my neighbors in a police lineup after meeting with them all for 90 minutes last night, I'd get all their names wrong.
All but one. Connie.
Connie just moved in. She's not a shy woman. And she wants to be friends with Vanessa. Close friends. Not the lesbian kind. Get that out of your mind. I mean the best buddy/we'll be friends forever! kind.
I don't blame her. Vanessa has this thing about her. She's like a beacon in the summer. If you're a bug, you'd choose Vanessa's beacon over someone else's front porch light.
Connie moved in about three weeks ago. Got a good deal on her house, she said, because the market stinks right now. She might have even gotten the house through a foreclosure. But she's been around quite a bit. If she wasn't trying to be Vanessa's friend, I'd consider the woman a stalker. She calls first thing in the morning. She brings by homemade pies by lunch and comes back to pick up the pie dish right during dinner. She's asked Julia to babysit five times already, even though her son is 13. (Grace won't babysit for anyone. She's afraid of the liability.) Connie has tried to become a member of the family over the last 21 days. I met her for the first time last night.
I'm good at not being here when friends or neighbors stop in. By coincidence, I'm usually out at an event or rehabbing (or eating up to two weeks ago) or in my Entertainment Veranda figuring out how to Tivo a show that I already Tivo'd, just to make sure I never lose it and have it forever(!).
But I had to be here last night. My right wrist is wrapped up pretty tightly from my fall on the driveway, caused by the vandals who keep dropping by our house at night. Vanessa says that if I'd been better all along at being here when people drop by, maybe I would have caught the vandals myself and saved myself some pain. She's a funny gal, that wife of mine.
A Madison policeman was here to explain how to legally put a neighborhood watch program together. He told us all about the vandalism in the area, which has pretty much taken place 100% on my property. He told us to basically keep our eyes open, our outside lights on, our doors locked, our security systems engaged, and our pit bulls underfed. It makes them meaner, he said. (Just kidding about that last part. Although you know the old saying, a mean dog is a hungry dog.)
Connie volunteered to take the night shift watching our house. The very patient cop said that's not how it works. We are to go about our daily, and nocturnal, business like we always do. But if we see anything out of the ordinary, give them a call. I thought I heard Connie whisper something about taking matters into her own hands, but Vanessa said I was making that part up because I don't like her.
It's not that I don't like her. She's very sweet. I just think she's nuts. Where was her husband, the doctor? Apparently in surgery. But I don't believe it. I think he was out just to get away from her. I've seen it so many times. Type A personality wife marries Type A personality husband. Before you know it, Type A personality husband morphs into a Type D kind of guy. He grows long hair, becomes a vegetarian, and takes off with another woman and puts her kids to bed every night, ignoring his own.
Now you might think of me as Type A. I've been a driven athlete, vocal person, sometimes a little hyper. I wear my emotions on my sleeve. And my pant legs too. Nobody ever looks there. But I'm not Type A. I'm a reactor. I love baseball, so I played it so much I became really good at it. My body reacted to my love of the game. My life has been a reaction to being good at it. But if I'd never played baseball, I'd probably be working the stockroom of a Best Buy, out of the way of people and keeping to myself. See, that's why I'm never here when the neighbors are. I like to keep to myself. Grace is like me, although everyone thinks it's Julia who is. But Julia's a Type A like her mother. Grace and I - we're Type B+. We are who we are because of what's around us.
The meeting ended and Connie stayed to help clean up. She suggested we put the plastic ware into the dishwasher to use again. I told her the reason the spork was invented was to throw out half the plastic a person normally would, so, in effect, by supporting the spork we're supporting our environment. We're practically green without trying.
Oh, she laughed. My quip wasn't as humorous as she made it sound. That was a tip off to me. She's nuts and wants to adopt my family. I'm going to keep my eyes on her.
She left around eleven (two hours after the meeting ended) and took four pie plates with her. I surveyed her as she slowly crept down our driveway, her head darting back and forth, as if she was either in danger or was trying to catch the vandals before they struck again. But she saw nothing strange and was eventually on the street and gone.
We had a good night. No bad people came and threw cold water or toilet paper on our land. Shane didn't drift by to save us and kill the lead bad man, dressed in black. And Vanessa didn't secretly fall for Shane while staying with me. No, Connie is our Shane. And she's only armed with pie, not a gun. While she may try to steal my Vanessa from me, she'll never catch the bad guys who've vandalised my property. I have a feeling the bad guys and me will bump into each other one day and surprise the hell out of each other. That will be one interesting final scene before one of us rides off into the sunset, watched by the eyes of our neighborhood friends.
But I digress.
We've lived in our current residence for the last 11 years, but we don't know our neighbors really well. Let me re-phrase: I don't know them very well. Julia and Grace are friendly with whatever kids live around here and Vanessa pretty much knows everyone too. I don't. I recognized faces tonight. Had no idea what their names were. Maybe I don't pay attention when introduced. It must be that. If you put all my neighbors in a police lineup after meeting with them all for 90 minutes last night, I'd get all their names wrong.
All but one. Connie.
Connie just moved in. She's not a shy woman. And she wants to be friends with Vanessa. Close friends. Not the lesbian kind. Get that out of your mind. I mean the best buddy/we'll be friends forever! kind.
I don't blame her. Vanessa has this thing about her. She's like a beacon in the summer. If you're a bug, you'd choose Vanessa's beacon over someone else's front porch light.
Connie moved in about three weeks ago. Got a good deal on her house, she said, because the market stinks right now. She might have even gotten the house through a foreclosure. But she's been around quite a bit. If she wasn't trying to be Vanessa's friend, I'd consider the woman a stalker. She calls first thing in the morning. She brings by homemade pies by lunch and comes back to pick up the pie dish right during dinner. She's asked Julia to babysit five times already, even though her son is 13. (Grace won't babysit for anyone. She's afraid of the liability.) Connie has tried to become a member of the family over the last 21 days. I met her for the first time last night.
I'm good at not being here when friends or neighbors stop in. By coincidence, I'm usually out at an event or rehabbing (or eating up to two weeks ago) or in my Entertainment Veranda figuring out how to Tivo a show that I already Tivo'd, just to make sure I never lose it and have it forever(!).
But I had to be here last night. My right wrist is wrapped up pretty tightly from my fall on the driveway, caused by the vandals who keep dropping by our house at night. Vanessa says that if I'd been better all along at being here when people drop by, maybe I would have caught the vandals myself and saved myself some pain. She's a funny gal, that wife of mine.
A Madison policeman was here to explain how to legally put a neighborhood watch program together. He told us all about the vandalism in the area, which has pretty much taken place 100% on my property. He told us to basically keep our eyes open, our outside lights on, our doors locked, our security systems engaged, and our pit bulls underfed. It makes them meaner, he said. (Just kidding about that last part. Although you know the old saying, a mean dog is a hungry dog.)
Connie volunteered to take the night shift watching our house. The very patient cop said that's not how it works. We are to go about our daily, and nocturnal, business like we always do. But if we see anything out of the ordinary, give them a call. I thought I heard Connie whisper something about taking matters into her own hands, but Vanessa said I was making that part up because I don't like her.
It's not that I don't like her. She's very sweet. I just think she's nuts. Where was her husband, the doctor? Apparently in surgery. But I don't believe it. I think he was out just to get away from her. I've seen it so many times. Type A personality wife marries Type A personality husband. Before you know it, Type A personality husband morphs into a Type D kind of guy. He grows long hair, becomes a vegetarian, and takes off with another woman and puts her kids to bed every night, ignoring his own.
Now you might think of me as Type A. I've been a driven athlete, vocal person, sometimes a little hyper. I wear my emotions on my sleeve. And my pant legs too. Nobody ever looks there. But I'm not Type A. I'm a reactor. I love baseball, so I played it so much I became really good at it. My body reacted to my love of the game. My life has been a reaction to being good at it. But if I'd never played baseball, I'd probably be working the stockroom of a Best Buy, out of the way of people and keeping to myself. See, that's why I'm never here when the neighbors are. I like to keep to myself. Grace is like me, although everyone thinks it's Julia who is. But Julia's a Type A like her mother. Grace and I - we're Type B+. We are who we are because of what's around us.
The meeting ended and Connie stayed to help clean up. She suggested we put the plastic ware into the dishwasher to use again. I told her the reason the spork was invented was to throw out half the plastic a person normally would, so, in effect, by supporting the spork we're supporting our environment. We're practically green without trying.
Oh, she laughed. My quip wasn't as humorous as she made it sound. That was a tip off to me. She's nuts and wants to adopt my family. I'm going to keep my eyes on her.
She left around eleven (two hours after the meeting ended) and took four pie plates with her. I surveyed her as she slowly crept down our driveway, her head darting back and forth, as if she was either in danger or was trying to catch the vandals before they struck again. But she saw nothing strange and was eventually on the street and gone.
We had a good night. No bad people came and threw cold water or toilet paper on our land. Shane didn't drift by to save us and kill the lead bad man, dressed in black. And Vanessa didn't secretly fall for Shane while staying with me. No, Connie is our Shane. And she's only armed with pie, not a gun. While she may try to steal my Vanessa from me, she'll never catch the bad guys who've vandalised my property. I have a feeling the bad guys and me will bump into each other one day and surprise the hell out of each other. That will be one interesting final scene before one of us rides off into the sunset, watched by the eyes of our neighborhood friends.
Tuesday, December 18, 2007
A Mighty Fall
I can't believe it's still technically autumn and we've already had well over a foot of snow. The temperature hovers in the twenties and thirties. It's dark more than it's light. Maybe spring will come early too.
I kind of wish I could leave for spring training right now. Yes, it's always too long and boring and repetitive. About three weeks of practice leads to a month of games that don't count and then six months of games that do and then, if you're lucky, a month of games that count more than any others you've ever played before. I love it when reporters asked me in championship seasons which post-season was my favorite. That's like asking which heartbeat is my favorite. Pretty much the most recent one. And I'm always glad to get to the next one as well.
Why this longing for sunny Florida now, a week before Christmas? Well, there's no ice in Florida, at least the kind that settles on your driveway overnight. Plus the press coverage isn't as intense as it is here. Although I remember 2004 and how the allegations of gambling hovered over us from Valentine's Day to opening day. You'd have thought we were the Beatles the way the press was EVERYWHERE. I'd go to the bathroom in the house we rented, look out the window, and see cameras aiming right back at us. It's a good thing I rarely snack in the nude.
Back to the ice. Ever since the toilet papering our house has gotten (three so far), I've begun turning on our outside lights before going out for my early morning run. I don't want to be surprised at sunup that I've been awake for almost two hours and just now noticed. I don't know about you, but running makes me have to go to the bathroom. I had a friend once who took toilet paper with her on every jog because she inevitably had to pee about two miles in.
No toilet paper today. A good sign.
I was fully stretched, so I began my run on the walkway. Made it to the driveway, took two strides and AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH! One long sheet of ice. I literally slid about fifty yards, thanks to its slight downhill slope. To cap it off, once my trajectory was complete, my paperboy in his 1996 Caravan did his drive-by and whipped three papers my way. He's such a loser. He only struck me twice.
I sat up, collected myself and surveyed the damage. No bones protruding from flesh. No trail of blood. A sore hip and some wrist pain. Yes, my throwing wrist. Even though I haven't thrown yet. But still, it's the thought that counts.
No ankle pain. That was the best sign. I've sprained ankles before. They heal so slowly. Do it in April and you're not the same until the playoffs, even though by then you're watching somebody else play because you sucked for the last six months because of your crummy ankle that wouldn't heal.
How did this happen? We had the driveway plowed on Sunday. Three times. There was both sand and salt spread out too. The temp never got above freezing yesterday, but there was blacktop there. I could swear it. No chance for there to be ice on the driveway, especially since there was no melting runoff.
Before I stood, somehow my view made its way up to my trees. I thought there had been no toilet paper. But I was wrong. There was just less than before. A lot less. One long strand of toilet paper, generic brand, hung from a low hanging limb, probably about six feet. I don't know how I missed it earlier. I got up and slid over to it. There were check marks on it. Black Magic Marker. Each sheet - and we know a "sheet" of toilet paper is about four inches long and can satisfy (maybe) a mouse's ass - had a hand-written check mark on it. I turned back and took another look at the driveway. The ice was perfect. One solid sheet spreading from the road all the way up to my walkway. Like a stream had frozen right on top of my driveway.
I left the toilet paper there and limped back inside. My hip was starting to shoot a little pain up my back. And my wrist began to ache too much for me to think it was nothing.
I woke up Vanessa and we called the police. They took the toilet paper in for testing. I don't know how they can test toilet paper. Maybe they have some cool technique a local cop developed in his free time while not patrolling the beat and catching killers, of which Madison has none. So he's got a lot of free time I guess.
The one thing that bothered me was the bucket. They found a large bucket, the ones you put a mop in. And water. It was under a pachysandra bush. I'd never seen it before. Neither had Vanessa or the girls. Evidence! Maybe whoever hung their check mark toilet paper left their bucket too. Vanessa told me the bucket was probably used to spread water on the driveway. That made sense. The perfect plan.
But why? Who's playing these little pranks on us? I upset a bunch of divorced ladies yesterday, but they wouldn't come to my house and do something like this. They're too busy trying to turn the media against me.
Grace has seemed to take this the hardest. She's spending more time in her bedroom than ever before. I tell her not to be afraid. These are just harmless pranks that, well, today caused a little harm. My right wrist is sprained. No baseball activity for three weeks. That's unfortunate. I'll work on my legs and core and see if I can find myself a bionic wrist to temporarily replace the throbbing one. It's not awful. I've had worse. I can still type this, although I've needed to rest it five times so far and employ my nose when using the Enter key.
Still, I'd like to know what's going on. We're installing security cameras around the property today and Vanessa is organizing a neighborhood watch program. We'll find the bad boys who've done this. And then I will exact my revenge!
Or I'll just beg them to stop.
I kind of wish I could leave for spring training right now. Yes, it's always too long and boring and repetitive. About three weeks of practice leads to a month of games that don't count and then six months of games that do and then, if you're lucky, a month of games that count more than any others you've ever played before. I love it when reporters asked me in championship seasons which post-season was my favorite. That's like asking which heartbeat is my favorite. Pretty much the most recent one. And I'm always glad to get to the next one as well.
Why this longing for sunny Florida now, a week before Christmas? Well, there's no ice in Florida, at least the kind that settles on your driveway overnight. Plus the press coverage isn't as intense as it is here. Although I remember 2004 and how the allegations of gambling hovered over us from Valentine's Day to opening day. You'd have thought we were the Beatles the way the press was EVERYWHERE. I'd go to the bathroom in the house we rented, look out the window, and see cameras aiming right back at us. It's a good thing I rarely snack in the nude.
Back to the ice. Ever since the toilet papering our house has gotten (three so far), I've begun turning on our outside lights before going out for my early morning run. I don't want to be surprised at sunup that I've been awake for almost two hours and just now noticed. I don't know about you, but running makes me have to go to the bathroom. I had a friend once who took toilet paper with her on every jog because she inevitably had to pee about two miles in.
No toilet paper today. A good sign.
I was fully stretched, so I began my run on the walkway. Made it to the driveway, took two strides and AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHH! One long sheet of ice. I literally slid about fifty yards, thanks to its slight downhill slope. To cap it off, once my trajectory was complete, my paperboy in his 1996 Caravan did his drive-by and whipped three papers my way. He's such a loser. He only struck me twice.
I sat up, collected myself and surveyed the damage. No bones protruding from flesh. No trail of blood. A sore hip and some wrist pain. Yes, my throwing wrist. Even though I haven't thrown yet. But still, it's the thought that counts.
No ankle pain. That was the best sign. I've sprained ankles before. They heal so slowly. Do it in April and you're not the same until the playoffs, even though by then you're watching somebody else play because you sucked for the last six months because of your crummy ankle that wouldn't heal.
How did this happen? We had the driveway plowed on Sunday. Three times. There was both sand and salt spread out too. The temp never got above freezing yesterday, but there was blacktop there. I could swear it. No chance for there to be ice on the driveway, especially since there was no melting runoff.
Before I stood, somehow my view made its way up to my trees. I thought there had been no toilet paper. But I was wrong. There was just less than before. A lot less. One long strand of toilet paper, generic brand, hung from a low hanging limb, probably about six feet. I don't know how I missed it earlier. I got up and slid over to it. There were check marks on it. Black Magic Marker. Each sheet - and we know a "sheet" of toilet paper is about four inches long and can satisfy (maybe) a mouse's ass - had a hand-written check mark on it. I turned back and took another look at the driveway. The ice was perfect. One solid sheet spreading from the road all the way up to my walkway. Like a stream had frozen right on top of my driveway.
I left the toilet paper there and limped back inside. My hip was starting to shoot a little pain up my back. And my wrist began to ache too much for me to think it was nothing.
I woke up Vanessa and we called the police. They took the toilet paper in for testing. I don't know how they can test toilet paper. Maybe they have some cool technique a local cop developed in his free time while not patrolling the beat and catching killers, of which Madison has none. So he's got a lot of free time I guess.
The one thing that bothered me was the bucket. They found a large bucket, the ones you put a mop in. And water. It was under a pachysandra bush. I'd never seen it before. Neither had Vanessa or the girls. Evidence! Maybe whoever hung their check mark toilet paper left their bucket too. Vanessa told me the bucket was probably used to spread water on the driveway. That made sense. The perfect plan.
But why? Who's playing these little pranks on us? I upset a bunch of divorced ladies yesterday, but they wouldn't come to my house and do something like this. They're too busy trying to turn the media against me.
Grace has seemed to take this the hardest. She's spending more time in her bedroom than ever before. I tell her not to be afraid. These are just harmless pranks that, well, today caused a little harm. My right wrist is sprained. No baseball activity for three weeks. That's unfortunate. I'll work on my legs and core and see if I can find myself a bionic wrist to temporarily replace the throbbing one. It's not awful. I've had worse. I can still type this, although I've needed to rest it five times so far and employ my nose when using the Enter key.
Still, I'd like to know what's going on. We're installing security cameras around the property today and Vanessa is organizing a neighborhood watch program. We'll find the bad boys who've done this. And then I will exact my revenge!
Or I'll just beg them to stop.
Monday, December 10, 2007
Crank Calls And Steven Spielberg
The first call came Friday night. I was setting up the X-Box someone at Microsoft sent to me (just in case I wanted to "be involved" in some of their game marketing) when the phone rang. I waited for another member of my family to pick up, remembered I was alone in the house, and did the dirty work myself.
Me: Hello.
Guy: (large intake of breath)!
My first thought was that the caller was a representative of Morristown Memorial's ER unit, about to ask for a donation. It would have been an animated way to get my attention. My first thought was incorrect.
Me: We kind of have a wing named after us in Chicago at -
Guy: Jimmy Scott!
My first thought at hearing my name called out, exclamation mark attached, was that the guy from Microsoft wanted his game back. Jeez, I hadn't even called customer service yet to demand they send an installer over or they could kiss their marketing scheme goodbye. My first thought was incorrect.
Me: I don't even like video games. My mom once bought us this Atari knock-off -
Guy: Look outside.
Click.
The male voice, one that failed to identify itself like polite people do on the phone, didn't frighten me. I've been harassed by fans before. That's who this was. One more fan excited to get the object of their affection on the horn. If they catch me, they usually have little to say that I can understand. They don't know it, but I get how they feel. A few years ago I had the chance to meet one of my heroes, Steven Spielberg, at a game in LA. He shook my hand. We had a picture together. I'm still not sure if I used verbs or not when I spoke to him, and I'll never know, having deleted the file from my brain. Short of just bringing this up to you, I've successfully pretended my meeting with Mr. Spielberg never happened and there's still a shot for him to give me a cameo in the next Indiana Jones prequel. The male voice that spoke to me on the phone, albeit briefly, was just an excitable boy who had a few unchaperoned moments with his hero. It's happened before and will happen again.
They don't usually ask me to do anything as simple as looking outside. If they have the confidence to speak full sentences to me, they usually want money or my "influence" (of which I have none pretty much in every category) to help them attain some goal, like a job in baseball or an appearance for their local charity or a signing of their boobs with a Magic Marker. But to just look outside? Interesting.
I was in my Entertainment Veranda. Switching on some outside lights, I was able to get a good view of the backyard. Nothing interesting. Just a few brown leaves hanging onto trees for dear life and lots of grass that would not be green again for four months.
I shook my head and went back to my X-Box. What's a USB cable? And what's a USB port? Totally confused (I tried to follow the directions in Spanish at first, but that challenge lasted no further than "Hola." I wasn't a very good student of Western European foreign languages.), I lifted up the phone to call Microsoft. But instead of getting a dial tone, I got a voice. The same one as before.
Guy: You didn't look outside.
Me: How'd you...? The phone didn't ring. And I did look outside.
Guy: Kizmet. And the backyard doesn't count.
Me: You weren't specific.
Guy: Look outside.
Me: Meaning the front, right? That's a given here?
Click.
I dropped the X-Box box onto the Davenport and trounced upstairs. My mood was quickly turning sour, as Mr. Spielberg's did when I may have mentioned to him Munich was a real downer and I hoped he could make something with a happy ending again, like another Schindler's List. I was free to do a screen-test between October 31st and February 14th. And just to get my point totally across, I asked for his home phone number, "in case we want to continue this dialog lots more and stuff." His PR person was able to stand in front of me at that very moment. When I got back into position, Mr. Spielberg was gone.
The front door was closed, as it should be. Safety first is my motto when I begin to feel stalked by a telephone. I unlocked the door, pulled it open, and was astonished at the sight. More toilet paper! It was everywhere. This was, by far, the worst papering we'd had of the three. I can't begin to describe the budget these vandals had, but it was pretty hefty compared to what I would spend on a prank like this.
The ringing phone called me back inside.
I shut the door, locked it, and lifted up the receiver.
Guy: You see what we did?
Me: A-Ha! So you admit to it.
Click.
Furious, I dialed the first person who I thought could help, someone with a mind that could read through B.S. and get to the point. What made me even more furious was the person I was calling was my father, "Red" Scott. He picked up on the first ring. This is one guy who loves it when fans call his house. I swear, he must put his phone number in a Yellow Pages ad he enjoys the spotlight so much.
"Red" Scott: "Red" Scott.
Even he uses the quotation marks when he says his first name.
Me: Dad, it's me.
"Red" Scott: Mrs. Jackson?
Me: No. It's -
"Red" Scott: Hey, Jimmy, remember when the Army called for your brother, and they got you on the phone instead, and they thought you were a girl because your voice didn't change until you were 17.
Me: Now I do.
"Red" Scott: That was funny. You have any more stories like that? I want to use them next time you pitch.
Me: I should have retired.
"Red" Scott: So far, every time I've called one of your games, I've been able to distance our father/son connection -
Me: Something I've been trying to do for years.
"Red" Scott: ...but I think since I'll be calling all of your games this coming season, the fans want more from "Red" Scott. Don't you think?
Me: I don't think you should refer to yourself in the third person. That's very nineties.
"Red" Scott: Just leave the announcing to "Red," okay my boy? Any you were a boy for a long time, weren't ya? When I was your age, you were just having your first wet dream while I'd been shaving for 3 years and getting laid -
Me: Okay. Bye.
"Red" Scott: Bye.
Click.
My mood was even worse now. The man could ruin the greatest moment of anybody's life - birth of a child, wedding day, saving a bushel German Shepherds from a burning dog kennel - by simply showing up. Is it wrong for a father to compete with his children? I remember, when I was with Chicago, we had the two Gambles playing side by side in the same outfield for one "magical" September, father and son. You'd think, and the writers did, about what a great story this was. Father wants to extend his career, play as long as possible, so he can play next to his son in the same outfield. Only in this case, father wanted to play as long as possible because he just didn't want to stop playing. I don't think he really cared about who played next to him, as long as he was still in that outfield catching flies (both kinds - it is a summer game) and living The Life.
We know the story after that. Father was cut in October, now is a roving instructor for St. Louis while son is still playing for Chicago, having broken all the records his father ever set years ago. It is my assumption that Mr. Gamble and Mr. "Red" Scott would have a lot in common if one of them ever had the capacity to listen to what someone else had to say.
Around this time, Vanessa and the girls got home. They'd seen the mess outside and were slightly unnerved. We'd have to reach into the girls' college funds once again to pay for landscapers to clean everything up.
Vanessa called the police. The first two paperings seemed like your typical neighborhood vandalism. This one, with the crank calls, had increased the tension. We needed professionals.
Julia was pretty good about it. But Grace really took it hard. She stared straight ahead when I explained all about my X-Box debacle and the content of the crank calls, then excused herself and quickly ran upstairs to her room. She's always been the sensitive daughter. Julia has a little "Red" Scott in her, even though I remind them both to keep their distance from each other, not easy when a grandfather and granddaughter are so fond of one another.
The police said they'd step up neighborhood patrols. I thanked them but got a little worried when Vanessa started talking about what happened to Val and Aaron Daly, he late of the Pittsburgh franchise before breaking his leg (and ending his career) while running after a bunch of kids one Halloween who had "accidentally" (according to their lawyers) pelted his SUV with more than two dozen cage-free brown organic-style eggs. The first rule of being in the public eye is to never attack kids. Rule two is, if you ignore rule one, be sure to get away quickly so you can have the maximum allowable time to create an alibi. Or call you agent and let him do it. Aaron fell on his retreat, breaking his leg. The kids had been ready. When the police and ambulance came, he literally had egg on his face.
I promised I wouldn't pull an Aaron Daly on anyone, even though all the kids these days are obese because they only play video games, thus making them more easily catchable than in '96. Still, my blood boiled at the thought of being a victim of toilet paper all over again. One day, I would enact my revenge. Until then, I'd wait for Microsoft to send their guy over to set up my X-Box so I can play the new Steven Spielberg Presents: Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull game before the rest of the world. Or at least before any kids armed with eggs, cell phones and my phone number.
Me: Hello.
Guy: (large intake of breath)!
My first thought was that the caller was a representative of Morristown Memorial's ER unit, about to ask for a donation. It would have been an animated way to get my attention. My first thought was incorrect.
Me: We kind of have a wing named after us in Chicago at -
Guy: Jimmy Scott!
My first thought at hearing my name called out, exclamation mark attached, was that the guy from Microsoft wanted his game back. Jeez, I hadn't even called customer service yet to demand they send an installer over or they could kiss their marketing scheme goodbye. My first thought was incorrect.
Me: I don't even like video games. My mom once bought us this Atari knock-off -
Guy: Look outside.
Click.
The male voice, one that failed to identify itself like polite people do on the phone, didn't frighten me. I've been harassed by fans before. That's who this was. One more fan excited to get the object of their affection on the horn. If they catch me, they usually have little to say that I can understand. They don't know it, but I get how they feel. A few years ago I had the chance to meet one of my heroes, Steven Spielberg, at a game in LA. He shook my hand. We had a picture together. I'm still not sure if I used verbs or not when I spoke to him, and I'll never know, having deleted the file from my brain. Short of just bringing this up to you, I've successfully pretended my meeting with Mr. Spielberg never happened and there's still a shot for him to give me a cameo in the next Indiana Jones prequel. The male voice that spoke to me on the phone, albeit briefly, was just an excitable boy who had a few unchaperoned moments with his hero. It's happened before and will happen again.
They don't usually ask me to do anything as simple as looking outside. If they have the confidence to speak full sentences to me, they usually want money or my "influence" (of which I have none pretty much in every category) to help them attain some goal, like a job in baseball or an appearance for their local charity or a signing of their boobs with a Magic Marker. But to just look outside? Interesting.
I was in my Entertainment Veranda. Switching on some outside lights, I was able to get a good view of the backyard. Nothing interesting. Just a few brown leaves hanging onto trees for dear life and lots of grass that would not be green again for four months.
I shook my head and went back to my X-Box. What's a USB cable? And what's a USB port? Totally confused (I tried to follow the directions in Spanish at first, but that challenge lasted no further than "Hola." I wasn't a very good student of Western European foreign languages.), I lifted up the phone to call Microsoft. But instead of getting a dial tone, I got a voice. The same one as before.
Guy: You didn't look outside.
Me: How'd you...? The phone didn't ring. And I did look outside.
Guy: Kizmet. And the backyard doesn't count.
Me: You weren't specific.
Guy: Look outside.
Me: Meaning the front, right? That's a given here?
Click.
I dropped the X-Box box onto the Davenport and trounced upstairs. My mood was quickly turning sour, as Mr. Spielberg's did when I may have mentioned to him Munich was a real downer and I hoped he could make something with a happy ending again, like another Schindler's List. I was free to do a screen-test between October 31st and February 14th. And just to get my point totally across, I asked for his home phone number, "in case we want to continue this dialog lots more and stuff." His PR person was able to stand in front of me at that very moment. When I got back into position, Mr. Spielberg was gone.
The front door was closed, as it should be. Safety first is my motto when I begin to feel stalked by a telephone. I unlocked the door, pulled it open, and was astonished at the sight. More toilet paper! It was everywhere. This was, by far, the worst papering we'd had of the three. I can't begin to describe the budget these vandals had, but it was pretty hefty compared to what I would spend on a prank like this.
The ringing phone called me back inside.
I shut the door, locked it, and lifted up the receiver.
Guy: You see what we did?
Me: A-Ha! So you admit to it.
Click.
Furious, I dialed the first person who I thought could help, someone with a mind that could read through B.S. and get to the point. What made me even more furious was the person I was calling was my father, "Red" Scott. He picked up on the first ring. This is one guy who loves it when fans call his house. I swear, he must put his phone number in a Yellow Pages ad he enjoys the spotlight so much.
"Red" Scott: "Red" Scott.
Even he uses the quotation marks when he says his first name.
Me: Dad, it's me.
"Red" Scott: Mrs. Jackson?
Me: No. It's -
"Red" Scott: Hey, Jimmy, remember when the Army called for your brother, and they got you on the phone instead, and they thought you were a girl because your voice didn't change until you were 17.
Me: Now I do.
"Red" Scott: That was funny. You have any more stories like that? I want to use them next time you pitch.
Me: I should have retired.
"Red" Scott: So far, every time I've called one of your games, I've been able to distance our father/son connection -
Me: Something I've been trying to do for years.
"Red" Scott: ...but I think since I'll be calling all of your games this coming season, the fans want more from "Red" Scott. Don't you think?
Me: I don't think you should refer to yourself in the third person. That's very nineties.
"Red" Scott: Just leave the announcing to "Red," okay my boy? Any you were a boy for a long time, weren't ya? When I was your age, you were just having your first wet dream while I'd been shaving for 3 years and getting laid -
Me: Okay. Bye.
"Red" Scott: Bye.
Click.
My mood was even worse now. The man could ruin the greatest moment of anybody's life - birth of a child, wedding day, saving a bushel German Shepherds from a burning dog kennel - by simply showing up. Is it wrong for a father to compete with his children? I remember, when I was with Chicago, we had the two Gambles playing side by side in the same outfield for one "magical" September, father and son. You'd think, and the writers did, about what a great story this was. Father wants to extend his career, play as long as possible, so he can play next to his son in the same outfield. Only in this case, father wanted to play as long as possible because he just didn't want to stop playing. I don't think he really cared about who played next to him, as long as he was still in that outfield catching flies (both kinds - it is a summer game) and living The Life.
We know the story after that. Father was cut in October, now is a roving instructor for St. Louis while son is still playing for Chicago, having broken all the records his father ever set years ago. It is my assumption that Mr. Gamble and Mr. "Red" Scott would have a lot in common if one of them ever had the capacity to listen to what someone else had to say.
Around this time, Vanessa and the girls got home. They'd seen the mess outside and were slightly unnerved. We'd have to reach into the girls' college funds once again to pay for landscapers to clean everything up.
Vanessa called the police. The first two paperings seemed like your typical neighborhood vandalism. This one, with the crank calls, had increased the tension. We needed professionals.
Julia was pretty good about it. But Grace really took it hard. She stared straight ahead when I explained all about my X-Box debacle and the content of the crank calls, then excused herself and quickly ran upstairs to her room. She's always been the sensitive daughter. Julia has a little "Red" Scott in her, even though I remind them both to keep their distance from each other, not easy when a grandfather and granddaughter are so fond of one another.
The police said they'd step up neighborhood patrols. I thanked them but got a little worried when Vanessa started talking about what happened to Val and Aaron Daly, he late of the Pittsburgh franchise before breaking his leg (and ending his career) while running after a bunch of kids one Halloween who had "accidentally" (according to their lawyers) pelted his SUV with more than two dozen cage-free brown organic-style eggs. The first rule of being in the public eye is to never attack kids. Rule two is, if you ignore rule one, be sure to get away quickly so you can have the maximum allowable time to create an alibi. Or call you agent and let him do it. Aaron fell on his retreat, breaking his leg. The kids had been ready. When the police and ambulance came, he literally had egg on his face.
I promised I wouldn't pull an Aaron Daly on anyone, even though all the kids these days are obese because they only play video games, thus making them more easily catchable than in '96. Still, my blood boiled at the thought of being a victim of toilet paper all over again. One day, I would enact my revenge. Until then, I'd wait for Microsoft to send their guy over to set up my X-Box so I can play the new Steven Spielberg Presents: Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull game before the rest of the world. Or at least before any kids armed with eggs, cell phones and my phone number.
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