If I Never Got Hurt Last Year...

It's done. There's nothing I can do about it. These are the two phrases I tell myself every morning that I wake up not with my team in New York but with a minor league franchise based out of Nashville. I got hurt a year ago. My surgery was 385 days ago. Physically, I'm fine. Mentally, I just can't get over myself. I've been a starting pitcher since Little League. Heck, in 1980 I threw my first no-hitter, all 6 innings of it (I hit a home run too). Relief pitchers can't throw no-hitters. Relief pitchers put out fires other people started, usually starting pitchers (like I used to be). Relief pitchers wait, warm up, sit down, warm up, sit down, get angry with their manager, then shower and never get in the game. Relief pitchers get frustrated and have to have incredible egos and incredible self-confidence. If I never got hurt last year, I wouldn't have to think about this. But I did get hurt. And now I'm a relief pitcher. There's nothing I can do about it.

I'm not a control freak, or never was before. But I think I'm becoming one. Is that possible? To change later in life from a colorful, flexible fellow to a colorful control freak? I guess so. It's happening to me. Just like that injury. It is what it is, as someone recently said.

I don't like to sulk. It generally doesn't get me anywhere. I spent about 180 of the last 385 days sulking and all it did was get me fat and help me notice the bald spot growing on my forehead. Valuable lesson learned. If I'd never gotten hurt last year, I'd never know sulking was bad.

Relief pitchers can't sulk. They have to be ready every day to play, kind of like outfielders, only more in charge than outfielders, who just stand around waiting for something to happen to them. Relief pitchers make things happen. Pitchers make things happen. I've always been a pitcher. Always tried to make things happen - good things. Maybe I've always been a control freak and didn't know it.

Imagine if you spent your whole life doing something, then something happens and you can't do that thing anymore. Like breathing. Imagine if you could breathe your whole life, then you suddenly can't. It stinks. Horrible metaphor, but that's how I felt while sulking. I couldn't breathe. I thank my lucky stars, I thank God, Yahweh, Buddha, Reagan - I thank who or whatever it is/was that taught me to breathe again. Now I'm breathing one inning a day, one day at a time. I'm used to 7 innings every fifth day. So if I can get around the possibility that I could conceivably pitch 7 innings in a week (one per day - stay with me), I'm therefore pitching just as much as I ever did before. I'm just spreading it out.

It's like if you put a big hamburger on your plate. You want to eat it. And there's a lot of it. Now put that same hamburger, cut up, onto 25 plates. It's not as effective, in terms of presentation to one's hunger palette, as one big burger on one plate. I used to eat one big burger every fifth day. Now I'm eating White Castle every day.

There's more. If I never got hurt last year, I wouldn't have spent as much time with my family last year as I did. Which makes this time, right now, even harder. You get used to things. I was used to a life on the road before the injury. Then I got used to life at home. Yes I was sulking, but I was doing it in the presence of my wife and daughters. They hated me for it, but that's their problem. Now, I'm healthy and on the road again (17 of the first 24 days of the Hounds' season are on the road - and my family isn't even staying with me in my Nashville trailer). And I'm missing my three girls (I threw my wife in there as a "girl" to make her feel better after my previous "that's their problem" statement regarding my sulking at home earlier in this paragraph. Oh, I could have deleted the statement and never had to throw in the "girl" line as an apology gift to my wife, but I didn't so sue me.) Bottom line: If I never got hurt, I never would have known how important my family is to me.

There are other things that have happened that may not have occurred. If I never got hurt last year...

• I never would have had the off season contract dispute with the team.
• The Vets wouldn't have had to fire Larry Picketts and hire Rick Churches to manage.
• I never would have gotten into heated arguments, many times publicly, with Rick Churches because he wouldn't be my manager, laid back Larry Picketts would be.
• Rick Churches would still be in the NYS (our regional sports network) broadcast booth, not managing, and my father, "Red" Scott, would still be anywhere but New York broadcasting games.

If I never got hurt last year...

• I'd already have my 300 wins. Now, as a reliever, it may take me 3 seasons to win 13 more games. Do I want to play that much longer? More important, does anybody else want me to play that much longer?
• I never would have started this blog.
• I'd still be talking to the media.
• I never would have "grown" and "matured" and would be my old, happy, ignorant, lovable self.
• I wouldn't be in as good a shape as I'm in right now.
• I wouldn't be playing in the minor leagues, on rehab assignment. I'd be in New York on a starting assignment.

If I never got hurt last year...

• My Nashville Hounds would probably have a better record than 4 and 16.
• I probably would not be a de facto owner of my Nashville Hounds, thanks to billionaire Charlie Walker.
• I never would have met Andy, my personal trainer who also serves as my security "detail" in Nashville. (He's very big. Don't mess with him.)
• I never would have been sued by the team psychologist (not psychiatrist - there's a difference), Dr. Henry Cohegans, for breaking the terms of our confidentiality agreement because I wouldn't be blogging or even going to him because I never got hurt.

If I never got hurt last year...

• I never would have had public run-ins with my father, "Red" Scott, NYS broadcaster who's mad at me for not talking to the media (him) on the record but blogging instead.
• I never would have been as fulfilled as I am right now with my life.
• I never would have been turned into a relief pitcher.

You know what? It happened. It just did. And there's nothing I can do about it except move on. No more sulking. No more regrets. I got hurt last year and now I'm better. I can't wait to prove myself again in New York.

Selling Spit On eBay

I was told it had to happen, but I just don't think about these things. I'm busy getting my work in, making my right arm not fall off at the elbow. I'm busy traveling with this minor league team, my Nashville Hounds, wondering how much longer I'll have to play in AAA. I'm busy staring into a mirror and looking at the upper right part of my head, where the hair used to be but is slowly deteriorating into something horrifying to me that the scientific community calls "male pattern baldness." My father, the dreaded "Red" Scott, is not bald. And I heard my mother's father, whom we'll call Grandpa and is the one my biology teacher in high school said mattered the most when it comes to the condition of my follicles, still had hair in his forties (he died at 50, so we'll never know how his hair would have developed or regressed). So I stare at the mirror, finger the growing presence of flesh, and watch the final dismantling of my youth, almost like the Russians taking down some nukes aimed at small towns in Iowa, towns that just, by chance, happened to have nukes aimed at Russia. These are the things I think - some say worry - about. Not the presence of my DNA up for sale, by someone else, on eBay.


During the Hounds' last homestand in Nashville, a week ago, I had the pleasure of drinking from a bottle of water, Poland Spring, I believe, on my walk from the stadium clubhouse to my trailer in the Pepsi Field parking lot. Feeling hydrated, I was looking for a garbage can to dump the bottle and small amount of remaining liquid. That's when a stranger, whom we'll call Grandpa - just kidding; this was a woman who, from the look of her, enjoyed her Southern cooking - saw me, asked for an autograph (I obliged with my adopted Southern hospitality) and said she'd throw out my bottle for me. I didn't think twice as I handed her my bottle and thanked her.

Flash forward to yesterday (Wednesday). Here we are in Omaha, about to play the Cats, when, in response to the PA guy, about 3000 fans suddenly throw their bottles of water onto the field. While batboys and team employees scurry about, picking up the plastic containers, Hounds manager Dusty Graves comes over to me, pats me on the back, and tells me I'm now officially "green." I have no idea what he's talking about.

An Omaha Cats employee - could've been a marketing person, could've been an intern, could've been their GM (one minor league employee typically performs the tasks of 5 of their big league counterparts) - comes to our dugout and asks Dusty if it would be okay for me to join him (the employee, a very tall one - skinny too) on the field to mention something about Earth Day and recycling. Dusty laughs and shrugs. "Fine with me," he said. The employee comes over, shakes my hand, and asks me to follow him. I do, happy to have heard the subject matter Dusty had just agreed I would speak about.

There's a loud ovation. "Spit King" flashes on the board. I'm oblivious. The employee asks me to turn. Then I figure it out. eBay and Poland Spring have jointly sponsored the evening's game because of me, because of the bottle of water I let a fan throw out for me. There on the scoreboard is a scanned photo of the bottle. It's part of an eBay website page. It's up for auction. The most recent bid was for $467.55. All for a piece of plastic holding a half-ounce of my backwash. There were 16 hours and 33 minutes left before bidding would close.


I turn back and am told the ballpark is sold out. There weren't 3000 fans there (3000 bottles were thrown, but not every fan elected to throw their bottle), there were nearly 8000 fans. All there for Earth Day's "Spit King" festival, sponsored by eBay and Poland Spring.

I spoke into a microphone set up at home plate. "Baseball been berry, berry good to me." The older Saturday Night Live crowd, the ones who remember Chico Escuela, the former fake ballplayer played by Garrett Morris, laugh. That's about 150 people. Meaning my remark basically brought silence to the crowd. That's a real confidence booster.

I continued. "You know, Omaha, recycling is good, right?" Some hand claps. A whistle, probably aimed at a hot groupie or another man who had more hair. "I think Omaha should always recycle, especially on Earth Day. Right?"

Were they as bored as I was, I wondered. I was happy for the preparation time I'd been given. "Omaha, I've always loved you, as you are part of the Earth, Mother Earth, my Mother Earth, the planet that raised me from a wee pup."

A few more whistles. Some more clapping. Then, it hit me. There was one reason alone why I'd been forced into this situation. But it was nothing a little supply & demand economics couldn't cure. "Omaha, Nebraska, I have an idea. After the game, let's line up and I'll drink a little bit from your bottles of water. Then we can all go on eBay and make some money. Huh? What chu think 'bout dat, Omaha!"

I had them going. "Why should one kook make all the money when 8000 of you should have the same opportunity? Am I right, Omaha? Nebraska? Tell me I'm wrong and I'll just slip into something more comfortable and go to bed."

Now the cheers were there, supporting me, letting me be the dufus I've always had the ability to be. "So sell your Poland Spring bottles on eBay. Those left over, recycle them. Let's save our Mother Earth. Because she been berry berry good to us!"

Those 8000 fans had the power and fury of at least 8250. They were that loud.

Then what happened? Well, I spent 4 hours after the game sipping from water bottles. By 2Am, I was done. When I woke up this morning - extremely tired; being a dufus always comes back to haunt me - I went on eBay and saw not one, but 679 bottles of water featuring my DNA backwash up for bidding. The original bottle? Almost at $500, but no longer climbing at the speed of sound. I considered my idea a success. The large, crazy (yet probably very smart) Southern lady wasn't going to get the amount of money she thought she'd get from me, I had some new friends in Omaha, and Mother Earth could relax for one last day. Who knew that my spit could change the world?

When Going Public Backfires

The little spat my father, Vets announcer "Red" Scott, and I have had over the past few days grew larger last night. We beat Albuquerque in the afternoon and I pitched a 1-2-3 ninth inning, probably my best outing since the return of my healthy arm. The game ended around 3:45 and we were on plane flying to Omaha by 7:00 (what were 11-hour bus rides in AAA as recently as the 1990s are now 3-hour plane flights). I got to my lousy hotel room (what were lousy hotel rooms as recently as the 1990s are still lousy, only 10 years older) by 11:30 and, as I turned on my laptop, got a text message on my cell phone: "Jimmy, I'm going to kill you."

Now before you start thinking this is going to turn into a horror movie (I guess the demented serial killer with the manual miter saw would be waiting for me inside the box spring of my bed), you should know who wrote the text. No, not a fan who lost a bet on me (I have received death threats in the past, seriously, from guys who stood to owe lots of money to bookies if I pitched well on a particular night). My father wrote the text. And he isn't really going to kill me. He's just mad.

Because...

He said some dumb, untrue things about me on a couple of NYS broadcasts. I posted some true, but possibly dumb, things about him here. The media has printed and said plenty more, which he liked at first, since he's part of the media and I refuse to speak to them. His "brothers" were going to stand beside him. That's what he thought. Because I don't speak to the media, he thought the media would automatically side with him in this dispute, whether he was right or not. Only, he's starting to get skewered just as badly as me. He's starting to look as bad as me (even though I'm definitely going bald - I can just tell - and he's still got a full head of hair). The media have turned their backs to him.

So that has angered him. But it isn't the sole reason for the horror-inducing text message. There's more.

There were two voicemails on my cellphone that I didn't mention earlier. Both were from my super agent, Jack Perry. The first:

Jack: Jimmy, call me.

The second:

Jack: Call me now.

Jack's a no-nonsense kind of guy. If he needs you to call him right away, he's most likely got a very good reason for you to do so. I decided to eat before speaking to him.

Around midnight, just as I was stuffing my mouth with a piece of toast smothered in grape jelly (the kitchen in this dive of a hotel only makes breakfast for room service starting at 11PM in the evening), my phone went off. My girls stole my phone for a little bit last week and put on a bunch of ringtones. Now, if I receive a call, some hideous Hip Hop song bleats out of the phone's tiny speaker, reminding me of when the 19 year old guys come up to bat in these incredibly (compared to as recently as the 1990s) nice AAA ballparks. Thus, I had a piece of toast (rye) halfway down my throat when I hit Talk, instantly ridding the room, my ears, and the serial killer in my box spring of the hideous Hip Hop song.

Me: (unintelligible choking sound)
Jack: You didn't call me.
Me: (more choking)
Jack: Swallow, please.

I guess you can now tell Jack has heard me answer the phone with a neck full of food before.

Me: (after swallowing, taking a drink, the liquid going down the wrong tube, coughing and then clearing my throat, then having another drink and clearing my throat again) What?
Jack: You didn't call me.
Me: Yet. I hadn't called you yet.
Jack: Don't get all tense with me.
Me: You're funny when you make jokes about the English language.
Jack: Huh?

Great agent - a super agent. Terrible sense of humor. Just ask one of his three ex-wives.

Jack: Got a call from Mrs. Delaney tonight. She owns your team.
Me: I have heard of the woman.
Jack: She wants you and your father to make nice immediately or he's going to be suspended or fired.
Me: But nothing will happen to me?
Jack: You'll feel really guilty.

So it was now up to me. Either man up and speak with the father I wasn't speaking to so we could end our public squabble, or keep up the public squabble and see him removed from office in disgrace, eventually led away from a Chevy Caprice in handcuffs, a dark raincoat draped over his embarrassed head (that is less bald than mine even though it's 33 years older than mine).

It was 2 AM on the East Coast. I couldn't call Vanessa for her thoughts. She was busy asleep, probably dreaming of men with hair. I couldn't call my shrink since I don't have one anymore as a result of his lawsuit against me for breaking the terms of our confidentiality agreement. There was only one person I could call.

The phone rang. I heard a real ringing sound, not the latest hit by Chingy. The "Hello" was spoken clearly, the voice deep and respected.

"Dad," I said, "it's me. I'm sorry."

Public squabble over.

"Red" Scott

There is nothing scarier than the fury of a parent. Even if the son is 40 years old, an angry father in his early-70s can still be like seeing the shark for the first time in Jaws.

I received a phone call this morning about my dad, "Red" Scott. "Red" is now announcing for the NY Veterans, parent club of the AAA Nashville Hounds, which I'm currently rehabbing with. In typical "Red" fashion, he threw me under a bus in last night's telecast from Chicago. Our problem stems from some misinformation "Red" gave to me in spring training, then a lie he spewed about me to reporters over the weekend. He likes to use his access to me, his son, as a way of drawing attention to himself. (Hey, I credit him for doing this and not Munchausen by Proxy.)

I called him out in my post yesterday, after protecting him for a month, for giving me the embarrassing misinformation in spring training, which I blogged about and which subsequently became a big deal due to my inaccuracies. By all turns furious with my "outrageous behavior," (his words last night), "Red" spoke on the air last night about me as if I was the devil himself. Here's part of what he said:

Red: That Jimmy... He's a piece of work. Maybe if he worked a little harder he'd be in Chicago tonight with the team instead of languishing away with his computer in Nashville.

If I had been in the booth with him, here's what I would have said:

Me: Shut up.

Our conversation would have continued like this:

Red: No, Jimmy. You've never worked as hard as I did at baseball.
Me: Maybe because I had talent.
Red: And where did you get it?
Me: Mom.
Red: Not true. Your mother can't even hold a hot dog right side up.
Me: I thought hot dogs were based on the horizontal principal of -
Red: My point is you are who you are and you are where you are today because of me.
Me: I'm not really in this booth with you. This is a fantasy.
Red: You can't even fantasize right. If I were you fantasizing right now, I'd be in Angelina Jolie's bed, not in a booth.
Me: I'm not tired.
Red: Wisenheimer.
Me: How can I be who I am if I'm nice and don't use people.
Red: All you do is use people. You're a big league ballplayer. It's in the job description. You blow your nose and somebody picks it up for you.
Me: The tissue, you mean.
Red: Huh?
Me: Paraphrasing, you said my nose, if blown, would end up on the -
Red: Why don't you just play baseball? Quit with the blogging. Quit with drawing attention to yourself. Play the game.
Me: Said the man who draws attention to himself like Michelangelo.
Red: I do it for you.
Me: You embarrassed me in front of the whole world.
Red: Did not.
Me: Did too.
Red: You deserved it.
Me: You know in court, your last phrase would mean you admitted to embarrassing me.
Red: So what?
Me: More admission of guilt.
Red: I'm going to the bathroom.
Me: Lotta good this fantasy did for me today.
Red: Yeah.

He's an upsetting man. You can't win with him. But in this case, he thinks he's got the last word. I added up how many people were exposed to his "last words" last night:

NYS Telecast: 350,000 viewers
Print Media Coverage: 1.4 million
Web Media Coverage: 6.75 million
YouTube: 679 hits (as of 4:35 EST today)

I average 647,000 hits on this blog daily. Add that to all of the numbers above, then subtract 679, and I'm ahead. If he was a better man, he'd pledge $1 to charity for every viewer on NYS who hears his reaction to this post tomorrow (the game is in progress in Chicago, so he won't get this in before it ends - burn on him). He's not a better man, nor is he rich, so the charities can keep their wallets closed. You won't see a dime from the guy.

Still, Mom always said to be better than Dad in everything - baseball, marriage, life in general. Hmm. Maybe that's where I got "it" from.

Let's revisit my broadcast booth fantasy:

Red - My point, again, is you are who you are today because of me.
Me - You forgot one thing - Mom. Well, she's not a thing. She's a person. But what I'm trying to say is I got everything from her. She made me better than you. You only served as a benchmark for me to achieve my greatness.
Red - (sitting in thought, scratching is gray hair that was never, ever red) See. I was a benchmark. Without me, you're nothing.
Me - I'm going to the bathroom.
Red - Lotta good this fantasy revisit did for you.
Me - Yeah.

Bottom line - I love you Mom. Dad, I love you too. I can't stand you, but I love you. Say what you want on the air. Try to ruin my blogdom (instead of kingdom, which he thinks I want by blogging). Try to make me in your image by talking to the press and doing all the things every other baseball player since Jesus (I hear He had an awesome splitter) has done. Try not to let me be an individual. I don't care. I am who I am. It has nothing to do with you. And it probably never will.

My Broiling Self-Inflicted Anger

Let me restate for the record (or CD, or mp3 if we're going to stay current and I'm going to feel "cool" amongst the younger crowd), I am not speaking to the press. The "press" in my case is defined as:

1. Print media
2. Online media
3. Television media
4. Radio media
5. Telepathic media

"Media" is defined as the stuff you read, watch, see, hear or sense, respectively.

In other words, if you're in the media and you want a quote from Jimmy Scott (that's me), you need to come here.

You know where you don't go? You don't go to my father, "Red" Scott, currently a TV analyst for the Vets' network, NYS (New York Sports). He's not my spokesman. Yes, he's the male reason for my birth, but since an incident in spring training, we haven't spoken.

The incident? I've purposely not alluded to it over the last month out of respect for the elder Scott's new position at NYS. I didn't want him to get off to a bad start, even though he did something to me in March that made me look foolish for a news cycle and bloggers in general look irresponsible for two to three news cycles. It also showed this man's true colors, which are self-promotion first, family second.

Back in March, "Red" told me that management was going to appoint Felipe Castro as team captain. I wrote about it, questioning the thinking on management's part while trying to support the decision, as Felipe is a great teammate who's currently going through the hell of wondering about the fate of his kidnapped mother in Venezuela every day.

For my comments, I was broiled under a hot, fiery furnace. I was criticized as someone looking to promote one's self. Hey, I never denied the fact that a scoop would be cool. I thought I had a scoop because I trusted the then unidentified source. Instead, I was lied to and caused unnecessary friction within my clubhouse for a short time.

Fast forward to today. Headlines in the NY Post and Daily News (just a note in Newsday) and North Jersey's Bergen Record state how my injury last year was self-inflicted. In a nutshell, the report states I caused the UCL in my pitching elbow to snap and ruin my 2007 season 2 pitches in on my own. Little did they realize my season was ruined 1 pitch in when Lyman Gaye hit it for a Home Run (that I believe is still traveling).

The source of this new story? "Red" Scott, my father. He says I told him in the spring that, because I was out of shape at the start of the season last year, and my overweightness (that's not a word, is it?) added undue stress to my UCL. Pop! Out for the year because I'm fat. He says I said this to him. Read the articles. He's quoting me.

Of course, my mailbox fills up in seconds on my cellphone with calls from local and national media from the 5 categories above (which is weird; the telepathic media shouldn't have to call if I can read their minds). I deleted each voicemail. My email in box filled quickly. All deleted (including, accidentally, an email with a great offer from a Nashville porn shoppe selling the best in Southern pornography [note: if you're from Nashville, you don't spell shop with two P's and an e]). Being in Albuquerque for our series against Albuquerque Sunshine, I'm a half-step further out of the loop than had I been in New York. Thus, this all came rather quickly and was a complete surprise.

So, I'm due a rebuttal and some other remarks.

JIMMY'S OFFICIAL REBUTTAL

I didn't arrive into 2007 camp out of shape. I didn't hurt myself in the first game of the year last year. By no means was my UCL damage "self-inflicted." It hurt too much to be something I'd do to myself.

What I think happened here is I told my father in the off season, while I was going through some contract issues with the team, that I was out of shape then. In November. I was fat and going bald. The baldness couldn't be helped (I'm told). The fatness could. Once our contract issues were ironed out, I worked my tuckuss off to get to spring training in good shape. I wasn't perfect, but I was damn close. Currently, I'd say I'm in the best physical shape I've been in for years. (Mentally I'm a mess, but that's neither here or there nor somewhere less fun than the aforementioned two.)

In essence, my father either misheard comments I made (that gives him an easy out) or he twisted them to make this story (I was going to describe the word "story" as "cockamamied," but I don't know how to spell "cockamamied." [spell check helped, never mind]). Either way, they are false, untrue, and not something I ever said.

END REBUTTAL HERE

"Red" and I have had our missteps over the years, but this is the first time that he's thrown me under a bus so publicly. He hurt me last month and he hurt me this weekend. I guess I'll be due again in May.

Nevertheless, I put in a call to my super agent, Jack Perry, who put in a call to ownership. "Red" is out of control and needs to put a damper on his mouth. I can't imagine a father doing somethings like these to his son, then again, it's happened to me twice now so I should get a little more creative quickly.

What does my mother think? Good question. I asked and here was her official response (media, please don't bug her, she has a good right hook):

Dear Jimmy,

I'm sorry your father behaved irrationally again. Next time you're together, I'll let you give him his medication, as much of it as you like.

Love you,
Mom

I think that about sums it up. My plan is to overdose my father into pulling a Jimi Hendrix.

So now you have all of the official statements:

1. From my dad, which was false.
2. From my mom, which gave me permission to medicate my father against his will.
3. From me, who is angry but feeling better now.

If you have any questions, don't call. I'll just delete your voicemail. That goes for you too, "Red." Don't dial the number. It won't work for you.

The Home Team

Seems like none of us can read a schedule. Vanessa came to visit Wednesday and was going to stay until Sunday. Now she's going to fly home Saturday morning because my Nashville Hounds have to fly to Albuquerque after Friday night's game. You could blame me for this scheduling screwup, since I don't really look at the schedule until the last minute, at least down here. In fact, I was in the act of being blamed when something happened.

We got a knock on the door of my trailer Thursday night after the game. It was about 11:30 and we were just about to go to bed (I like games that end in less than 3 hours, especially games in which I don't pitch). Andy, my personal trainer turned security "detail," has a special knock that he uses. I thought this was one of them. I say "thought" because I can never remember which special knock he's using. He tells me, I look him straight in the eye and tell him I'm listening, then space out thinking about chunky tomato sauce or something.

So...uh, oh yeah. Thursday night. A knock. "Maybe it's Andy," I said to Vanessa. She tells me to look out the window. I tell her I don't need to. I know his knock (even though I was extremely unsure). Thus, I open the door and...it's our (Vanessa's and mine, not Andy's and mine) two daughters, Alyssa and Grace, standing outside, shivering. I look around and don't see Andy anywhere. So much for security.

Hugs are exchanged. Squeals of delight spew out of Vanessa. I smile because I haven't seen my girls since March 30th, almost 3 weeks. We sit down and I grill them:

Me: How did you get here?
Alyssa: Plane.
Me: I mean, who arranged this trip?
Grace: Me. There's this think called the Internet.
Me: I've heard of it. Free porn, right?
Vanessa: Jimmy!
Me: How did you pay for your tickets?
Alyssa: We didn't.
Grace: You did.

Instantly, I'm lost. I did? Just as I had forgotten Vanessa was going to come by the day before, had I forgotten my two spawn were going to come by tonight? Surely, Vanessa would have told me, or reminded me.

Me: Surely, Vanessa, you would have told me or reminded me they were going to visit.
Vanessa: Yes, I would have.
Me: But you didn't.
Vanessa: Correct.
Me: (wrinkling my brow, desperately trying to figure this out)
Alyssa: It's not math, Dad. Surprise.
Me: That doesn't answer my question. How did you pay for this trip?
Grace: Ever heard of credit cards?
Me: Yes. (but said like a dufus)

Silence. Nobody finished Grace's thought. It just floated in the air above us.

Grace: What are you looking at?
Me: (looking down) Huh?
Alyssa: You gave us credit cards for Christmas. We used them to pay for our flight.
Me: (nodding and happy that the world was no longer shaped like an octagon)
Vanessa: Your father is tired and just misses you.
Me: Missed. They're right here. The missing is over.

We talked for a while. They're doing well back in their own school. I didn't like the fact that they flew by themselves from Newark to Nashville. But it was still good to be together, the whole family, the four of us, in my trailer built for two - maximum.

Me: (yawning) So where are you staying tonight?
Vanessa/Alyssa/Grace: Here.

"Here." Another word that floated in the air above us.

Grace: What are you looking at?
Me: (looking down) Here?
Vanessa: Where else?
Me: Has anybody seen how small this trailer is? Do you know who I am? I'm Jimmy Scott. Baseball star? You expect me to -
Vanessa: You can sleep in Andy's trailer.

Knock knock. "What?" I said it was me. "Who?" I said it was me. Baseball star? Andy opened his door. "You didn't use the knock." I apologized. He looked at my blanket, my toothbrush and toothpaste, the pajamas draped over my frame. "What? Did Vanessa kick you out?" I told him about my visitors. "And?" I told him about the suggested sleeping arrangements. "Fine."

Andy is a big man. He's not fat. Personal trainers aren't allowed to be fat, just like defensive ends in football aren't allowed to be skinny. Andy is just a big-boned, huge African-American man. "You ever play football back in the day?" I asked. He said no. Got in the way of his violin lessons.

His trailer, about as nice as mine, which isn't exactly paradise on wheels, shook with every step he took. He showed me a couch where I could sleep, then turned off the lights and began to sing. (Andy's a great blues singer.)

Andy: Take me, woman, to that place -
Me: Andy, you're singing.
Andy: - where you want to be. Take me, woman to-
Me: It's going on 1AM. We should probably sleep.
Andy: -that place where we're going. Oh, oh oh, oh...
Me: Do you sing yourself to sleep every night?

Silence. At least this night, he did.

The Pleasant Surprise That I Should Have Remembered

We won yesterday! My Nashville Hounds are now 3 and 11, but still only 5.5 games out of first place. While I won't be here for any championship run in August, they're still my team. These are my guys. It's like "Survivor" down here. You're constantly competing with each other to be the next winner (who gets called up to New York), yet each time somebody leaves (occasionally one of us gets cut or demoted), it's sad. We don't cry on camera, gently wiping the tears from our eyes so we don't mess our makeup. But we do feel a loss. I felt that way when Felipe Castro was called up last week, and he was only here for just under half a dozen games. I'll feel that way when I head north for good. These are my Hounds, my boys. Every one is a winner.

I sound like the host of some children's TV show. "Every one of you won today, whether you have a trophy or disgraced your family name. Good luck in life. You're going to need it."

Not sure if you sense it, but I'm a little giddy today. Not due to my performance on Wednesday. To get some good work in, I pitched both the 8th and 9th. The 8th was great. 1-2-3 inning. I needed that. The 9th, not as good. Leadoff HR and two more hits before getting out of it. 2 innings, 3 hits, 1 run. That's not good enough yet. However, the 8th is what I'll remember. I felt good and pitched well. Remember the good, forget the bad, but try to learn from it too. Complicated.

The giddiness - don't worry, I remember - was brought on by... Oh, I won't spoil it for you. But this will help you know why I'll remember the 8th more than the 9th.

I was sitting in the bullpen beginning in the 6th inning and saw somebody familiar behind home plate. I squinted and thought, "Damn, she looks familiar." Then I shook my head and tried to forget about it by spitting pistachio shells all over the place.

Just before the 8th, I was throwing warmup pitches when the familiar woman caught my eye again. I froze, just as my catcher, Einer Rosario, threw the ball back to me, hitting me square in the chest. I dropped to the ground, everyone - I mean EVERYONE - came running. But I never took my eye off the familiar woman. Because I finally realized she was my wife, Vanessa. And I was supposed to meet her before the game. Hell, I was supposed to arrange to have somebody pick her up at the airport.

Um, I forgot.

Now you know why I froze.

My chest will be fine. There's a bruise. It's sore, but only when I breathe. "Serves you right," my lovely spouse said to me after the game as I gave her a tour of the stadium (took about 3 minutes). I just smiled (without breathing). It was so great to be surprised by my wife's visit, even though it technically wasn't a surprise since she told me she was coming. I mean, she gave me all of her flight information, including arrival time. This wasn't supposed to be a surprise.

But I forgot, so, uh, SURPRISE!!

When I said, "What a fantastic surprise," to her, she wasn't sure what I was talking about for almost a full second. Then she shook her head in that You May Be 40 But You Still Need A Nanny To Look After You kind of way.

She came down because she had missed my birthday over the weekend and also wanted to see the trailer that I'm living in in the Pepsi Field parking lot. Not sure if you've seen it. Here you go:




Vanessa slept here last night. Did I mention (yes) a while back that it had two sinks? It does. And let me tell you: Two sinks in a bathroom saves a marriage.





Vanessa got to meet my protege, Rey Marcos, who is 17 but looks 16. She asked me, around 10:30 last night, if Rey was ever going to leave. I told her yes. Around 11:15, she asked me again. I understood this time and asked Rey to leave by 11:45, after Vanessa said she was going to bed. Unfortunately, my trailer only has one room.

So in order for my spousal equivalent to sleep, I had to help Rey leave through the throng of groupies outside wearing thongs.

I assume he made it home to his hotel room since I didn't get a call from his parents (who call me if they haven't heard from him in more than 5 hours) or the police.

I went to bed happy, still giddy about the surprise visit from my wife. She's flying back to Newark Airport on Sunday morning, which will give us some much needed time together and also give her a break from her stalker "friend" Connie, who is as bad as ever. More on Connie tomorrow.

But today, I'm giddy all over. It's nice to be loved, even if you can't remember that you are sometimes.