Yes, that was me on the mound yesterday in the 9th inning against Boston. It was my day to throw and I kind of weasled my way into throwing one inning of a "real" game; or at least as real as a spring training exhibition game can get. Felt good. No pain. We'll see how I rebound over the next day or two. My goal is to build up over the next couple of weeks so when I start the season in Nashville, I'll be able to be a mainstay in that rotation. The team goal is still for me to be in the New York rotation by May 1. I'm hoping.
Lower body workout today. Ran 8 simulated miles (meaning on a machine) and swam the equivalent of 1 mile. Andy just started me on the swimming about a week ago. It's more stamina exercise.
The team has won 5 in a row. Too bad nothing counts so far.
Monday, March 10, 2008
Friday, March 7, 2008
10 Seconds of Relief
Here's something interesting that came as a result of the controversy started by my inaccurate posting from the other day: I got to speak with Felipe Castro yesterday. As you know, Felipe's mother was kidnapped in Venezuela last December. He hasn't shown up at camp here in Fort Pierce yet. When I wrongly stated on Wednesday that he had been named team captain, Felipe got wind of my blog, found it, and started to read. He called me Friday morning.
With his permission, I'm posting parts of our conversation.
Me: Sorry for making you look the way you did.
Felipe: You looked a lot worse than me.
Me: Because I'm losing my hair, right? I look really bad, don't I?
Felipe: Yes.
I moped for a moment here. Then I sucked it up and tried to steer the conversation back to him.
Me: How did your mother get kidnapped?
Felipe: On December 16th, I was in Puerto Rico for a special softball game to raise money for Willie Cordero's charity. Around 3:00, I got a call from someone saying I should look out for my mother better than I was doing. That was not right, in my mind. So I called her house and she wasn't there. She's always home on Sundays. I left the game and called the police.
Me: What happened?
Felipe: I arrived home that night. The police were already at my mother's house. Her front door was on the street, partially burned. They'd blown it up. Part of the front room had been on fire too. The police said they could tell she had struggled hard because of broken glass and a cross broken into pieces near the kitchen. A slipper was also found. They think she was taken with a bare foot.
Me: When did the kidnappers contact you?
Felipe: Two weeks later. For two weeks, there was nothing. No word from the police. No ransom demand, no nothing, from the group that had her. Then on New Year's Eve, I got an email that showed my mother, wearing only one slipper, being held somewhere. She was alive. I was so happy! Then she spoke and said some terrible things.
Me: What'd she say?
Felipe: How I've been a terrible son... I have so much money and never use it for the people of my country. How I'm a disgrace to Venezuela.
Me: That's not how she feels.
Felipe: I know that now. Then, just to hear her voice was incredible, but to hear what she's saying, after nothing for two weeks... My heart was breaking.
Me: Then what?
Felipe: A man with a black drape over his head told me to give a ransom, uh, pay a ransom and I'd get her back.
Me: How much?
Felipe: I can't say.
Me: Did you do it?
Felipe: I can't say.
Me: Well, she's still being held so I'll pretend you didn't.
Felipe: Good. I talked to her on the phone on January 20. We had about 10 seconds to speak. She sounded very good, if 10 seconds means anything. She called me her Poppy. Which meant a lot to me. That proved she didn't mean the things she'd said on that video.
Me: Did you feel relief talking to her?
Felipe: Yes, for 10 seconds.
I was at a loss here. I felt like a tourist, or a gossip columnist. That wasn't my intention, even though Felipe had called me. Was this how real reporters felt? If it was, I felt a need never to become one.
Felipe: I haven't spoken or heard from my mother since. The people who have her reached out two weeks ago and asked for money again. Less than the first time. I was just about to fly to Florida for spring training and they do that, so I don't come up.
Me: Are you actively involved in the search?
Felipe: I try. I go to the police every day and ask for a report. Sometimes they have something. Most times they don't. I sit in my mother's house quite a bit and look at her door. I'm going to turn it into a table. When she comes back, we'll have our first meal at that table.
Me: Are you working out or in baseball shape?
Felipe: Ehh. I'd be lying if I said my body was ready. My mind is nowhere near ready.
Me: So coming up right now isn't an option?
Felipe: Not for me.
I can't imagine what he's going through. He thought it was interesting that my father, "Red" Scott, had offered to switch places with Felipe's mother during the winter since he hates the cold weather up north. Felipe said it wouldn't work. "I already asked if I could take her place and they said no."
I thanked him for his call and told him we all hoped for the best. He asked me to make a point of thanking the guys on the team for their phone calls and emails. He also said that, even if what I wrote the other day was true, that he'd been appointed captain, he wouldn't have accepted. "I'm not captain material," he said.
He's not. He's better than that. Pray for his mother and pray for that family. Let's hope this ends peacefully.
With his permission, I'm posting parts of our conversation.
Me: Sorry for making you look the way you did.
Felipe: You looked a lot worse than me.
Me: Because I'm losing my hair, right? I look really bad, don't I?
Felipe: Yes.
I moped for a moment here. Then I sucked it up and tried to steer the conversation back to him.
Me: How did your mother get kidnapped?
Felipe: On December 16th, I was in Puerto Rico for a special softball game to raise money for Willie Cordero's charity. Around 3:00, I got a call from someone saying I should look out for my mother better than I was doing. That was not right, in my mind. So I called her house and she wasn't there. She's always home on Sundays. I left the game and called the police.
Me: What happened?
Felipe: I arrived home that night. The police were already at my mother's house. Her front door was on the street, partially burned. They'd blown it up. Part of the front room had been on fire too. The police said they could tell she had struggled hard because of broken glass and a cross broken into pieces near the kitchen. A slipper was also found. They think she was taken with a bare foot.
Me: When did the kidnappers contact you?
Felipe: Two weeks later. For two weeks, there was nothing. No word from the police. No ransom demand, no nothing, from the group that had her. Then on New Year's Eve, I got an email that showed my mother, wearing only one slipper, being held somewhere. She was alive. I was so happy! Then she spoke and said some terrible things.
Me: What'd she say?
Felipe: How I've been a terrible son... I have so much money and never use it for the people of my country. How I'm a disgrace to Venezuela.
Me: That's not how she feels.
Felipe: I know that now. Then, just to hear her voice was incredible, but to hear what she's saying, after nothing for two weeks... My heart was breaking.
Me: Then what?
Felipe: A man with a black drape over his head told me to give a ransom, uh, pay a ransom and I'd get her back.
Me: How much?
Felipe: I can't say.
Me: Did you do it?
Felipe: I can't say.
Me: Well, she's still being held so I'll pretend you didn't.
Felipe: Good. I talked to her on the phone on January 20. We had about 10 seconds to speak. She sounded very good, if 10 seconds means anything. She called me her Poppy. Which meant a lot to me. That proved she didn't mean the things she'd said on that video.
Me: Did you feel relief talking to her?
Felipe: Yes, for 10 seconds.
I was at a loss here. I felt like a tourist, or a gossip columnist. That wasn't my intention, even though Felipe had called me. Was this how real reporters felt? If it was, I felt a need never to become one.
Felipe: I haven't spoken or heard from my mother since. The people who have her reached out two weeks ago and asked for money again. Less than the first time. I was just about to fly to Florida for spring training and they do that, so I don't come up.
Me: Are you actively involved in the search?
Felipe: I try. I go to the police every day and ask for a report. Sometimes they have something. Most times they don't. I sit in my mother's house quite a bit and look at her door. I'm going to turn it into a table. When she comes back, we'll have our first meal at that table.
Me: Are you working out or in baseball shape?
Felipe: Ehh. I'd be lying if I said my body was ready. My mind is nowhere near ready.
Me: So coming up right now isn't an option?
Felipe: Not for me.
I can't imagine what he's going through. He thought it was interesting that my father, "Red" Scott, had offered to switch places with Felipe's mother during the winter since he hates the cold weather up north. Felipe said it wouldn't work. "I already asked if I could take her place and they said no."
I thanked him for his call and told him we all hoped for the best. He asked me to make a point of thanking the guys on the team for their phone calls and emails. He also said that, even if what I wrote the other day was true, that he'd been appointed captain, he wouldn't have accepted. "I'm not captain material," he said.
He's not. He's better than that. Pray for his mother and pray for that family. Let's hope this ends peacefully.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
Recants and Recusals
I posted yesterday about how the team, and more specifically, manager Rick Churches and GM Alvin Kirby, had appointed as captain Felipe Lopez, a man who has been on the team for only 1 disappointing season and has yet to appear (not his fault) in camp. Then I spent my remaining space giving my opinions on why this was done and why it probably wasn't a good idea.
Newsflash: I was wrong about the whole thing. Felipe was never named captain.
I received calls up the wazoo yesterday from people asking for my source. The team was inundated with calls and emails asking for details. Rick and Alvin received many bloodthirsty headlines filled with criticism of the decision.
The team officially denied everything. Rick and Alvin denied everything. Why? My story was untrue.
It's not that I was playing an early April Fool's joke. Rather, I think a prank was played on me. And "prank" is a kind word. More likely, I was purposely given misleading information to make me look bad.
It worked.
My super agent, Jack Perry, is also Felipe's agent. About 10 minutes after I clicked on Publish Post, I got a call from his #1 assistant, Sherry. (I once said to her, "If you married Jack, you know your name would be Sherry Perry?" I thought it was funnier than she did.) Sherry (last name Pollock) said Jack wanted to know what I was doing. I told her I was about to go pee. Why? She said no, not that. Why was I posting something made up and, frankly, unflattering about a teammate who's currently undergoing the most trying time of his life? I told her because it was true. She said she'd call later.
Jack himself called me an hour later. "It's not true. Take it back." He spoke with Felipe, who had no idea that this storm was brewing because he hadn't spoken with Rick or Alvin in weeks. (Thus refuting Rick's statement yesterday that Felipe would be here by March 15th whether they rescue his mother or not.) Felipe also said - and I give him credit here - that he never would accept the position as captain when there are so many other guys on the team who deserved it. He used me as an example. The guilt oozed out of my pores.
Let the wild rumpus start.
The press, and rightfully so, are writing about how they always (not always, but they won't say that) get a secondary source to confirm a story before they write something. This is going to begin a whole new round of blogosphere criticisms, how readers should trust professional journalists before trusting people like, uh, me.
Rick called me into his office first thing this morning and threatened to fine me $50,000 if I ever write another "inflammatory, untrue account" of "team dynamics." His statement was pretty broad. When asked to elaborate, he told me he had real work to do. He left me standing in his office while he took his bat and glove out to practice field #3 to shag balls.
The main question: Who/what was my source? The other main question: Why did I publish this story? The third question: Is it really that big of a deal?
Since the press deluged me with questions and accusations at my locker, none of which I would answer since we don't speak on the record, I will answer the main question the way they'd approve of if I was one of them: I won't reveal my source. I don't have to. I can tell you this person avoided me today. I will tell you this person has a lot of questions to answer from me. Was I set up? I don't know yet. I'm going to try to find out. Why would I possibly be set up? I have some thoughts, but they're all paranoid. I'll sleep on it and work on my theories tomorrow.
I published the story because I thought it was true. Yes, I told Rick and Alvin a couple of weeks ago that I'd wait for them to make major team announcements before I posted anything, unless the announcement was about me. I broke my promise, but not on purpose. I figured everyone would have jumped on it right away. Nobody did because the story wasn't true. I was given misinformation; I was the only one given this misinformation. I was wrong to have published it. I am very embarrassed and very sorry.
I take it back.
Now, is this all a big deal? Not in the scheme of the whole world. It's a non-story when compared to who our next president is going to be or how many of our soldiers were hurt or killed in Iraq already this month. From a worldly perspective, it's not a big deal at all. I saw, however, that it is being treated like a big deal. Katie Couric did a whole thing about this last night on the CBS Evening News With Walter Cronkite. The NY Times had something on their front page - not the sports section - about how this story was symptomatic of the problem with "amateur journalism" and "the ego of the masses." Or, in my case, a "massive ego." Just take my embarrassment quotient and multiply it by ten. Summing this part up, it's not a big deal compared to the real world, but you'd never know it.
From a team and personal perspective, yes, it's a pretty big deal. I've already told you how embarrassing this is. But even more important, I was misled by someone who I never would have thought would have misled me like this; someone I've known for a long time. That's more than disappointing. I will have a conversation with this person. Just need to find him (or her) first.
Teamwise, I created dissension when there didn't need to be any. I wrote how a number of guys who've been with the team for a long time would be mad that Felipe was made captain. This was very, very true. There was some serious Felipe Bashing going on inside this locker room yesterday late. None of it needed to happen. Not one word needed to be said against this innocent man; my teammate. The reactions were based on an untruth. I owe a huge apology to Felipe. I owe a big one to my team as well. I'm sure they feel quite guilty today. They're embarrassed too. That part is all my fault and doesn't help us win a championship. It just distracts them from their - our - goal. Sorry.
Where do I go from here? Nowhere. I admit my mistake. I apologize for it. I won't make any excuses for what I wrote or why I wrote it. I can whine about how I was probably set up (I probably was), but without proof or reason, what's the point? Setup or not, I hurt Felipe and I hurt my team. I hope that's something I never do again.
Here's something that I think is very important: I am not going to stop writing this blog. My face is getting sore from the amount of blushing I've been doing since yesterday, yet that won't stop me from doing this. I'd be more embarrassed, my "massive ego" would take a bigger hit, if I did stop. I'd rather swallow my pride and apologize than stomp on it and quit. No, I'm in this for the long haul, taking my bumps and bruises as I go. I hope you stay along for the ride.
Newsflash: I was wrong about the whole thing. Felipe was never named captain.
I received calls up the wazoo yesterday from people asking for my source. The team was inundated with calls and emails asking for details. Rick and Alvin received many bloodthirsty headlines filled with criticism of the decision.
The team officially denied everything. Rick and Alvin denied everything. Why? My story was untrue.
It's not that I was playing an early April Fool's joke. Rather, I think a prank was played on me. And "prank" is a kind word. More likely, I was purposely given misleading information to make me look bad.
It worked.
My super agent, Jack Perry, is also Felipe's agent. About 10 minutes after I clicked on Publish Post, I got a call from his #1 assistant, Sherry. (I once said to her, "If you married Jack, you know your name would be Sherry Perry?" I thought it was funnier than she did.) Sherry (last name Pollock) said Jack wanted to know what I was doing. I told her I was about to go pee. Why? She said no, not that. Why was I posting something made up and, frankly, unflattering about a teammate who's currently undergoing the most trying time of his life? I told her because it was true. She said she'd call later.
Jack himself called me an hour later. "It's not true. Take it back." He spoke with Felipe, who had no idea that this storm was brewing because he hadn't spoken with Rick or Alvin in weeks. (Thus refuting Rick's statement yesterday that Felipe would be here by March 15th whether they rescue his mother or not.) Felipe also said - and I give him credit here - that he never would accept the position as captain when there are so many other guys on the team who deserved it. He used me as an example. The guilt oozed out of my pores.
Let the wild rumpus start.
The press, and rightfully so, are writing about how they always (not always, but they won't say that) get a secondary source to confirm a story before they write something. This is going to begin a whole new round of blogosphere criticisms, how readers should trust professional journalists before trusting people like, uh, me.
Rick called me into his office first thing this morning and threatened to fine me $50,000 if I ever write another "inflammatory, untrue account" of "team dynamics." His statement was pretty broad. When asked to elaborate, he told me he had real work to do. He left me standing in his office while he took his bat and glove out to practice field #3 to shag balls.
The main question: Who/what was my source? The other main question: Why did I publish this story? The third question: Is it really that big of a deal?
Since the press deluged me with questions and accusations at my locker, none of which I would answer since we don't speak on the record, I will answer the main question the way they'd approve of if I was one of them: I won't reveal my source. I don't have to. I can tell you this person avoided me today. I will tell you this person has a lot of questions to answer from me. Was I set up? I don't know yet. I'm going to try to find out. Why would I possibly be set up? I have some thoughts, but they're all paranoid. I'll sleep on it and work on my theories tomorrow.
I published the story because I thought it was true. Yes, I told Rick and Alvin a couple of weeks ago that I'd wait for them to make major team announcements before I posted anything, unless the announcement was about me. I broke my promise, but not on purpose. I figured everyone would have jumped on it right away. Nobody did because the story wasn't true. I was given misinformation; I was the only one given this misinformation. I was wrong to have published it. I am very embarrassed and very sorry.
I take it back.
Now, is this all a big deal? Not in the scheme of the whole world. It's a non-story when compared to who our next president is going to be or how many of our soldiers were hurt or killed in Iraq already this month. From a worldly perspective, it's not a big deal at all. I saw, however, that it is being treated like a big deal. Katie Couric did a whole thing about this last night on the CBS Evening News With Walter Cronkite. The NY Times had something on their front page - not the sports section - about how this story was symptomatic of the problem with "amateur journalism" and "the ego of the masses." Or, in my case, a "massive ego." Just take my embarrassment quotient and multiply it by ten. Summing this part up, it's not a big deal compared to the real world, but you'd never know it.
From a team and personal perspective, yes, it's a pretty big deal. I've already told you how embarrassing this is. But even more important, I was misled by someone who I never would have thought would have misled me like this; someone I've known for a long time. That's more than disappointing. I will have a conversation with this person. Just need to find him (or her) first.
Teamwise, I created dissension when there didn't need to be any. I wrote how a number of guys who've been with the team for a long time would be mad that Felipe was made captain. This was very, very true. There was some serious Felipe Bashing going on inside this locker room yesterday late. None of it needed to happen. Not one word needed to be said against this innocent man; my teammate. The reactions were based on an untruth. I owe a huge apology to Felipe. I owe a big one to my team as well. I'm sure they feel quite guilty today. They're embarrassed too. That part is all my fault and doesn't help us win a championship. It just distracts them from their - our - goal. Sorry.
Where do I go from here? Nowhere. I admit my mistake. I apologize for it. I won't make any excuses for what I wrote or why I wrote it. I can whine about how I was probably set up (I probably was), but without proof or reason, what's the point? Setup or not, I hurt Felipe and I hurt my team. I hope that's something I never do again.
Here's something that I think is very important: I am not going to stop writing this blog. My face is getting sore from the amount of blushing I've been doing since yesterday, yet that won't stop me from doing this. I'd be more embarrassed, my "massive ego" would take a bigger hit, if I did stop. I'd rather swallow my pride and apologize than stomp on it and quit. No, I'm in this for the long haul, taking my bumps and bruises as I go. I hope you stay along for the ride.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Absent Captain
Felipe Castro, our somewhat shy, "lead by example" $97 million outfielder, was anointed captain of the team yesterday by manager Rick Churches and GM Alvin Kirby. The news, delivered through the time-tested method of word of mouth, was met with a bout of jovial silence. In truth, most everyone on the team loves Felipe. He works as hard, or harder, than anyone on the roster. He runs and dives and never dogs it. Probably a good choice.
Probably.
Why my air of dissension? Number 1, Felipe hasn't shown up to camp yet. In effect, he was anointed Captain in absencia. I'm sure he'd like to be here in a perfect world, but since his mother's kidnapping in Venezuela, he's been home, I assume trying to help. Not really sure since we haven't had any contact (not that we should). My guess is that Rick and Alvin went about this course of action to pump up the man who is the key to this year's team. Which leads me to number 2...
Number 2, Felipe will be the first to admit that his first season with the team, last season, was his worst on the field since his rookie year in 2000. He only hit 16 home runs (they projected upper 30s), only had 69 RBIs (they projected 100+), stole only 12 bases (another 30+ projection) and only hit .261. I bet Alvin's glad that contract is backloaded.
Number 3, Felipe has been on this team for one year. One. There are guys here who've been here for ten times longer, who played for this team during its championship runs, who also command tremendous respect in the clubhouse. I tend to think that, upon reflection, there may be some unhappy campers in this space over the next few weeks.
Number 4... Well, I can stop at three.
Your first thought, possibly, is if I'm angry, or jealous, since this will be my 14th year with the club. No, not really. I mean, who doesn't still have dreams of leading their forces to victory? Sure, if they'd come to me I would have accepted the responsibility. But I doubt they would ever do that because I only play once every 5 days. I don't have any control over how we play the other 4 days and a captain, I think, needs to have his fingers in the pie all the time. Me, I'd just eat the pie and have to work off the excess calories before they found themselves lodged under my chin. Either way, my time with the team is running out. Felipe's got 6 years left on his deal. I'll have five chins and no scalp hair by the time he gets an extension or moves on.
Besides, the day I wrote Word One of this blog was the day I was taken out of the running. I'm nobody's best friend down here. Many guys are a little wary of me, concerned they'll say something in confidence and I'll break that confidence, spilling the beans here. My intention with this isn't to lose friends. But it has influenced some to consider becoming enemies.
Speaking of Rick (I'm pretty much kidding), he did give us an update on Felipe. He's been working out at home with a team-appointed personal trainer and said, no matter what, he'd be up here by the 15th. He'll get in 2 weeks of games, enough to (hopefully) get his timing down before the regular season starts on April 1. (I'm not counting the 2 games between Arizona and Philadelphia in Japan starting on 3/25.)
When Felipe shows up, I expect he'll get a warm welcome. He's been through a lot. And with his new appointment, he's going to go through even more. I hope he enjoys the welcome he gets, because none of this makes sense. It's a surprising call from the powers that be. For Felipe, it's only going to get harder.
Probably.
Why my air of dissension? Number 1, Felipe hasn't shown up to camp yet. In effect, he was anointed Captain in absencia. I'm sure he'd like to be here in a perfect world, but since his mother's kidnapping in Venezuela, he's been home, I assume trying to help. Not really sure since we haven't had any contact (not that we should). My guess is that Rick and Alvin went about this course of action to pump up the man who is the key to this year's team. Which leads me to number 2...
Number 2, Felipe will be the first to admit that his first season with the team, last season, was his worst on the field since his rookie year in 2000. He only hit 16 home runs (they projected upper 30s), only had 69 RBIs (they projected 100+), stole only 12 bases (another 30+ projection) and only hit .261. I bet Alvin's glad that contract is backloaded.
Number 3, Felipe has been on this team for one year. One. There are guys here who've been here for ten times longer, who played for this team during its championship runs, who also command tremendous respect in the clubhouse. I tend to think that, upon reflection, there may be some unhappy campers in this space over the next few weeks.
Number 4... Well, I can stop at three.
Your first thought, possibly, is if I'm angry, or jealous, since this will be my 14th year with the club. No, not really. I mean, who doesn't still have dreams of leading their forces to victory? Sure, if they'd come to me I would have accepted the responsibility. But I doubt they would ever do that because I only play once every 5 days. I don't have any control over how we play the other 4 days and a captain, I think, needs to have his fingers in the pie all the time. Me, I'd just eat the pie and have to work off the excess calories before they found themselves lodged under my chin. Either way, my time with the team is running out. Felipe's got 6 years left on his deal. I'll have five chins and no scalp hair by the time he gets an extension or moves on.
Besides, the day I wrote Word One of this blog was the day I was taken out of the running. I'm nobody's best friend down here. Many guys are a little wary of me, concerned they'll say something in confidence and I'll break that confidence, spilling the beans here. My intention with this isn't to lose friends. But it has influenced some to consider becoming enemies.
Speaking of Rick (I'm pretty much kidding), he did give us an update on Felipe. He's been working out at home with a team-appointed personal trainer and said, no matter what, he'd be up here by the 15th. He'll get in 2 weeks of games, enough to (hopefully) get his timing down before the regular season starts on April 1. (I'm not counting the 2 games between Arizona and Philadelphia in Japan starting on 3/25.)
When Felipe shows up, I expect he'll get a warm welcome. He's been through a lot. And with his new appointment, he's going to go through even more. I hope he enjoys the welcome he gets, because none of this makes sense. It's a surprising call from the powers that be. For Felipe, it's only going to get harder.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
18 Holes of Darkness
On Sunday, Mrs. Joan Delaney celebrated the one year anniversary of her majority ownership of the team and regional sports network, NYS. I think her purchase price was in the $800 million range, of which she accounted for about 60% on her own. She comes from political stock; my dad says he would have voted for Mrs. Delaney's father's Massachusetts senate campaign back in the 1960s, but he wasn't the type to vote back then. Not sure if he is today, for that matter.
The group of investors she put together to fund the remaining 40% ranged from the Hip Hop star KC9 (we see him the most during the season) to her husband, Anthony DiMaeo, a Queens-based real estate developer. Mr. DiMaeo is a fixture here this spring, constantly bringing clients around the various practice fields to meet with various players, take a hack in the cage, or just absorb the scene around our Fort Pierce complex. A couple of the guys have complained about the quality of Mr. DiMaeo's clientele, like how things wind up missing from the locker room after one of his "backstage" tours. But he's an owner. What's ours is kind of his, to a degree, so there's not a lot we can do without causing a major uproar.
On Sunday, Mrs. Delaney took the team for a golf outing. While it sounds nice, another minor uproar flared up since the outing took place after a noon game in which we were clobbered 16 to 2. (We're 1 and 5 right now, if you're keeping track, even though the games don't count.) Most of the guys wanted to spend the rest of the afternoon with their families, or away from each other. But, as I said before, she's an owner. The majority owner. There was a little pressure on us to go.
There are 60 players in camp this spring. Because some can't walk or move, 47 of us went on the outing. It was at a place called the Brystal Springs Golf Club in St. Lucie, about half an hour away. We weren't able to tee off until 4:30. The name of the game was Rush. From when a team teed off, they had one hour to play all 18 holes. Not the way most of our resident golfers liked to play, but it was the only way to finish before dark. A couple guys grumbled that we should have played next Sunday, after daylight savings time starts. But I assume Mrs. Delaney had to be somewhere else then.
My team consisted of Mrs. Delaney, GM Alvin Kirby, manager Rick Churches, and me. I'm a horrible golfer and even worse around authority figures. And since I've had nothing but trouble with two of these three authority figures since November, I found the composition of our team somewhat interesting.
Mrs. Delaney is a great golfer. She told us how she was one of the top female amateur golfers in the country while growing up. Her hole-in-one on the fifth hole reminded us of this fact.
I am a terrible golfer. Like bowling, the game of golf fools around negatively with some of the muscles I use for baseball, so I rarely play and, when I do, don't take it seriously.
Before our group teed off - we were the last of 15 groups to go (Mr. DiMaeo brought 2 groups of his own to our "team" outing and KC9 had a group) - I told my team that I stink. I specifically asked them, "Are you going to take this seriously?" They shook their heads. No, was the consensus. There were just out to have a good time.
By the second hole, I could tell they were lying. Rick was swearing up and down the green. Alvin did the opposite and wouldn't speak at all. Mrs. Delaney was doing well, so she agreed to be the designated driver of the cart. I fell into an early hole (pun intended) and was 17 strokes behind Mrs. Delaney by the fifth.
It was around the eighth hole that things bubbled over a bit. Rick missed a birdie and threw his club at the ball, sitting about half an inch from the cup. I laughed. Because I suck, didn't care that I sucked, and didn't care about the score, I had that ability. "Shut the f**k up, Jimmy," Rick said. Mrs. Delaney told him to hush. She's got a pretty salty mouth of her own, but she could tell the acid in Rick's stomach was reaching his tongue.
Alvin, who as a general manager needs to keep his emotions in check at all times, fell apart at the tenth hole. A simple three-inch put veered a hair to the left. Alvin took his putter and snapped it in two over his knee after that.
A second hole-in-one by Mrs. Delaney on the thirteenth cemented her victory, with 5 holes to go. The sun was setting and I'd more than given up twelve holes before. By now, I was more spectator than player, swinging wildly, missing balls, and cheating when possible. Rick went berserk at one point, running after a ball I'd thrown about 25 yards and bringing it back to me. He said I either play by the rules or get off his team. There was a double-meaning there that I chose to ignore. I swung my club like a baseball bat and hit the ball into a sand trap. If it wasn't almost night, I would have made a castle or two, but we were now battling the fading light as well as each other. There wasn't time to play in the sand.
On the 18th hole, I sent Rick and Alvin into a tantrum and muted frenzy, respectively, by coming closest to the hole with a hole in one of my own. Mrs. Delaney told me of a "kinship" she felt with me, the way I'd come back from adversity to succeed. There was a double-meaning there that I chose to embrace. "Thank you," I said. "You inspire me." The whites of Rick's eyes literally turned red and the top of his skull blew off from a cranial steam explosion, just like a cartoon. If it wasn't so dark, I'd have taken a picture.
We had a team dinner to follow. Like with the golf game, significant others weren't invited, so there was quite a bit of quiet discontent. Our Sunday had become a complete washout, what with workouts, the baseball game, and this team outing. But many of us are millionaires; we'll be able to afford plenty of time with our families once we're done with our baseball careers. Mrs. Delaney, who's close to a billionaire, mentioned to me during our game that some people in life need to remember where they came from, while others need to know where they are. As I stood next to Rick, who was playing a game of Rush with a shot of something strong at the bar, I repeated Mrs. Delaney's words. He looked at me and told me to go to hell.
There was no double meaning there. I chose to ignore him anyway.
The group of investors she put together to fund the remaining 40% ranged from the Hip Hop star KC9 (we see him the most during the season) to her husband, Anthony DiMaeo, a Queens-based real estate developer. Mr. DiMaeo is a fixture here this spring, constantly bringing clients around the various practice fields to meet with various players, take a hack in the cage, or just absorb the scene around our Fort Pierce complex. A couple of the guys have complained about the quality of Mr. DiMaeo's clientele, like how things wind up missing from the locker room after one of his "backstage" tours. But he's an owner. What's ours is kind of his, to a degree, so there's not a lot we can do without causing a major uproar.
On Sunday, Mrs. Delaney took the team for a golf outing. While it sounds nice, another minor uproar flared up since the outing took place after a noon game in which we were clobbered 16 to 2. (We're 1 and 5 right now, if you're keeping track, even though the games don't count.) Most of the guys wanted to spend the rest of the afternoon with their families, or away from each other. But, as I said before, she's an owner. The majority owner. There was a little pressure on us to go.
There are 60 players in camp this spring. Because some can't walk or move, 47 of us went on the outing. It was at a place called the Brystal Springs Golf Club in St. Lucie, about half an hour away. We weren't able to tee off until 4:30. The name of the game was Rush. From when a team teed off, they had one hour to play all 18 holes. Not the way most of our resident golfers liked to play, but it was the only way to finish before dark. A couple guys grumbled that we should have played next Sunday, after daylight savings time starts. But I assume Mrs. Delaney had to be somewhere else then.
My team consisted of Mrs. Delaney, GM Alvin Kirby, manager Rick Churches, and me. I'm a horrible golfer and even worse around authority figures. And since I've had nothing but trouble with two of these three authority figures since November, I found the composition of our team somewhat interesting.
Mrs. Delaney is a great golfer. She told us how she was one of the top female amateur golfers in the country while growing up. Her hole-in-one on the fifth hole reminded us of this fact.
I am a terrible golfer. Like bowling, the game of golf fools around negatively with some of the muscles I use for baseball, so I rarely play and, when I do, don't take it seriously.
Before our group teed off - we were the last of 15 groups to go (Mr. DiMaeo brought 2 groups of his own to our "team" outing and KC9 had a group) - I told my team that I stink. I specifically asked them, "Are you going to take this seriously?" They shook their heads. No, was the consensus. There were just out to have a good time.
By the second hole, I could tell they were lying. Rick was swearing up and down the green. Alvin did the opposite and wouldn't speak at all. Mrs. Delaney was doing well, so she agreed to be the designated driver of the cart. I fell into an early hole (pun intended) and was 17 strokes behind Mrs. Delaney by the fifth.
It was around the eighth hole that things bubbled over a bit. Rick missed a birdie and threw his club at the ball, sitting about half an inch from the cup. I laughed. Because I suck, didn't care that I sucked, and didn't care about the score, I had that ability. "Shut the f**k up, Jimmy," Rick said. Mrs. Delaney told him to hush. She's got a pretty salty mouth of her own, but she could tell the acid in Rick's stomach was reaching his tongue.
Alvin, who as a general manager needs to keep his emotions in check at all times, fell apart at the tenth hole. A simple three-inch put veered a hair to the left. Alvin took his putter and snapped it in two over his knee after that.
A second hole-in-one by Mrs. Delaney on the thirteenth cemented her victory, with 5 holes to go. The sun was setting and I'd more than given up twelve holes before. By now, I was more spectator than player, swinging wildly, missing balls, and cheating when possible. Rick went berserk at one point, running after a ball I'd thrown about 25 yards and bringing it back to me. He said I either play by the rules or get off his team. There was a double-meaning there that I chose to ignore. I swung my club like a baseball bat and hit the ball into a sand trap. If it wasn't almost night, I would have made a castle or two, but we were now battling the fading light as well as each other. There wasn't time to play in the sand.
On the 18th hole, I sent Rick and Alvin into a tantrum and muted frenzy, respectively, by coming closest to the hole with a hole in one of my own. Mrs. Delaney told me of a "kinship" she felt with me, the way I'd come back from adversity to succeed. There was a double-meaning there that I chose to embrace. "Thank you," I said. "You inspire me." The whites of Rick's eyes literally turned red and the top of his skull blew off from a cranial steam explosion, just like a cartoon. If it wasn't so dark, I'd have taken a picture.
We had a team dinner to follow. Like with the golf game, significant others weren't invited, so there was quite a bit of quiet discontent. Our Sunday had become a complete washout, what with workouts, the baseball game, and this team outing. But many of us are millionaires; we'll be able to afford plenty of time with our families once we're done with our baseball careers. Mrs. Delaney, who's close to a billionaire, mentioned to me during our game that some people in life need to remember where they came from, while others need to know where they are. As I stood next to Rick, who was playing a game of Rush with a shot of something strong at the bar, I repeated Mrs. Delaney's words. He looked at me and told me to go to hell.
There was no double meaning there. I chose to ignore him anyway.
Monday, March 3, 2008
Remembering A Best Friend
I've gone back to doing something I haven't done in years - carrying a baseball with me wherever I go. I stopped when I began to feel stupid. People would see me and think I was looking for attention. Or they'd ask me to sign it and hand it over. One guy at a sushi joint in LA even tried to steal it from me. But now I'm allegedly more mature. I remembered how holding the ball all the time helped me (except when driving). It created a feeling of "oneness." Not sure if I'm explaining myself well. Let me reboot.
There are days, not just during spring training, when players go through a "dead arm" period. There's no injury. It's mainly fatigue. Your body hasn't caught up with all of the things you want to do, so it rebels. You lift your arm and it feels like it's 500 pounds. This can screw up your legs, your mechanics, your head... It's best, during this period, to slow down, take a few days, and recharge.
I used to never get dead arms because of how I always held a ball. I'd take it everywhere with me, to workouts, to meals, to meetings, even to bed. For years I did this. And for years a baseball was like a second skin. It felt as natural in my hand as hair felt on my head. Now that I am in the full out process (and hopefully drawn out process) of going through male pattern baldness, hair on my head is no longer necessarily the most natural feeling. (ed. note: I took a break at this point to spend 20 minutes in front of a mirror, trying to push my scalp forward. Of course, all that did was wrinkle my forehead and nose and shift the impending baldness to the back of my neck. I looked like an insecure bulldog.) Uh, trying to get back on track. Hmm. Okay, I figured it out. Basically, I didn't get dead arms because of how a baseball felt in my hand. Something about how the muscles in the hand and forearm were always being used; something about my grip being employed so often the arm was pretty much in shape 365 days out of the year. And since I wasn't throwing much in the off season, the muscles were kept strong without the stress of an additional 4000 pitches.
Then I stopped. And guess what? The dead arms began.
I never missed a scheduled game in my whole career until last year, when I missed 34 of my possible 35 starts. Was this because I'd stopped with the year-round baseball exercise? Had all of my muscles atrophied enough that they never came back, allowing my UCL to fray and eventually snap?
I've thought about this a lot over the last month or so. No doctors have told me there's any medical evidence to support my theory. Yet, they also said that going back to holding the ball all the time couldn't hurt me. In fact, since I didn't really hold one at all from last April to this December, it would probably help my mind become familiar once again with my best friend, especially since I have a new elbow that wasn't introduced until recently.
The lesson for all of you out there? If something works for you, don't stop. Don't let your mother or your spousal equivalent or your pals convince you you're bananas. Who cares if people think you're a little quirky? Keep it up.
For me, it's nice to know I still have a healthy relationship with a piece of cowhide, some tightly wrapped string, and a handful of stitches. (FYI - don't try licking a baseball. There's no chocolate center.) Like any best friend, it has answered my call and been there for me when I needed him the most.
There are days, not just during spring training, when players go through a "dead arm" period. There's no injury. It's mainly fatigue. Your body hasn't caught up with all of the things you want to do, so it rebels. You lift your arm and it feels like it's 500 pounds. This can screw up your legs, your mechanics, your head... It's best, during this period, to slow down, take a few days, and recharge.
I used to never get dead arms because of how I always held a ball. I'd take it everywhere with me, to workouts, to meals, to meetings, even to bed. For years I did this. And for years a baseball was like a second skin. It felt as natural in my hand as hair felt on my head. Now that I am in the full out process (and hopefully drawn out process) of going through male pattern baldness, hair on my head is no longer necessarily the most natural feeling. (ed. note: I took a break at this point to spend 20 minutes in front of a mirror, trying to push my scalp forward. Of course, all that did was wrinkle my forehead and nose and shift the impending baldness to the back of my neck. I looked like an insecure bulldog.) Uh, trying to get back on track. Hmm. Okay, I figured it out. Basically, I didn't get dead arms because of how a baseball felt in my hand. Something about how the muscles in the hand and forearm were always being used; something about my grip being employed so often the arm was pretty much in shape 365 days out of the year. And since I wasn't throwing much in the off season, the muscles were kept strong without the stress of an additional 4000 pitches.
Then I stopped. And guess what? The dead arms began.
I never missed a scheduled game in my whole career until last year, when I missed 34 of my possible 35 starts. Was this because I'd stopped with the year-round baseball exercise? Had all of my muscles atrophied enough that they never came back, allowing my UCL to fray and eventually snap?
I've thought about this a lot over the last month or so. No doctors have told me there's any medical evidence to support my theory. Yet, they also said that going back to holding the ball all the time couldn't hurt me. In fact, since I didn't really hold one at all from last April to this December, it would probably help my mind become familiar once again with my best friend, especially since I have a new elbow that wasn't introduced until recently.
The lesson for all of you out there? If something works for you, don't stop. Don't let your mother or your spousal equivalent or your pals convince you you're bananas. Who cares if people think you're a little quirky? Keep it up.
For me, it's nice to know I still have a healthy relationship with a piece of cowhide, some tightly wrapped string, and a handful of stitches. (FYI - don't try licking a baseball. There's no chocolate center.) Like any best friend, it has answered my call and been there for me when I needed him the most.
Friday, February 29, 2008
Here We Go Again
You probably saw in the notes section of your paper today that Mike Murphy, who was signed to a 4-year deal 3 years ago and has pitched in 27 games (he was projected to have started 90+) suffered another setback yesterday. After showering, Mike used his hair dryer (I wish I still had the need for one) on high. Apparently, he was talking to someone and lost track of time. By holding the dryer with his right (pitching) arm cocked in place for too long, as if he was holding a gun, his hand and elbow stiffened up on him. Apparently, they had to pry the still-running dryer (couldn't anybody find the off switch?) out of his hand with, no joke, a pair of pliers and a screwdriver. His hand turned out to have a minor cramp, but his elbow - connected to his arm which is connected to his two-time surgically repaired shoulder - suffered severe swelling. After an MRI came back, it was announced that Mike had torn his UCL and would miss the entire season.
I feel horrible for the guy, who wanted to live up to his $56 million contract in the worst way. He'll never throw another pitch for us. It's a shame.
Mike is an example of all that has gone wrong for this team since we last won a championship in 2000. Terrible injuries (his, mine), age (me again), male pattern baldness (not valid for this discussion, but me again), underperforming superstars (I won't raise my hand for fear of damaging a shoulder), rookies out of their league, poor management... Across the board, we have made mistake after mistake while suffering from more than our fair share of bad luck.
I could tell the mood around here wasn't that of a winning, optimistic atmosphere after the latest Mike Murphy injury. Even our new high-ceiling guys - Kai Goto, Lyman Gaye - showed concern. This is part superstition, yes. But when superstition crawls into your psyche, it's damn hard to shed it and play as well as you're capable of playing.
There's not a lot a person can do to combat superstition. Manager, and my new buddy in detente, Rick Churches, has since banned hair dryers from the clubhouse, which will probably negatively affect GE stock for the next 12 months.
But there's superstition and there's also just bad, or in Mike's case, dumb luck. The worst injury of this sort that I know of happened to Yancy Breckman about ten years ago. That off season, he was dating a deaf girl and desperate to take things (you know what I mean) as far as they could go in the relationship. He tried to teach himself sign language and, in a bout of enthusiasm, poked himself in his right eye, damaging his cornea. The (then) lifetime .300 hitter didn't ever play a full season again and never hit higher than .220.
If manager back then, I wonder if Rick would have banned fingers from the clubhouse.
As for me, I'm scheduled to throw off a mound tomorrow for the first time. Nothing crazy. I'm not throwing all of my pitches yet. But my core and lower body feel great; honestly, better than they've felt in years. I've pulled back from three-a-day workouts to two-a-days. Our strength & conditioning coach Will Twain wants me to think full season now. He's concerned that I'll be exhausted in August.
We're 0 and 2 so far this spring, which doesn't mean anything. However, our owner, Mrs. Joan Delaney, is scheduled to be here this weekend. I just hope she's careful on her plane. We don't want her to strain her back getting up out of her seat.
Rick would probably ban air travel from the clubhouse for the rest of the season.
I feel horrible for the guy, who wanted to live up to his $56 million contract in the worst way. He'll never throw another pitch for us. It's a shame.
Mike is an example of all that has gone wrong for this team since we last won a championship in 2000. Terrible injuries (his, mine), age (me again), male pattern baldness (not valid for this discussion, but me again), underperforming superstars (I won't raise my hand for fear of damaging a shoulder), rookies out of their league, poor management... Across the board, we have made mistake after mistake while suffering from more than our fair share of bad luck.
I could tell the mood around here wasn't that of a winning, optimistic atmosphere after the latest Mike Murphy injury. Even our new high-ceiling guys - Kai Goto, Lyman Gaye - showed concern. This is part superstition, yes. But when superstition crawls into your psyche, it's damn hard to shed it and play as well as you're capable of playing.
There's not a lot a person can do to combat superstition. Manager, and my new buddy in detente, Rick Churches, has since banned hair dryers from the clubhouse, which will probably negatively affect GE stock for the next 12 months.
But there's superstition and there's also just bad, or in Mike's case, dumb luck. The worst injury of this sort that I know of happened to Yancy Breckman about ten years ago. That off season, he was dating a deaf girl and desperate to take things (you know what I mean) as far as they could go in the relationship. He tried to teach himself sign language and, in a bout of enthusiasm, poked himself in his right eye, damaging his cornea. The (then) lifetime .300 hitter didn't ever play a full season again and never hit higher than .220.
If manager back then, I wonder if Rick would have banned fingers from the clubhouse.
As for me, I'm scheduled to throw off a mound tomorrow for the first time. Nothing crazy. I'm not throwing all of my pitches yet. But my core and lower body feel great; honestly, better than they've felt in years. I've pulled back from three-a-day workouts to two-a-days. Our strength & conditioning coach Will Twain wants me to think full season now. He's concerned that I'll be exhausted in August.
We're 0 and 2 so far this spring, which doesn't mean anything. However, our owner, Mrs. Joan Delaney, is scheduled to be here this weekend. I just hope she's careful on her plane. We don't want her to strain her back getting up out of her seat.
Rick would probably ban air travel from the clubhouse for the rest of the season.
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