I've only been married once. This doesn't mean I'm not married anymore. I got married on January 10, 1993 and remain wedded via holy matrimony to my spousal equivalent, Vanessa. We have the rings to prove it (not as big as my World Championship Series rings, but probably more valuable). There are lots of guys I have played with in the past, and on the current big league club, who have been divorced. Some guys have been divorced more than once; Jon Benson, for example, who's married to his third wife. I'm not judging him for being married three times. Nor am I making fun of him. I'm into the whole "people got to be free" thing, as long as nobody gets hurt. That's why I feel I have to say something about the woman who's apparently crawled out of a hole somewhere to say she has been Jon's mistress through all three marriages.
The woman is Nicole Verdetta. She's 40 and lonely and an example of the ultimate groupie. Many groupies are the one-night stand kind. They do it to say they did it. No strings attached. But there are other groupies, some like Nicole, who do it, I don't want to say to "entrap" a player, but as an investment. They'll do what the player wants in exchange for money, or material things like cars and apartments. Ms. Verdetta is this, plus more. You saw Fatal Attraction, right? That comes to mind about now.
Yes, I know her. Not well. Jon's been on the team since 2004 and I've seen her on the road, sometimes in our hotel lobby, sometimes at a restaurant with Jon. Yes, I've known Jon has been married to his current wife, Kathryn, since 2003. Like I said, I don't judge.
This is going to sound wrong of me, but I'm on Jon's side here. If Nicole has been his "girlfriend" since the 1990s, through his first, very brief marriage through his second marriage of a few years and through his current marriage of almost 5 years, she's known the deal. Jon marries, lives with his wife during the off season and with her halftime during the baseball season, and Nicole gets the occasional off season long weekend and most in-season road trips. Why she's decided to go public and, from what I heard, pose for Playboy just doesn't make sense. Maybe Jon tried to break up. Maybe she's crazy. Either way, it's not just Jon she's hurting.
We, Jon's teammates, know our deal in this: Keep our mouths shut. Maybe that's not what we should do in these cases (and Jon isn't the only guy we have to turn the other cheek toward who escorts a woman other than his wife to the hotel elevator). Maybe we should put a napkin over the phone and anonymously call the wife, "I saw your husband with another woman," then hang up. Maybe we should open an anonymous email account and send something to the wife. "Keep an eye on your husband." Maybe we should tell our wives, nudge nudge, wink wink, and let them do the dirty work. But who does that help? Us by removing our guilt?
I know of some marriages that were considered "open marriages." In these, both members of the couple were free to "date" others while the ballplayer was on the road. Suppose Jon had a deal with his wives: I marry you because I love you, but I see Nicole because she does something for me nobody else could ever do; only she's nuts so I won't marry her." (To avoid a lawsuit, let me state now Nicole Verdetta has never been accused by anyone of being "nuts." I'm sure she's a very nice, misunderstood lady.) If I had said something to his wife, it would just come back to me and Jon, very pissed, would explain how it was a) none of my business, and b) he has an arrangement so screw you!
It always comes back to the player. I've seen fights, been in arguments, when a wife or a player snitches on another player's off field recreation schedule. Vanessa once tattled on a former teammate and, man, I almost had my head beaten to a bloody pulp by the guy who she tattled on. I know better. Vanessa knows better. It's none of our business. It can't be.
Ms. Verdetta has come out and made these allegations. To Jon's credit, he hasn't denied anything. But think of the pressure he's under now. Reporters are on his back. His wife (and not just his first) must be pressuring him. Jon also has three kids. They can't be happy about this. Then there's the team. We've penciled Jon in for 12-14 wins this year. Will the stress of this public problem seep into his mind and ruin him? Will he freak out if he sees a teammate with a copy of Playboy in his locker or on the team plane?
From what I understand, Ms. Verdetta doesn't have a job. She says Jon's been paying her, basically, to be his "friend" for years. That means she has time to do publicity, promoting her Playboy layout and article, maybe get a reality show or a book deal. She wants something from Jon, didn't get it, and is now on the warpath. Most groupies aren't this vindictive. We don't know the whole story and maybe we never will. Like I said, it's none of our business.
But when it all goes public, I guess it becomes our business. Let's hope this story doesn't ruin Jon's business, in baseball, and he wins his games and the public relations battle that lies before him.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
Explosions, Ejections & Majick
I had some time today before having to make it to Brickyard Park here in Oklahoma City. So I took a cab to where the "Oklahoma City Bomber" did his thing on April 19, 1995, almost exactly 13 years ago. I saw all of the footage on TV when it happened, but since this is my first time to Oklahoma City, I wanted to see for myself what's there.
The Oklahoma City National Memorial & Museum is beautiful and terrible and heartbreaking and spectacular all at the same time. If you ever get down this way, or even if you don't, I recommend taking the tour and seeing for yourself what can happen when people go too far.
Which brings us to Monday night's game. Ninth inning, two men on, two men out and I'm pitching with a one-run lead. Then the crazy thing happened. I throw a 2-2 pitch and the batter makes contact (It was Marvin Majick, a pinch hitter). Before you know it, there are explosions. But it wasn't the war kind. It was fireworks. Somebody got a little switch happy and set off a full load of fireworks at the moment the ball met the bat. Needless to say, just about every soul in the ballpark was distracted. Our left fielder, Miguel Ramirez, would normally have caught what my dad, "Red" Scott, would call a "can of corn." Simple fly to left. The game should have been over.
But he missed the ball. You see, the sky was suddenly on fire.
Two runners scored by the time Miguel realized he'd missed the ball, the ball was in play, and he needed to throw the ball back to the infield. Well, his throw was far too late and we lost the game and I "blew" another save. Marvin Majick was a hero.
The story doesn't end there.
Our manager, Dusty Graves, went ballistic. You thought there were fireworks behind the outfield wall. You should have seen this. Dusty yelled and screamed. He pounded his fists. He got into the faces of ever umpire present. He kicked dirt. He lifted bases off the ground and threw them. It was a complete rampage.
We stood on the field, unsure if the game was over or not. Turns out it was. The umpires decided not to replay the final pitch, my final pitch; their decision made easier by Dusty's continuing craziness. Dusty was ejected, and a few of us wondered if it could be technically called an ejection since the game was already over.
When Dusty was "escorted" off the field by security, we followed him into the dugout and clubhouse. But just as I stepped into the on deck circle, one lone firework shot into the air. I turned to look. It was beautiful. I'd pitched poorly, our manager had humiliated himself, but looking at that one momentary glow in the air, I realized how unimportant this game can be sometimes. I thought for a moment of the victims of that terrible tragedy from 13 years ago in this city and promised myself I'd spread the word about the museum. Don't forget about the past. Those who died there deserve better.
The Oklahoma City National Memorial & Museum is beautiful and terrible and heartbreaking and spectacular all at the same time. If you ever get down this way, or even if you don't, I recommend taking the tour and seeing for yourself what can happen when people go too far.
Which brings us to Monday night's game. Ninth inning, two men on, two men out and I'm pitching with a one-run lead. Then the crazy thing happened. I throw a 2-2 pitch and the batter makes contact (It was Marvin Majick, a pinch hitter). Before you know it, there are explosions. But it wasn't the war kind. It was fireworks. Somebody got a little switch happy and set off a full load of fireworks at the moment the ball met the bat. Needless to say, just about every soul in the ballpark was distracted. Our left fielder, Miguel Ramirez, would normally have caught what my dad, "Red" Scott, would call a "can of corn." Simple fly to left. The game should have been over.
But he missed the ball. You see, the sky was suddenly on fire.
Two runners scored by the time Miguel realized he'd missed the ball, the ball was in play, and he needed to throw the ball back to the infield. Well, his throw was far too late and we lost the game and I "blew" another save. Marvin Majick was a hero.
The story doesn't end there.
Our manager, Dusty Graves, went ballistic. You thought there were fireworks behind the outfield wall. You should have seen this. Dusty yelled and screamed. He pounded his fists. He got into the faces of ever umpire present. He kicked dirt. He lifted bases off the ground and threw them. It was a complete rampage.
We stood on the field, unsure if the game was over or not. Turns out it was. The umpires decided not to replay the final pitch, my final pitch; their decision made easier by Dusty's continuing craziness. Dusty was ejected, and a few of us wondered if it could be technically called an ejection since the game was already over.
When Dusty was "escorted" off the field by security, we followed him into the dugout and clubhouse. But just as I stepped into the on deck circle, one lone firework shot into the air. I turned to look. It was beautiful. I'd pitched poorly, our manager had humiliated himself, but looking at that one momentary glow in the air, I realized how unimportant this game can be sometimes. I thought for a moment of the victims of that terrible tragedy from 13 years ago in this city and promised myself I'd spread the word about the museum. Don't forget about the past. Those who died there deserve better.
Monday, April 7, 2008
Sock Puppet Night
Sunday was Sock Puppet Night at Pepsi Field for my Nashville Hounds. Don't ask me who thought it up, just like don't ask me why we had a Sunday night game when we had to leave right after to get to Oklahoma City for a Monday night game. Thank God we could fly since it would have taken us 10 hours by bus. The AAA level isn't as bad as it used to be - better stadiums and clubhouses, slightly better pay (although I'm on my big league contract, so I'm fine), somewhat nicer hotels. But still, we arrived at our hotel outside of Oklahoma City a little after 4:30 AM on Monday. I can't sleep on planes. I try and try, but the pressure is too much for me. Ask me to throw a strike with 2 men on and 2 men out in the bottom of the 9th in front of 55,000 fans and I can do it without sweating. Ask me to fall asleep on an airplane at two in the morning and I suffer performance anxiety. I become more wired than a an old telephone company. Plus, the excitement from attending a Sock Puppet Night kind of carries over for a few days, don't you think?
Sock Puppet Night was sponsored by Champion, which makes tube socks. In an effort to get the city of Nashville to by more socks, I guess, Champion sponsored Secret Puppet Night for fans to come out, in the seventh inning stretch, onto the field and show off their sock puppets. Some people got pretty elaborate with their designs. The winner, a woman named Pam who turned her two hands into soft, cottony replicas of Byrne Cassa, who holds the team record for home runs in a season with 39, and Jose Tomas, who once struck out five men in one inning here (true story - happened in 1969). I thought it was a little unfair that Pan won, since in her day job she has her own business hot-gluing sparkly beads onto clothes. Sock puppets are in this woman's blood. I believe her prize was a year's supply of Champion tube socks. Lucky lady.
I did not pitch over the weekend. After throwing Thursday and Friday in my first relief back-to-back days, we decided to give me two days off. My ERA is a solid 36.00, which means I've gotten off to a slow start. Still, it's only two games for me. The team is 1 and 3. We're only 1 game out of first place, so I'm not going to lambaste myself for blowing my first save opportunity which, if I had been successful, would have put us in a three-way tie for first. If a player is suicidal 4 games into the season, he's in store for a very long year.
The pleasant surprise we had on Sunday was the arrival of Felipe Castro. He missed all of spring training because of his mother's being kidnapped and held for ransom in the jungles of Venezuela. She's still there. And Felipe's here on minor league assignment in the hopes he can use baseball as a diversion. There's nothing he can do to help his mom, he was told, so someone somewhere convinced him to come to the States and try to hit a ball really far. The plan is for him to play with us for a few games (as few as possible, the big club is 2 and 3 with little offense) to get the timing on his swing back. He pinch hit on Sunday night and struck out. His face was twisted in pain when he came back to the dugout. It was obvious that his body was in Nashville but his heart and mind are in Caracas.
Most of the guys here tried to keep their distance from Felipe. Not because they didn't like him, but they didn't know what to say. Felipe is a big star here in America and an even bigger star in Latin America. I'm sure some of the Spanish-speaking players didn't want their image of Felipe tarnished by getting to know him at this time in his life.
So, since I was in the dugout and not the bullpen, I made it my job to try to infuse Felipe with a love for sock puppets. I asked him about his childhood sock puppet collection. He just looked at me. I told him the story of Juanes, the Sock King, who used to bring all the little Latino boys and girls sock puppets if they did all of the chores for madre and padre. Did Juanes the Sock King ever pay a visit to Felipe's house? He just looked at me.
A clubhouse boy, for fifty bucks, was able to get his hands on Pam's prize winning sock puppets (literally - get it? since these are sock puppets?), brought them over to me. I slipped my calloused mitts into the Cassa and Tomas replicas (quite lifelike) and put on a sock puppet show for Felipe. No performance anxiety here. It was quite graphic, in a number of different ways. I especially liked the part where Cassa and Tomas got married in a Venezuelan oil factory.
Felipe got a kick out of my show and gave me $5. I thanked him and told him I'd give the money to Pam, who did such a good job with set design.
He sat by himself, eyes closed, on the flight to Oklahoma City. I can only hope he did so with a little bit of hope in his heart, hope that he'll be okay and his mother will be found. That's all any of us can ask for.
Sock Puppet Night was sponsored by Champion, which makes tube socks. In an effort to get the city of Nashville to by more socks, I guess, Champion sponsored Secret Puppet Night for fans to come out, in the seventh inning stretch, onto the field and show off their sock puppets. Some people got pretty elaborate with their designs. The winner, a woman named Pam who turned her two hands into soft, cottony replicas of Byrne Cassa, who holds the team record for home runs in a season with 39, and Jose Tomas, who once struck out five men in one inning here (true story - happened in 1969). I thought it was a little unfair that Pan won, since in her day job she has her own business hot-gluing sparkly beads onto clothes. Sock puppets are in this woman's blood. I believe her prize was a year's supply of Champion tube socks. Lucky lady.
I did not pitch over the weekend. After throwing Thursday and Friday in my first relief back-to-back days, we decided to give me two days off. My ERA is a solid 36.00, which means I've gotten off to a slow start. Still, it's only two games for me. The team is 1 and 3. We're only 1 game out of first place, so I'm not going to lambaste myself for blowing my first save opportunity which, if I had been successful, would have put us in a three-way tie for first. If a player is suicidal 4 games into the season, he's in store for a very long year.
The pleasant surprise we had on Sunday was the arrival of Felipe Castro. He missed all of spring training because of his mother's being kidnapped and held for ransom in the jungles of Venezuela. She's still there. And Felipe's here on minor league assignment in the hopes he can use baseball as a diversion. There's nothing he can do to help his mom, he was told, so someone somewhere convinced him to come to the States and try to hit a ball really far. The plan is for him to play with us for a few games (as few as possible, the big club is 2 and 3 with little offense) to get the timing on his swing back. He pinch hit on Sunday night and struck out. His face was twisted in pain when he came back to the dugout. It was obvious that his body was in Nashville but his heart and mind are in Caracas.
Most of the guys here tried to keep their distance from Felipe. Not because they didn't like him, but they didn't know what to say. Felipe is a big star here in America and an even bigger star in Latin America. I'm sure some of the Spanish-speaking players didn't want their image of Felipe tarnished by getting to know him at this time in his life.
So, since I was in the dugout and not the bullpen, I made it my job to try to infuse Felipe with a love for sock puppets. I asked him about his childhood sock puppet collection. He just looked at me. I told him the story of Juanes, the Sock King, who used to bring all the little Latino boys and girls sock puppets if they did all of the chores for madre and padre. Did Juanes the Sock King ever pay a visit to Felipe's house? He just looked at me.
A clubhouse boy, for fifty bucks, was able to get his hands on Pam's prize winning sock puppets (literally - get it? since these are sock puppets?), brought them over to me. I slipped my calloused mitts into the Cassa and Tomas replicas (quite lifelike) and put on a sock puppet show for Felipe. No performance anxiety here. It was quite graphic, in a number of different ways. I especially liked the part where Cassa and Tomas got married in a Venezuelan oil factory.
Felipe got a kick out of my show and gave me $5. I thanked him and told him I'd give the money to Pam, who did such a good job with set design.
He sat by himself, eyes closed, on the flight to Oklahoma City. I can only hope he did so with a little bit of hope in his heart, hope that he'll be okay and his mother will be found. That's all any of us can ask for.
Friday, April 4, 2008
Rowdy Rally In Nashville
I'm starting to really like my 2007 Rockwood Signature Ultra Lite 8293SS trailer(http://www.alsmotorhomes.com/show.php?id=186). It's white, 29 feet long, has two sinks in the bathroom, and in the perfect setting for me, the Pepsi Field parking lot. My commute to the stadium is about 5 minutes by foot. They say most car accidents occur within 2 miles of somebody's home. I can avoid all of that as long as I don't trip.
Our Thursday game was a bummer, since we got pounded, but the fans apparently had a great time. After the game, I showered and dressed and hung out for a few minutes talking to Mario Gutierrez, a Venezuelan who, at 26, is just about too old to get a chance to make it into the big leagues. At least that's what conventional wisdom, and he, said. I told him I was almost 40 and I was in the minors. Stop complaining. My point was to keep trying and throw conventional wisdom out the window. If you can pitch, you can pitch. Age shouldn't matter.
I left the locker room hoping I'd given him hope, although I know the baseball business. What I gave him was probably false hope.
Leaving the stadium, I saw a handful of fans who were looking at me. These weren't young kids. The most youthful was probably in his fifties. They approached me and starting giving me a Nashville Hounds history lesson. They'd been in Nashville all their lives and had followed the team, and its players, the entire time. They wanted to make sure that I understood their passion and didn't quickly turn around and sell the team to the wrong person as soon as Charlie Walker died. I told them not to worry. The plan was to hold onto it for a while. Or they could buy it on the spot for $20 million. They laughed and said Social Security doesn't pay enough.
I thought we were done, so I said goodbye and began the long 5-minute trek "home." The parking lot was full. Not with cars, but with other people who had brought their trailers. There were some like mine. There were RVs. There were station wagons with hitches and pop-up tent houses built into their trailers. There were pickup trucks with little houses in the beds. Then it hit me. This was a rally. A rally, not for the Hounds, but for me.
This was pretty cool. Somebody counted and said there were forty some-odd trailer type vehicles in the parking lots. There were about 200 people participating, everyone cooking tailgate style. There was a guy who played banjo, another the fiddle (Nashville is the country music capital of the world in case you didn't know [I didn't]). After an hour or so, they joined forces, met up with a harmonica player, and did some bluegrass standards (I'd never heard the songs, so they were new releases to me).
When I thought they'd be done, it got rowdier. People were drinking, more trailers drove in, smoke rose from grills... By 9:00, I'd be given 27 chocolate cakes. I like chocolate cake, but that's a lot for me to eat in sitting. The freezer in my Ultra Lite's kitchen is about as big as a catcher's mitt, so I had to start giving the cakes away.
I wanted to go to bed by 9:30. The party seemed to be just starting. It got a little louder, a little rowdier. It got a little younger. The mix started to turn a little sour.
At around 10:15, the first gunshot went off. By the time the police arrived 5 minutes later, about 10 shots had been fired. Whoever had the gun, or guns, was hidden well. Most people were either under their vehicles, hugging the blacktop of the parking lot, or in their trailers under the covers. It's eerie when the sounds you hear go so quickly from music and laughter to gunshots to police radios breaking through the silence.
No arrests were made, although it took the cops about 90 minutes to have every trailer, but mine, vacate the parking lot. Then they asked me for my permit to park where I was. I lied and said the team had it in their office. They told me I'd need to show it to them the next day or have to find another place to park.
By around 1AM I was in bed. To my calculations, I'd lost out on 3 1/2 hours of sleep. Not good because I had to be in the locker room this morning at 8 AM for a rehab session with the team's trainer, Russell Katz.
Woke up this morning and my head was numb; hangover numb, and I hadn't even had anything alcoholic to drink. I made it in to see Russell and thought through my haze if it was worth staying in a trailer anymore. I was getting visitors all the time, problems were arising, my sleep pattern was off. Before I knew it, it was 10:30. I'd been asleep on the trainer's table for over 2 hours. Yes, I thought, something had to be done. I had to stop this before it ruined my focus.
You could tell my focus was off when I came into the game today in the 9th, trying to protect a 2-run lead. By giving up 5 runs in my second appearance of the season, I helped us lose by three.
There was no party after the game. Just a police escort to my trailer. They'd seen the permit (it really was in the team's office) and told me it was okay to stay in the parking lot, but I needed security. It flew in late Friday night in the shape of a 300 pound African-American blues singer who can also put you through the hardest workout of your life: Andy Gambell, my former personal trainer, who would now be my personal security guard.
Don't worry. He's got his own trailer. Mine may have two sinks, but he needs four to be happy. And now I'm happy too. It's hard to be homesick when your security guard is singing the blues all night long.
Our Thursday game was a bummer, since we got pounded, but the fans apparently had a great time. After the game, I showered and dressed and hung out for a few minutes talking to Mario Gutierrez, a Venezuelan who, at 26, is just about too old to get a chance to make it into the big leagues. At least that's what conventional wisdom, and he, said. I told him I was almost 40 and I was in the minors. Stop complaining. My point was to keep trying and throw conventional wisdom out the window. If you can pitch, you can pitch. Age shouldn't matter.
I left the locker room hoping I'd given him hope, although I know the baseball business. What I gave him was probably false hope.
Leaving the stadium, I saw a handful of fans who were looking at me. These weren't young kids. The most youthful was probably in his fifties. They approached me and starting giving me a Nashville Hounds history lesson. They'd been in Nashville all their lives and had followed the team, and its players, the entire time. They wanted to make sure that I understood their passion and didn't quickly turn around and sell the team to the wrong person as soon as Charlie Walker died. I told them not to worry. The plan was to hold onto it for a while. Or they could buy it on the spot for $20 million. They laughed and said Social Security doesn't pay enough.
I thought we were done, so I said goodbye and began the long 5-minute trek "home." The parking lot was full. Not with cars, but with other people who had brought their trailers. There were some like mine. There were RVs. There were station wagons with hitches and pop-up tent houses built into their trailers. There were pickup trucks with little houses in the beds. Then it hit me. This was a rally. A rally, not for the Hounds, but for me.
This was pretty cool. Somebody counted and said there were forty some-odd trailer type vehicles in the parking lots. There were about 200 people participating, everyone cooking tailgate style. There was a guy who played banjo, another the fiddle (Nashville is the country music capital of the world in case you didn't know [I didn't]). After an hour or so, they joined forces, met up with a harmonica player, and did some bluegrass standards (I'd never heard the songs, so they were new releases to me).
When I thought they'd be done, it got rowdier. People were drinking, more trailers drove in, smoke rose from grills... By 9:00, I'd be given 27 chocolate cakes. I like chocolate cake, but that's a lot for me to eat in sitting. The freezer in my Ultra Lite's kitchen is about as big as a catcher's mitt, so I had to start giving the cakes away.
I wanted to go to bed by 9:30. The party seemed to be just starting. It got a little louder, a little rowdier. It got a little younger. The mix started to turn a little sour.
At around 10:15, the first gunshot went off. By the time the police arrived 5 minutes later, about 10 shots had been fired. Whoever had the gun, or guns, was hidden well. Most people were either under their vehicles, hugging the blacktop of the parking lot, or in their trailers under the covers. It's eerie when the sounds you hear go so quickly from music and laughter to gunshots to police radios breaking through the silence.
No arrests were made, although it took the cops about 90 minutes to have every trailer, but mine, vacate the parking lot. Then they asked me for my permit to park where I was. I lied and said the team had it in their office. They told me I'd need to show it to them the next day or have to find another place to park.
By around 1AM I was in bed. To my calculations, I'd lost out on 3 1/2 hours of sleep. Not good because I had to be in the locker room this morning at 8 AM for a rehab session with the team's trainer, Russell Katz.
Woke up this morning and my head was numb; hangover numb, and I hadn't even had anything alcoholic to drink. I made it in to see Russell and thought through my haze if it was worth staying in a trailer anymore. I was getting visitors all the time, problems were arising, my sleep pattern was off. Before I knew it, it was 10:30. I'd been asleep on the trainer's table for over 2 hours. Yes, I thought, something had to be done. I had to stop this before it ruined my focus.
You could tell my focus was off when I came into the game today in the 9th, trying to protect a 2-run lead. By giving up 5 runs in my second appearance of the season, I helped us lose by three.
There was no party after the game. Just a police escort to my trailer. They'd seen the permit (it really was in the team's office) and told me it was okay to stay in the parking lot, but I needed security. It flew in late Friday night in the shape of a 300 pound African-American blues singer who can also put you through the hardest workout of your life: Andy Gambell, my former personal trainer, who would now be my personal security guard.
Don't worry. He's got his own trailer. Mine may have two sinks, but he needs four to be happy. And now I'm happy too. It's hard to be homesick when your security guard is singing the blues all night long.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Fallout On Opening Day
My post yesterday caused quite a stir, just like billionaire Charlie Walker expected. What's interesting to me is how so many news outlets came to the Pepsi Field parking lot to interview me here at my trailer. Don't they know I'm not talking to them? It's kind of hard to say, "No comment" when you're not speaking, so my shoulder-shrugging probably looks pretty stupid on camera.
Even more important is Charlie was there today to throw out the first pitch. Of course, the stadium was sold out, including standing room areas, and was packed for Charlie's arrival on the field. I didn't know 13,000 fans could make so much noise. I could tell Charlie appreciated the long ovations. I've only met him twice (yesterday and today when I caught his pitch, which was a little High & Tight), but he seems like a good man who just happened to be able to turn himself into a multi-billionaire. I wish him well and pray he feels comfortable during these last few months he's got. I told him that, when we do end up selling the team, all of the proceeds will go toward pancreatic cancer research. The twinkle in his eye made me believe that had been his hope all along.
Which brings me to the Jimmy & Vanessa Scott Foundation's sudden ownership of the AAA Nashville Hounds. I received calls from my super agent Jack Perry, Howard Phillips, the head of the players' union, Elliott Pollock, the commissioner, and my mother, three of the four telling me that there are rules forbidding active National Baseball League players from owning a franchise (Mom wants to make sure the pillow she sent was firm enough. It is.). I asked them each to look further into whether or not those rules count if the franchise is a minor league one. I can tell teams of lawyers are currently going through the basic agreement now, searching for definitive ways to halt this sale. It's all in a good cause and Jack says a lawyer told him that the sale will probably go through in the end because Charlie didn't sell the team to us, it was a gift, and also he gave it to a charitable organization, not me as an individual. As long as I'll be able to prove that I'm not on the team's payroll and not active in its management structure (I already resigned as Chairman), we should be fine. The point is to use the team as an investment to raise money for charity and one day in the future (Charlie said to wait five years; he'd know) sell it to someone or some organization that will keep it in Nashville as an asset to the local community.
I'm taking a long breath. Bear with me.
Jimmy Scott continues...
All of this brings me to the reason I'm in Nashville and not visiting Atlanta with the big club: The Hounds had its opening day game today. We got clobbered 10 to 1. I pitched a scoreless 7th inning (our manager, Dusty Graves, used 8 pitchers). There was some life in my arm, which, as I mentioned the other day, had been feeling "dead." My pitches were a little flat. My breaking ball didn't really break. A couple foul balls traveled about 500 feet as a result. But, since they were foul, I'm not supposed to be worried. Right?
Dusty told me he'll get me in tomorrow's game too, which will be my first back-to-back days of game action. I'm a little surprised because I thought they'd wait another 10 days or so before trying it out, especially after my dead arm. But since I'm pretty much completely healthy (a little head cold, thus the "pretty much" line), they want to push me a little. That and I hear our closer in NY, Billy Weston, has got some soreness again in a couple of his pitching fingers. I think they'd like me up in New York sooner rather than later, just in case.
Just in case. Sounds ominous, doesn't it?
Even more important is Charlie was there today to throw out the first pitch. Of course, the stadium was sold out, including standing room areas, and was packed for Charlie's arrival on the field. I didn't know 13,000 fans could make so much noise. I could tell Charlie appreciated the long ovations. I've only met him twice (yesterday and today when I caught his pitch, which was a little High & Tight), but he seems like a good man who just happened to be able to turn himself into a multi-billionaire. I wish him well and pray he feels comfortable during these last few months he's got. I told him that, when we do end up selling the team, all of the proceeds will go toward pancreatic cancer research. The twinkle in his eye made me believe that had been his hope all along.
Which brings me to the Jimmy & Vanessa Scott Foundation's sudden ownership of the AAA Nashville Hounds. I received calls from my super agent Jack Perry, Howard Phillips, the head of the players' union, Elliott Pollock, the commissioner, and my mother, three of the four telling me that there are rules forbidding active National Baseball League players from owning a franchise (Mom wants to make sure the pillow she sent was firm enough. It is.). I asked them each to look further into whether or not those rules count if the franchise is a minor league one. I can tell teams of lawyers are currently going through the basic agreement now, searching for definitive ways to halt this sale. It's all in a good cause and Jack says a lawyer told him that the sale will probably go through in the end because Charlie didn't sell the team to us, it was a gift, and also he gave it to a charitable organization, not me as an individual. As long as I'll be able to prove that I'm not on the team's payroll and not active in its management structure (I already resigned as Chairman), we should be fine. The point is to use the team as an investment to raise money for charity and one day in the future (Charlie said to wait five years; he'd know) sell it to someone or some organization that will keep it in Nashville as an asset to the local community.
I'm taking a long breath. Bear with me.
Jimmy Scott continues...
All of this brings me to the reason I'm in Nashville and not visiting Atlanta with the big club: The Hounds had its opening day game today. We got clobbered 10 to 1. I pitched a scoreless 7th inning (our manager, Dusty Graves, used 8 pitchers). There was some life in my arm, which, as I mentioned the other day, had been feeling "dead." My pitches were a little flat. My breaking ball didn't really break. A couple foul balls traveled about 500 feet as a result. But, since they were foul, I'm not supposed to be worried. Right?
Dusty told me he'll get me in tomorrow's game too, which will be my first back-to-back days of game action. I'm a little surprised because I thought they'd wait another 10 days or so before trying it out, especially after my dead arm. But since I'm pretty much completely healthy (a little head cold, thus the "pretty much" line), they want to push me a little. That and I hear our closer in NY, Billy Weston, has got some soreness again in a couple of his pitching fingers. I think they'd like me up in New York sooner rather than later, just in case.
Just in case. Sounds ominous, doesn't it?
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
Charlie And The Baseball Factory
Joan Delaney and the NY Veterans franchise do not own the Nashville Hounds. Their relationship is one of affiliation. The Vets signed a deal to have the Hounds be their AAA minor league affiliate through 2010. At that point, both parties may sign a new deal with each other or move along to greener pastures.
The owner of the Hounds is billionaire Charles Walker, CEO of 3D Corp., which manages the wealth of investors and the assets of a slew of other companies. "Charlie" is 77 years old and considered by Forbes to be the richest man in the world.
The richest man in the world knocked on the door of my trailer this morning.
It was early for most people, around 7:15 AM. I'd been playing National Baseball League 2008 on my X-Box (Some people listen to NPR first thing, or the Morning Zoo. I play X-Box.) when I heard the knock. My first inclination was to ignore it. Since I've parked this trailer in the parking lot of the Hounds' Pepsi Field, I've had an incredible number of visitors. I don't mind. Without Vanessa or the girls and with my homesickness, these visitations help keep my mind busy. I don't let anyone inside, however, just in case (plus, I'm a pig). I set up some lawn chairs and sit and talk. Nashville "folk" have good manners and seem to know when it's time to go, so stalkers have not been a problem so far. But a couple times, I'll admit, I've let the knocks go unheeded. Sometimes I just need a break. I think I'm a loner deep down too, something I don't realize until I'm alone, which hasn't been often since my injury one year ago yesterday (Yes, somebody brought over a cake to celebrate. Chocolate.). When I heard this morning's knock, I considered the early hour and my X-Box abilities. The knock came a second time and I felt it was one that should be answered.
There was Charlie. I can call him Charlie because that's what he asked me to call him. He can call me whatever he wants because he's a billionaire and, quite frankly, those people can do whatever they want. He called me Jimmy.
The door of my trailer faces Pepsi Field. I like that view better than of the parking lot, which is just a big slab of blacktop. Charlie and I sat in two lawn chairs and began to chat. He was drinking a cup of Dunkin' Donuts coffee. I declined his offer since I don't drink coffee and try to watch my caffeine intake (besides four small pieces of that chocolate cake yesterday). We looked out at the $128 million stadium he'd had built two years before.
Charlie - You like it?
Me - Yes.
Charlie - You want it?
Me - To have?
Charlie - I'm selling all of my worldly possessions.
This was immediately strange. Charlie looked like a 77 year old businessman, dressed in a very nice, but not overpriced, dark blue suit and red tie with swirly baseballs on it. His shoes were very shiny and looked overpriced, but I don't know shoes well and didn't think asking would be appropriate. His hair, what's left of it, was gray and combed; his teeth close to white. No, he didn't seem crazy and he didn't appear to be a Maharishi dressed for a costume party.
Me - Why are you selling everything? And what makes you think I can afford this baseball stadium?
Charlie - I've got pancreatic cancer. They gave me between two and six months to live. I don't want to die owning anything except the clothes on my back.
I was immediately shaken up. He looked as healthy as one can look who's 77 with only a little bit of gray hair. And I hadn't heard about his cancer. He told me only a handful of people knew. And he said he knew the world would find out after he came to me.
Charlie - You're getting a scoop.
Me - I'm not really happy about it.
Charlie - Neither am I.
He knew I was only going to be on his Hounds for a month at the most. I'm the most well known "Hound" he'd ever had play for him. Because he's owned the team for 40 years (The Vets have been an affiliate for two), he thought this last month would be the most special of his tenure with the club.
Charlie - The Hounds were my first big investment.
Me - What did you pay?
Charlie - $16,000. They're worth about $16 million today.
Me - I'm no math major, but you've at least doubled your investment.
Charlie - I think I've tripled it.
I laughed. Imagine the richest man in the world sitting on one of your lawn chairs, sipping coffee and shooting the breeze with you, unannounced, at 25 minutes after 7 in the morning. It was pretty cool.
He told me he has trusts and investments and properties worth something like $62 billion. "It fluctuates from time to time," he said. My next question was based upon me, since in my world, everything must revolve around me.
Me - Why are you giving me this scoop?
Charlie - I'm giving you my team.
Me - (jaw dropping open, thousands of thoughts running through my head, most cancelling each other out except the small craving for chocolate cake)
Charlie - I'm giving it to your charity. You can sell it or run it. It's up to you.
Me - (physically pushing my jaw closed and swallowing)
Charlie - How much money have you and your wife raised in your career?
Me - (after some stammering) Around $21 million.
Charlie - Where does it go?
Me - A handful of places, but mostly for cancer, autism and Alzheimer's research. We started allocating proceeds to Lyme disease research two years ago after Vanessa got it.
Charlie - What's the biggest single donation you've ever received?
Me - Adidas gave us $1 million after we won the Series in 2000.
Charlie - I'm going to at least triple it.
I'm no math whiz, but giving the Jimmy & Vanessa Scott Foundation a minor league baseball team worth at least $16 million is practically quadrupling the biggest donation we'd ever received.
Me - What do we do with it?
Charlie - Keep it. That's my recommendation. Just you playing here for a month has increased the value of it by about a million dollars. It's a brand new stadium. You've got some good people running the organization. Keep it for five years and I can almost guarantee you'll sell it for $35 million.
Me - Pretty cool.
Charlie - I know.
Me - What happens now? Do we get into your glass elevator and fly into the sky. "Look Grandpa, I can see my trailer!"
Charlie Walker has one of the greatest laughs I'll ever remember. Even knowing he's going to be dead before the summer ends, before his Hounds complete their season, he still laughed loud and strong.
He stood up, finished his coffee and handed me a folder full of papers. "This is the key to the car," he said metaphorically. I suggested he mail them to Vanessa. Knowing me, I'd spill chocolate cake crumbs all over them. Then we shook hands. "It's your team now, Jimmy." He looked at me, a deep, longing type of look. I could sense, just for that moment, a bit of remorse. Not because he didn't like me or was unhappy with his actions - I could tell he'd planned this out and thought this through completely - but because he wished he had his youth again. He wished he could have a catch with his dad again. He wished he could hold his sons one more time (they died together in a plane crash in the 1970s). He wished it all wasn't going to end in two to five months.
Then it hit me. Tomorrow's opening day.
Me - Charlie. It's my team? I own it?
Charlie - Your foundation owns it, but you're listed as Chairman, which means you run it.
Me - Then I can make decisions for it.
Charlie - Certainly.
Me - I want you to throw out the first pitch.
He smiled. I know he's not a sentimental guy; could tell just by sitting with him for twenty minutes. You don't become a billionaire 62 times over by crying every time you make a deal. He nodded and got into his limo. "Sure thing, Jimmy." And then they drove away.
Tomorrow's opening day for my Nashville Hounds. Charlie Walker is throwing out the first pitch. I'll catch it. This will be Charlie's last pitch. I'm happy to say I met the man. He's made me feel like a better one.
The owner of the Hounds is billionaire Charles Walker, CEO of 3D Corp., which manages the wealth of investors and the assets of a slew of other companies. "Charlie" is 77 years old and considered by Forbes to be the richest man in the world.
The richest man in the world knocked on the door of my trailer this morning.
It was early for most people, around 7:15 AM. I'd been playing National Baseball League 2008 on my X-Box (Some people listen to NPR first thing, or the Morning Zoo. I play X-Box.) when I heard the knock. My first inclination was to ignore it. Since I've parked this trailer in the parking lot of the Hounds' Pepsi Field, I've had an incredible number of visitors. I don't mind. Without Vanessa or the girls and with my homesickness, these visitations help keep my mind busy. I don't let anyone inside, however, just in case (plus, I'm a pig). I set up some lawn chairs and sit and talk. Nashville "folk" have good manners and seem to know when it's time to go, so stalkers have not been a problem so far. But a couple times, I'll admit, I've let the knocks go unheeded. Sometimes I just need a break. I think I'm a loner deep down too, something I don't realize until I'm alone, which hasn't been often since my injury one year ago yesterday (Yes, somebody brought over a cake to celebrate. Chocolate.). When I heard this morning's knock, I considered the early hour and my X-Box abilities. The knock came a second time and I felt it was one that should be answered.
There was Charlie. I can call him Charlie because that's what he asked me to call him. He can call me whatever he wants because he's a billionaire and, quite frankly, those people can do whatever they want. He called me Jimmy.
The door of my trailer faces Pepsi Field. I like that view better than of the parking lot, which is just a big slab of blacktop. Charlie and I sat in two lawn chairs and began to chat. He was drinking a cup of Dunkin' Donuts coffee. I declined his offer since I don't drink coffee and try to watch my caffeine intake (besides four small pieces of that chocolate cake yesterday). We looked out at the $128 million stadium he'd had built two years before.
Charlie - You like it?
Me - Yes.
Charlie - You want it?
Me - To have?
Charlie - I'm selling all of my worldly possessions.
This was immediately strange. Charlie looked like a 77 year old businessman, dressed in a very nice, but not overpriced, dark blue suit and red tie with swirly baseballs on it. His shoes were very shiny and looked overpriced, but I don't know shoes well and didn't think asking would be appropriate. His hair, what's left of it, was gray and combed; his teeth close to white. No, he didn't seem crazy and he didn't appear to be a Maharishi dressed for a costume party.
Me - Why are you selling everything? And what makes you think I can afford this baseball stadium?
Charlie - I've got pancreatic cancer. They gave me between two and six months to live. I don't want to die owning anything except the clothes on my back.
I was immediately shaken up. He looked as healthy as one can look who's 77 with only a little bit of gray hair. And I hadn't heard about his cancer. He told me only a handful of people knew. And he said he knew the world would find out after he came to me.
Charlie - You're getting a scoop.
Me - I'm not really happy about it.
Charlie - Neither am I.
He knew I was only going to be on his Hounds for a month at the most. I'm the most well known "Hound" he'd ever had play for him. Because he's owned the team for 40 years (The Vets have been an affiliate for two), he thought this last month would be the most special of his tenure with the club.
Charlie - The Hounds were my first big investment.
Me - What did you pay?
Charlie - $16,000. They're worth about $16 million today.
Me - I'm no math major, but you've at least doubled your investment.
Charlie - I think I've tripled it.
I laughed. Imagine the richest man in the world sitting on one of your lawn chairs, sipping coffee and shooting the breeze with you, unannounced, at 25 minutes after 7 in the morning. It was pretty cool.
He told me he has trusts and investments and properties worth something like $62 billion. "It fluctuates from time to time," he said. My next question was based upon me, since in my world, everything must revolve around me.
Me - Why are you giving me this scoop?
Charlie - I'm giving you my team.
Me - (jaw dropping open, thousands of thoughts running through my head, most cancelling each other out except the small craving for chocolate cake)
Charlie - I'm giving it to your charity. You can sell it or run it. It's up to you.
Me - (physically pushing my jaw closed and swallowing)
Charlie - How much money have you and your wife raised in your career?
Me - (after some stammering) Around $21 million.
Charlie - Where does it go?
Me - A handful of places, but mostly for cancer, autism and Alzheimer's research. We started allocating proceeds to Lyme disease research two years ago after Vanessa got it.
Charlie - What's the biggest single donation you've ever received?
Me - Adidas gave us $1 million after we won the Series in 2000.
Charlie - I'm going to at least triple it.
I'm no math whiz, but giving the Jimmy & Vanessa Scott Foundation a minor league baseball team worth at least $16 million is practically quadrupling the biggest donation we'd ever received.
Me - What do we do with it?
Charlie - Keep it. That's my recommendation. Just you playing here for a month has increased the value of it by about a million dollars. It's a brand new stadium. You've got some good people running the organization. Keep it for five years and I can almost guarantee you'll sell it for $35 million.
Me - Pretty cool.
Charlie - I know.
Me - What happens now? Do we get into your glass elevator and fly into the sky. "Look Grandpa, I can see my trailer!"
Charlie Walker has one of the greatest laughs I'll ever remember. Even knowing he's going to be dead before the summer ends, before his Hounds complete their season, he still laughed loud and strong.
He stood up, finished his coffee and handed me a folder full of papers. "This is the key to the car," he said metaphorically. I suggested he mail them to Vanessa. Knowing me, I'd spill chocolate cake crumbs all over them. Then we shook hands. "It's your team now, Jimmy." He looked at me, a deep, longing type of look. I could sense, just for that moment, a bit of remorse. Not because he didn't like me or was unhappy with his actions - I could tell he'd planned this out and thought this through completely - but because he wished he had his youth again. He wished he could have a catch with his dad again. He wished he could hold his sons one more time (they died together in a plane crash in the 1970s). He wished it all wasn't going to end in two to five months.
Then it hit me. Tomorrow's opening day.
Me - Charlie. It's my team? I own it?
Charlie - Your foundation owns it, but you're listed as Chairman, which means you run it.
Me - Then I can make decisions for it.
Charlie - Certainly.
Me - I want you to throw out the first pitch.
He smiled. I know he's not a sentimental guy; could tell just by sitting with him for twenty minutes. You don't become a billionaire 62 times over by crying every time you make a deal. He nodded and got into his limo. "Sure thing, Jimmy." And then they drove away.
Tomorrow's opening day for my Nashville Hounds. Charlie Walker is throwing out the first pitch. I'll catch it. This will be Charlie's last pitch. I'm happy to say I met the man. He's made me feel like a better one.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Opening Day Evening
So the home club opened up with a victory yesterday against the Florida Keys. Good pitching by Kai Goto, going 6 innings and only giving up those 2 runs. The bullpen got nicked up a bit, but a 5 to 4 victory is still a victory.
I didn't see the game live, obviously, since I'm in Nashville. I didn't see it on TV as it happened either. You see, I was busy entertaining. Word got out pretty quickly that I'm living in a trailer in the Pepsi Field parking lot. Before you know it, about 35 Nashville Hounds fans were in the parking lot with me, hoping we could have one giant (for an off day) tailgate. So that's what we did.
The people here in Nashville, from the small sample I met yesterday, are great. Not one person made fun of my crying due to homesickness. One woman said she'd knit a quilt for me. Another guy said he'd get some pals to serve as my personal security detail. He had a shotgun hanging on the inside of his pickup, so I nodded and tried to move away politely. My trailer is waterproof. It's not bulletproof. My mistake.
By the time the game in Florida was over, the tailgate was just starting to wind down. It grew over the hours to become sort of a rally for the Hounds' upcoming season. A news truck was there (I did not do an interview but they did get me on camera eating a very messy White Castle cheeseburger). Somehow, I found myself near the end on the roof of my Rockwood Signature Ultralite, screaming about how the Hounds are going "all the way" and "won't take prisoners" and how the season would be a "dogfight" (since we're Hounds) and other phrases that would require quotations if I listed them as well. Bottom line: The Hounds are going to sell some tickets this April. They'll hopefully have a winning year and give this town something to write home about! (Yes, this is their home. I know that.)
Around 8:15 I "retired" into my Ultralite. A handful of fans remained in the parking lot for another hour or two, but I was replaying the game on NBL.com. I have a 17" computer screen so I got a good view of how we won. Billy Weston looked good closing it out. I don't think we'll need to worry about his fingers. I think he's been soaking them in pickle brine to solve the blistering. Very old school, but whatever works...
Tuesday is workout day here with my Nashville Hounds squad. I haven't thrown since last Thursday, but that's on purpose. Near the end of spring training I was getting a dead arm. No real pain. Just a lifelessness. Hard to explain. It's like when you wake up from a dream and you can't get your eyes to open. My arm just couldn't overcome a certain sluggishness. So I took four days (got a doctor's note) off from baseball activity. I have been able to run and I found a local YMCA where I can swim. I'll probably do so this afternoon. The last thing I want is to lose all of the muscle and flexibility I've built up over the last four months of intense workouts.
My team-paid personal trainer, Andy, called yesterday to give me a verbal pump-up. He's not here with me because the team doesn't want to pay him during the season. I guess that's why. My contract is kind of vague as to whether or not they'd pay for him all year to work out with me. For that, I blame my super agent, Jack Perry, who I've invited to a slumber party in my trailer home. So far, he's respectfully declined. I'll let you know if he makes it down here. We can have another party. I'm sure he'll pay for the beer.
I didn't see the game live, obviously, since I'm in Nashville. I didn't see it on TV as it happened either. You see, I was busy entertaining. Word got out pretty quickly that I'm living in a trailer in the Pepsi Field parking lot. Before you know it, about 35 Nashville Hounds fans were in the parking lot with me, hoping we could have one giant (for an off day) tailgate. So that's what we did.
The people here in Nashville, from the small sample I met yesterday, are great. Not one person made fun of my crying due to homesickness. One woman said she'd knit a quilt for me. Another guy said he'd get some pals to serve as my personal security detail. He had a shotgun hanging on the inside of his pickup, so I nodded and tried to move away politely. My trailer is waterproof. It's not bulletproof. My mistake.
By the time the game in Florida was over, the tailgate was just starting to wind down. It grew over the hours to become sort of a rally for the Hounds' upcoming season. A news truck was there (I did not do an interview but they did get me on camera eating a very messy White Castle cheeseburger). Somehow, I found myself near the end on the roof of my Rockwood Signature Ultralite, screaming about how the Hounds are going "all the way" and "won't take prisoners" and how the season would be a "dogfight" (since we're Hounds) and other phrases that would require quotations if I listed them as well. Bottom line: The Hounds are going to sell some tickets this April. They'll hopefully have a winning year and give this town something to write home about! (Yes, this is their home. I know that.)
Around 8:15 I "retired" into my Ultralite. A handful of fans remained in the parking lot for another hour or two, but I was replaying the game on NBL.com. I have a 17" computer screen so I got a good view of how we won. Billy Weston looked good closing it out. I don't think we'll need to worry about his fingers. I think he's been soaking them in pickle brine to solve the blistering. Very old school, but whatever works...
Tuesday is workout day here with my Nashville Hounds squad. I haven't thrown since last Thursday, but that's on purpose. Near the end of spring training I was getting a dead arm. No real pain. Just a lifelessness. Hard to explain. It's like when you wake up from a dream and you can't get your eyes to open. My arm just couldn't overcome a certain sluggishness. So I took four days (got a doctor's note) off from baseball activity. I have been able to run and I found a local YMCA where I can swim. I'll probably do so this afternoon. The last thing I want is to lose all of the muscle and flexibility I've built up over the last four months of intense workouts.
My team-paid personal trainer, Andy, called yesterday to give me a verbal pump-up. He's not here with me because the team doesn't want to pay him during the season. I guess that's why. My contract is kind of vague as to whether or not they'd pay for him all year to work out with me. For that, I blame my super agent, Jack Perry, who I've invited to a slumber party in my trailer home. So far, he's respectfully declined. I'll let you know if he makes it down here. We can have another party. I'm sure he'll pay for the beer.
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