Bleacher Report - Articles by David Philp

My Broiling, Self-Inflicted Anger

David Philp — Mon, 21 Apr 2008 12:35:00 -0400

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.

Rowdy Rally In Nashville

David Philp — Fri, 04 Apr 2008 06:26:00 -0400

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 five minutes by foot. They say most car accidents occur within two 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 five-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 five 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 1 a.m. I was in bed. To my calculations, I'd lost out on three and a half hours of sleep. Not good because I had to be in the locker room this morning at 8 a.m. 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 two 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 ninth, trying to protect a two-run lead. By giving up five 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.

A Farewell To Arms

David Philp — Thu, 27 Mar 2008 05:35:00 -0400

It's been a somewhat tumultuous spring training for me personally, but until the Corey Belle/Lyman Gaye incident the other day, the rest of the team has been fairly sedate.

That the Belle/Gaye incident is all anyone will remember from this spring is good in that we didn't have any major injuries (even Lyman escaped his car accident in one piece) and had a winning record (we're 18 and 10 with three games left). It's bad because, well, that means everybody's going to remember the day Corey Belle and Lyman Gaye, teammates, got into a fight.

As you all know by now, the fight escalated a bit yesterday. (I say "a bit" sarcastically.)

At this point in spring training, doing drills is a thing of the past. Players are still working on some things, but mostly we're all about starting the season. We've been down here since Valentine's Day and it's time to go home. At least that's what I think. Only I'm not going home, I'm going to Nashville to start my season. My arm strength is improving and I'm hoping to spend only a couple of weeks there instead of a month. I think Rick and Alvin are set on the latter, but I'm going to try to convince them otherwise.

Which leads me to yesterday's simulated game. Wait, before that...Before yesterday even started, the team announced a 10-game suspension for Corey Belle to start the season. Personally, I was hoping for about three times that, just to make a point, because 10 games will be reduced to four or five after Corey appeals. But it's still something, and I credit manager Rick Churches and GM Alvin Kirby with willing to risk losing our best hitter for the first two weeks of the season.

Turns out they were risking a little bit more.

Back to the fake—sorry—simulated game. I didn't want to travel two hours by bus to Daytona to play the Commons, so I found myself on a back field with Willie Cordero, Diego Munoz, Steve Pond and a handful of minor leaguers, pitchers who were about to be sent to their own camp. We were going to get some work in and face mostly minor leaguers. Lyman Gaye was part of the offensive squad so he could get 8 to 10 ABs and work on his timing.

Rick didn't make the trip to Daytona either. He wanted to get a good look at Willie and me and a couple of other guys coming off injury and trying to make an impact as soon as possible. Alvin, as always, was floating around the complex too.

I guess it was the fifth inning. I was on the mound and Lyman was at the plate. Funny to me, since Lyman was the guy at the plate last April when I blew out my elbow. That made this a good test for me. Could I overcome my demons? Could I overcome my recent past? Would I have a bad, superstitious feeling and be unable to perform?

The questions have yet to be answered.

I toed the rubber and looked down at Lyman as he dug into the box. The ball was hidden in my glove and I began my motion. But then something caught my eye and ears. It was Corey Belle, in streetclothes (not fatigues like a few places reported), jawing away. Apparently, he'd gotten the memo about his suspension and wanted to speak about it. He was yelling, "The Belle tolls, mother******! The Belle tolls, mother******!" I was sort of a Hemingway buff in college and pleasantly (under the circumstances) surprised at Corey's literary reference. (Later I was told he'd heard it from a rap song by Lil' J. I have a call into Lil' J's reps for comment.)

Normally, a pitcher can work through this kind of distraction. I've pitched while 50,000 fans (not mine) have booed me. I've pitched while drunken fans brawl in the loge level. I've pitched while The Kissing Thief has run onto the field to make out with a good looking shortstop. But simulated games are different.

No matter how hard anyone tries to make them appear real, they're not. So I didn't have my regular intensity. I didn't have the focus I usually have on the mound. That's why, when Corey came barrelling onto the sidelines, I stopped and didn't throw my pitch to Lyman. Instead, I watched.

Corey went straight for Rick. "You ballheaded me, man! You turned it off!" Rick, who had been sitting in a foldout chair in front of the dugout, stood up, not in any threatening manner, just like one would stand when guests came over for brie and crackers. Corey didn't stop. He walked right into Rick. Rick told him to back away.

Corey said nothing (finally) and attacked. He threw a punch at Rick's face, made contact, and followed up by starting to strangle (not choke) him. Rick was down on his knees in less than a second (remember these are two very big men, one who hit 40+ HRs last year and one who did 15 years ago).

Corey was now involved in his second fight in three days with a member of his team. The worst part about this one is he was beating up, and apparently trying to kill, his boss. Not a smart move.

By now, Lyman had joined the two-man fray. He made a running tackle of Corey, who didn't release Rick from his grip. The three men rolled. I started to hear the sound of staggered, struggling breathing. Sweat and spit were shooting into the air. A little red, the red of blood, was joining the colors of the men as they battled.

The pile grew. Everyone was trying to get at Corey, who was determined—it seemed—to either kill or send a very pointed message to his field manager.

I had not become involved in the melee. While I've been in my share of on field fights (usually involving some hard playground-type shoving and calling one another's mother nasty names), I've never been in one while rehabbing from an injury. I won't say that wasn't on my mind. I've seen guys get injured during fights and I've seen guys get re-injured during fights. While my first reaction was to join in, my other, somehow mature reaction was to hold off.

To my credit, Willie Cordero, coming off shoulder surgery, was trying to stay out of it as well. I could see him through the bodies, sitting in his chair in the dugout, watching the action like it was the WWE. Steel cage match.

Complex security made it to the scene rather quickly. Two guys in shorts, polo shirts and sunglasses (that's Florida spring training security for ya) jumped in, soon joined by another couple of guys. They succeeded in pulling people away and holding onto Corey (while on the ground).

Rick was up now. So was Lyman. Our on duty trainer was looking at Rick's neck, which was bleeding, and his upper lip, which was bleeding. His uniform was torn and muddy (we had rain last night). Lyman took a knee so he could catch his breath. From where I stood, still on the mound, he was unharmed.

Corey was escorted away after a couple of minutes. Still upset, still yelling stuff, it felt safe to say we weren't going to see Corey again for a long time.

The game was called before I got to throw my pitch. Rick needed some medical attention and everyone else had had their workout. So we retired to the clubhouse, which is a five-minute stroll away.

We were a pretty quiet bunch, even the minor leaguers who must have been in total awe about what they'd just seen. Rick was taken to the training room in the clubhouse and most of us either hit the showers or sat in front of our lockers feeling kind of weird. That was no baseball fight. That was assault and battery and, to most of us, attempted murder. This was the kind of thing that guys get arrested for; that guys go to jail for. There were 20+ witnesses. Corey didn't have a chance.

I showered and just stood under the water. I hadn't lifted one finger for the day (besides my personal morning workout, which doesn't count here) and was exhausted. The hissing of multiple shower heads in action, the heat of the water on my semi-balding skull, it was just what I needed. It was like yoga. Relaxing.

"MOTHERFU****!"

I knew the voice. My stupor was jolted back into the real world. My reaction was to run, not away, but toward the voice. Three or four other guys, also showering, did the same thing. (In retrospect, it must have looked kind of funny to see four wet, grown (one with a good lather on his head) athletic men slipping and sliding around the locker room naked.) We had to find Corey before he found Rick. This was bad.

It got worse.

By the time we got into the training room, Corey was already there. He was in Alvin's face though, not Rick's. Before we could get in between them, Corey attacked. He shoved his forearm into Alvin's face (broke his nose) and pushed him into a cabinet, which shook. You could hear the stuff inside falling about, some glass breaking, some metal objects clanging together.

I was the first one on Corey this time. I grabbed his jaw and pulled upward. Some other guys went for his midsection. We all fell together onto the cold tile floor, Alvin included. I was now at the bottom of the pile. My grip was gone and I was at this point trying to protect what a jock strap was invented for (never fight in the nude, you're not as effective as if you'd been wearing, oh, let's say a suit of armor). Bodies shifted violently. Voices roared. I felt like I was in the middle of the kitchen while a tornado was striking the house. Scared the hell out of me.

And then, suddenly, all of the bodies were off. I layed (or lied?) on the tile, hands covering "down there," legs trying to remember the fetal position I recall I liked so much in my mother's womb. Somebody threw a towel onto me. The action had moved into the locker room, only it was just voices now, Corey's voice and Alvin's voice and Rick's voice and a number of other ones, all yelling insults, screaming some terrible things. The noise moved further away from me and I got up.

The trainer's room was a complete shambles. I had to watch my step as I left. Medical supplies were everywhere. A table was on its side. Chairs were upended.

In the locker room, I could tell things had improved. Corey was definitely gone now, literally and figuratively. His voice carried away quickly and was finally muted for good. Really for good this time.

I wiped the sweat off my brow with the towel and went to my locker and put on some underwear. "You got sometheen on your head, man" Willie Cordero said. He was walking by, a pretty large welt growing under his eye.

I wiped some more sweat and looked for a mirror. Then I saw The Cut. "Oh boy," I said, but not in those words. It wasn't a Cut. It was a Wound. The kind you need to go to the hospital for. Actually it was a Gash (not a Wound) on my forehead. I wasn't sweating, I was bleeding. I looked at the towel in my hand, I guess for the first time. It was stained red with blood. My blood.

I returned to the trainer's room, now being repaired by two clubhouse boys (each in their early-twenties), and found some gauze. I slapped it on my forehead, went to my locker, threw on some clothes, and drove home. I had had enough. I was tired. And I wanted some extra special attention.

Vanessa would give it to me. She'd ask what happened and drive me to the doctor and hold my hand and tell me how brave I was. And I'd hold her hand back and be glad that she felt that way about me. Then I'd go home with her and sleep. I wanted to get Corey Belle out of my head once and for all. The Belle tolled today. It tolled for him.

Looking For The Same Page

David Philp — Thu, 20 Mar 2008 05:58:00 -0400

We're not on the same page. The "we" in this case is me and the management of the New York Veterans.

It seems that just as we start getting into a good groove, just as we begin to get along, or learn how to co-exist on the same earth together, something else happens. Admittedly, I've been the cause of the "something else" more than once. But this time, I had nothing to do with it.

Over the last few days, I've started hearing little pieces of gossip about me. Baseball gossip, which is different from personal "did you hear Jimmy's going to buy a toupee" gossip.

Generally, the baseball gossip is more serious (nope, I have not purchased a toupee, just a larger hat). The gossip I've been hearing is that GM Alvin and manager Rick have spoken with each other about my possibly returning to the team sooner, but in the bullpen. Not necessarily a bad thing. Whatever brings me back to the team the quickest, I'll do (how's that for a tired cliche?)

But it gets better.

Rick has a weekly show on WTEM—Sports Radio, "The Team!" He spoke before last night's game with Jock & Jerry about various aspects of the team, including my status.

I wasn't listening because I'm in Florida and The Team! is in New York, plus I don't know Rick's personal schedule. I think he gets paid $100,000 or so to do this every-Wednesday afternoon gig. On the show, Rick made a sort of announcement about me that he hadn't yet talked to me about. Not a good thing.

More on that in a moment.

We played Cleveland last night, one of the small handful of night games on our spring training schedule. Closer Billy Weston's middle finger was still stiff, so they tell me around the fourth inning that they'll bring me in in his scheduled spot in the sixth inning (they put the veteran relievers who've made the team in the game earlier so they don't have to stick around until the end of the game) "just to get some light work in."

Fine, not a big deal. I'd rather pitch in a real game than on a back field to a few young minor league players who can still grow hair on their scalps.

Only Rick didn't bring me in for the sixth. Or the seventh. Or the eighth. I'm sitting around for an hour waiting to be told to warm up. No communication at all. Quite frankly, I wanted to be home by the end of the game.

I got here early in the morning, worked out hard for a few hours, watched video for a while, and expected to be in bed by 10 pm. Instead, at 9:15 I was told to finally run out to the bullpen to warm up. I was going in for the ninth.

I shook my head and ran out. Began to throw to Johnny Mathis, who looks like will be our opening day backup catcher. Man, Johnny can talk. Nice kid. Loves to talk though. But who am I to criticize?

So I'm warming up with Johnny, he's chattering away, and the fans start gathering close to the bullpen area, which isn't really a pen, it's a strip of grass with mound and plate near the right field line. The fans start yelling things, like how am I going to get to 300 wins if I'm a reliever or if I'd get as many saves as victories and stuff like that. One guy told me I was ugly and going bald. I reminded him that I was rich too, so I had a leg up on him. Shut his mouth right away.

The ninth inning starts. We're ahead by 1 run. I'm not pretending, like I did a few days ago, that this is the World Championship Series. I'm pretending this is spring training and I just want to get my pitches to work so I can build up arm strength and be back in the rotation by May 1. I don't get the chance. First pitch fastball = ground ball out.

Next batter (anyone know number 97 on Cleveland?) hits my second pitch a mile high straight up. Johnny loses it in the lights but makes a last-second basket catch. Three pitches, two outs. I throw a ball one to the next guy, but on my next pitch he grounds the ball to me. I toss to first and my day is over. Five pitches, game over.

Only my day wasn't over.

While I haven't spoken to reporters in a couple of months now, they still speak to me. A hundred of them (not really) crowded around my locker after the game.

"Did you hear, Jimmy?" "What did Rick tell you, Jimmy?" Blah, blah, blah. I told them Rick didn't tell me anything, so I have nothing to say to them.

As I'm wondering if I broke my vow not to speak to the press by speaking to them, another one says that Rick, on The Team! before the game, said I was going to pitch strictly out of the bullpen this year. Plus, I'd still start the season in Nashville, but build myself to the point where I could pitch on back-to-back days, maybe three in a row if possible.

I smiled. Nodded. This was news to me. I've been under the assumption, since this is what they'd told me, that I was going to Nashville to pitch every fifth day. I'd only be in Nashville on game days and be back in the rotation by May 1. Apparently, they changed their minds.

Without telling me.

I went into Rick's office, furious. I didn't care that his door was shut, or that the entire New York media crew was watching, or that I didn't have any pants on. I was furious to care.

Rick seemed to be waiting for me. He was in the office with Alvin, bench coach Chazz Waters and pitching coach Bobby Spencer. Seemed like they were all waiting for me. So

I started gently. "Jes*s f*cking Chr*st, Rick! You don't make a fu*king announcement like this to the g*ddam* fuc*ing media without tell me first, you f*cking ignoramus!"

Rick hadn't just been waiting for me to come in. He'd also been waiting to apologize. Seems he made a mistake by telling the media about his new plan before telling me. And Alvin and Chazz were in there explaining the media world to Rick, interesting since Rick was part of the media up until last October. But new jobs, new perspectives sometimes blind us to what's right. What Rick did was wrong. And Alvin and Chazz were there (before me) to let him know this.

Bobby was the first to jump in. He stood up and said, "Jimmy, you want to go get some pants?"

"No! I don't need any fu*king g*ddam* pants!" I was still a little upset. (FYI - I did have on underwear. Don't want you to get the impression that I'm... oh forget it.) Bobby sat down.

"Jimmy," Alvin said, "we're sorry you heard it this way."

"Heard what?" I said. "Tell me what I'm hearing, then tell me if it's true."

Bobby popped up out of his chair again. "I think you'll make a great 8th inning guy. You hit 91 on the gun tonight. Did you know that? Your pitches are moving all over the place, then ending up in the strike zone. At this point in your body's physical career, you'll be better off pitching four or five innings a week over 7 days rather than five and a third every 5th." Then he sat down.

"Rick," I said, "why are you so quiet?"

"Because I don't want to upset you any more than I already have."

This was strange. Rick has been a giant tumor growing inside of me since he took this job. Now he's suddenly apologetic? Now he's being sensitive with me? Now he cares about my feelings?

"To tell you the truth," Rick said, looking at Alvin and then back at me, "we thought you were washed up. We thought you were dead weight pulling down lots of money and mouthing off at every opportunity to save your job."

"We knew you were working hard," Alvin said.

"No you didn't," I said.

"Yes we did. We just didn't think you were getting any results."

All they had to do was watch, I told them. Instead, we went to arbitration over my contract, over my health and their misconception about it, over their desire to send me out to pasture to chew on grass all day. They should have known I'm not an outfielder.

"You're getting results now," Chazz said. He smiled. Chazz was my manager here for six years, back when I was winning 20 games a season, the team was winning back-to-back world championships, and he was manager of the year three times. He knows me better than anyone in this organization. "If you want to keep making a sh*tload of money and playing ball, you'll see that this will extend your career longer than you could have imagined."

"That's my problem," I said. "I imagined I'd play this year, pitch at the beginning of games, win 10 or 15, and be done with a little over 300 for my career and another championship for us."

"You're a part of this team," Rick said. "And maybe not for just one year."

Again with the sensitivity.

They then told me I'd be in Nashville for between two weeks and a month. But I'd have to be with the team the whole time, the Nashville team. No trips to New York on days I didn't pitch. They wanted me to get to the point where I could throw an inning three days in a row.

"You can do it," Bobby Spencer said, once again standing up. "Your body, as it stands (I was standing, as a matter of fact), is built better for this than what you wanted, or expected." Once again, he sat down.

My head was spinning. I walked out and didn't commit to anything. I just walked out. Still not wearing pants.

The media pounced the moment I re-entered the locker room. Was I mad? Was I prepared to pitch from the pen? Could I adjust to this new situation? Where was I going to live in Nashville?

The last question got to me. I didn't know. I didn't know about anything. I thought I'd be home with Vanessa, with my girls. I wanted that. I expected that. Then a weird thing happened. I got a giant lump in my throat knowing I'd be living by myself for a month. A 10-day roadtrip, that's one thing. 30 days away, that's another.

The only thing I knew as I blew off the media at my locker and pulled on a pair of jeans was that I was going to miss my family more this year than ever. And even worse, what if Bobby and Chazz were right? What if I was better off in this new situation? What if the pull of success, of winning, made me change my mind and want to keep playing for another two, three or four years?

That hasn't my family plan ever since the injury. But suppose I wanted to change it? Suppose my future success altered my present perspective?

I drove home to tell Vanessa so she wouldn't hear the news from the media first. I suddenly had a lot to say, but no idea what needed to be said. The lump in my throat grew larger as I pulled out of the players' parking lot and turned on the radio. The local sports station was on. Apparently, I was headed for the bullpen.

Reel Games

David Philp — Tue, 18 Mar 2008 05:48:00 -0400

I've been watching a lot of video of myself from when I was pitching with Chicago. Not that I feel like I can pitch with that velocity ever again, but I did have a very fluid pitching motion.

It was so loose. Somewhere along the way, I developed this herky jerky style near the end of my windup that gave me incredible results but I think caused too much stress on my elbow. Thus, BOOM! No more elbow. I'm hoping watching old "home movies" will help bring me back to the days when I didn't need to worry so much about getting hurt.

I've pitched in two live games now. That puts me ahead of schedule. The problem is I've only pitched an inning in each. My arm strength is pretty much there. My head is on the way. I'll admit it, I get concerned that my elbow will act up and either explode again or cause me just enough pain to turn me into a scared, ineffective pitcher.

Those guys exist, and have existed my whole career, the guys who get hurt and can't come back all the way because they remember the pain too well and don't want to go through it all again.

It's an unfair analogy to our military, but one guy once told me coming back from a major injury had to feel like going back to Iraq or Vietnam for another tour of duty. You never know when something's going to come out of the shadows or up from the sand and end it all for you.

As for me, I started meditation last week. Since Dr. Cohegans is suing me, he won't help me with my head, so I bought some new age music CDs and sit with the headphones on in the whirlpool, eyes closed (to block out the Cartoon Channel on the TV hanging from the wall).

I try to put myself in a game, mentally, then throw to batters with the soft, gentle motion of my youth that I've memorized from the films. I throw again and again until I feel natural, until the motion is like breathing, involuntary.

I guess it's working. In my two "real" innings, I've faced six batters and gotten six outs. It was strange pitching the ninth inning yesterday. Normal closer Billy Weston had a stiff middle finger on his pitching hand and couldn't throw, so they juggled things and put me there. I pretended it was Game 7 of the World Championship Series and we had a one-run lead. It was fun. Three up, three down. Hit 89 on the gun once too.

The plan is for me to not throw at all today, then long toss again on Wednesday. Maybe I can get into another game Thursday or Friday and extend myself a little. Slowly, I'll get up to three, then four, then five, six and hopefully seven innings. By the first week in May, I should be in the rotation.

Until then, I'll stay behind in Florida for a week before heading to Nashville. Since I'll be on schedule to pitch every fifth day, I'll be a commuter, meaning I'll fly into Nashville (or wherever we're going to play) the night before I pitch and fly home the next morning. That way, I get to stay with the big club and still see my family (there's no way I'll be able to convince the girls to stay with me in Nashville for a month, even though it would probably be a positive influence on Alyssa's guitar playing).

I've come a long way since December, when I began to rehab in earnest. I'm proud of the hard work I put in and pleasantly surprised at how my body responded. I can sense, maybe through my meditation, that surprisingly good things are coming my way, and the team's way too. The season starts in two weeks. The countdown has begun.

Why the Mets Must Sign Bugs Bunny

David Philp — Thu, 06 Mar 2008 07:01:14 -0500

There's an old cartoon in which Bugs Bunny takes on the Gashouse Gorillas all by himself. He plays every position, throws an incredible slow ball, and has the speed and agility to scale the Statue of Liberty in order to catch a towering fly ball.

He does all this and never gets hurt.

The Mets need him.

While every Mets fan north of the equator applauded the Johan Santana trade, the lack of first base and right-handed offensive depth is now the team's biggest problem.

Carlos Delgado, old at 35, seems to break his hip every time he slips getting out of the tub.

Moises Alou, older at 41, should call his uncle Jesus and ask for a miracle to quickly cure his hernia.

Orlando "El Duque" Hernandez, now 77, is on a waiting list for a right foot transplant.

Ryan Church has a concussion. Brian Schneider tweaked a hamstring. Marlon Anderson—who gave Church the concussion—is ailing.

Endy Chavez hasn't played yet. Carlos Beltran hasn't played yet. Luis Castillo hasn't played yet.

The star of camp thus far has been Angel Pagan (who can maybe fill in for Jesus Alou if he can't be found at a local Ryan Church).

Angel is a former castoff. Is he good enough to backup the injured (and lefty batting) Chavez on opening day? Can Chavez stay healthy all year?

Na-na-na-na nineteen-year-old Fernando Martinez, who started camp saying he'd be up this year—count on it!—may be called up sooner than we all thought, and hoped.

What to do? We can make a trade.

But who do we trade? Joe Smith?

I read in one blog that someone suggested we trade Church and Schneider to the Nationals for Lastings Milledge (right handed bat).

I'll call it now: What we did to Minnesota for Johan is what Washington did to the Mets for Milledge. Only, Milledge will probably be a Jose Guillen/Milton Bradley type of guy. Big mouth. Big on the field. Can't stay in one organization longer than two years.

There's plenty of time before the regular season ends and still time before it begins.

Kenny Lofton, Sammy Sosa, Reggie Sanders...these are some outfield free agents. Last year's backup first baseman, Shawn Green, has basically retired. Preston Wilson is still out there, too.

There are options within and options without.

But it appears the Mets will start the year without full health. And that's why the signing of Bugs Bunny could have been this offseason's biggest deal.

Zookeepers

David Philp — Tue, 26 Feb 2008 06:53:24 -0500

They got me. I promised, back in January, that I wouldn't speak with the media this season. I pretty much didn't, even when Diane Sawyer came to our home a week later, and have been able to keep that promise to myself since.

Until this morning.

I was in the clubhouse this morning around 7:15. One of our trainers, Bing Levine, was working on my elbow, kneading it like bread dough, when I got a call on my cell phone. As I was one-handed, and it was very early, I picked up, assuming it was Vanessa. Instead, it was "Ted from Accounting" who wanted to go over my last paycheck to make sure they took out the right amount of FICA.

"Ted" had a deep, professional kind of voice. And he kept asking personal questions that had nothing to do with FICA, like if I spent my money wisely, did I use it to pay for the logo at the top of this page, would I consider donating some to his "charity for reformed former virgins."

It was around then that I realized "Ted" was either a crazy fan who somehow got my number, some other blogger or a person trying out his snarkiness. I was close. It was a Z-100 radio phone scam. After he revealed himself, I offered an embarrassed laugh and asked where they got my number. The DJ guy (I don't listen to the station) said he couldn't reveal his sources. Ha ha.

He asked me if I realized he was a member of the media and I'd broken my "sacred vow" to never speak with the media again. I responded that it was a season-long vow with an option to renew and I didn't consider a Morning Zoo disc jockey to be the media. "You're more like the cousin nobody wants around but has to put up with because you exist."

He then asked me if I'd appear on their show every week, since they weren't really The Media. I said no. They couldn't afford me. Then I told them it was time to wrap it up. I was having arm transplant surgery in an hour and the cadaver had just arrived. Right before I hung up, I heard one of the other Zookeepers mention it must have been a gorilla cadaver. Another hearty ha ha.

So they got me. They scammed me. I was punk'd. I was on Candid Camera (phone).

Bing asked who had called and I looked at him while he wrapped a steaming hot towel around my multi-million dollar elbow. "Just my cousin. I'm not talking to him anymore."

"Must've been a bad call," Bing said.

"He works in a zoo," I replied. "I hope they never let him out."

Add to any service

Motivationally Speaking

David Philp — Fri, 22 Feb 2008 08:09:48 -0500

Our new esteemed manager Rick Churches spoke to the full team yesterday. With nearly every man on the roster now reported to camp, this was Rick's first opportunity to get everybody in one room to hear him philosophize.

I'll give him one thing—the man can speak. There's a reason why he was in our TV booth for the last eight years (replaced by my father, "Red" Scott). It's his voice. He's got a golden throat. If Obama needs a VP who has similar oratory skills as himself, he should turn to Rick Churches.

These speeches are generally closed-off from the media. The purpose from Day 1 down here is Team. We win as a team, we lose as a team, etc. You've heard it before. Having this one team meeting, with just us, helps the spiritual bond between players and each other, as well as players and management. Imagine if every discussion between you and your significant other was held in front of a gaggle of reporters, all wearing identical khakis and collared polo shirts, each asking you to hurry up so they could meet a deadline or update their blog. It's important to have some private time so we can be ourselves, so we can feel inspired or motivated by our leader and reflect personally or with each other without 3rd party interference.

As you know, Rick chose yesterday's team forum to be a public affair. I'm not certain why he went this route, although I have my opinions which I'll share with you now. Well, it's not really opinions, with an s. I have one opinion—the man knows he has a fabulous voice and wants others to share in its fabulousness whenever it's put to good use. That said, the inspiration and motivation we, or at least I, was supposed to feel did not happen.

Blah. That's how I felt when he was done. (53 minutes! He lost me at mile marker 10.) Yes, he and I are on different personal wavelengths. There's been more than a little animosity between the two of us this off season. But I didn't go in there to criticize him. I went in there to be impressed. I wanted to be moved. I wasn't.

As he spoke, I thought back to last year's speech that former manager Larry Picketts (he of the YouTube tirade now viewed over 850,000 times) gave. I wasn't moved then. So I thought back some more. 2004-2006 was all Larry. Nope. I didn't feel anything. 2003 with Vance Dunn? Nothing. Our most recent championship was in 2002, Gum Wilson's last year on the job, allegedly, before coming back to be Rick's bench coach this season at GM Alvin Kirby's behest (does that mean the bench is a hot seat?). Gum definitely didn't inspire with his words. Not of much use for them, he led by letting us play. He could push buttons like any of today's best videogame fiends. He motivated us by letting us win. His spring training state of the union addresses? Terrible. Five minutes and out. I felt nothing.

As I drove to my afternoon session with Andy, my personal trainer, I wondered if it's not the speaker that has the problem; maybe the problem lies with me. Not one to admit anything could in any way be wrong with me, I quickly dialed Dr. Henry Cochegans, team psychiatrist (or is he a psychologist? Not sure the difference and always forget to ask.) to have a quick cellular session.

Luckily, Dr. Cochegans could speak with me for a few moments. After he reminded me of the non-disclosure agreement I signed, what you see below is just my input in the conversation. The NDA does not allow me to quote Dr. Cochegans in this forum. "For my own protection," he always says. Oops.

Dr. Cochegans:

Me: Getting stronger each day, in both mind, body and spirit.

Dr. Cochegans:

Me: Okay. Yes, I am aware "both" signifies two and I spoke of three characteristics. You going to analyze or criticize today?

Dr. Cohegans:

Me: Sorry I snapped at you. You probably get that all the time from the other guys on the team who speak to you, huh? What do they say? Be specific. Do they talk about me? They all hate me, right?

Dr. Cohegans:

Me: I'm not paranoid. I'm paranormal.

Dr. Cohegans: (Ed. note: I couldn't hear what he said here. I hit a bad cell area.)

Me: I need to talk about my lack of inspiration when I hear my managers speak.

Dr. Cohegans:

Me: You're saying it shouldn't matter what they say? It only matters how I feel inside?

Dr. Cohegans:

Me: Are you reading from a pamphlet or something? It takes me five minutes to tell you what I want to talk about and you give me your diagnosis in one sentence without letting me whine.

Dr. Cohegans:

Me: Okay. I'll listen to my heart, my soul, and find it within myself to succeed. I'll be an individual. Sounds like I never should have quit Boy Scouts.

Dr. Cohegans:

Me: Whatever.

I don't need to elaborate any further because, as Dr. Cohegans said, it's self-explanatory. Part of my problems with Rick have been because of me. I'm looking for something from him, as a manager, as a man, that he can't, or doesn't need to give. I need to look at myself and solve whatever riddles my subconscious is querying me about. No more relying on others to make me feel something. It's up to me to feel it on my own.

I talked to Andy, my very large personal trainer, about the previous paragraph (I practically recited it to him, word for word), and he said I was already motivating myself.

Andy: Why are you here?

Me: On earth? I guess all humans...

He turned the treadmill I was running on from high hill to Everest mountain.

Andy: No, dummy, why are you in this gymnasium working out? Why are you asking Dr. whatever his name is...

Me: Cohegans. It's really not that hard to say after some practice.

Andy: May I finish?

Me: (sulking and sweating a lot, my few hairs matted onto my scalp like wet string on the underside of a garbage can lid)

Andy: We've been doing two-a-days and three-a-days for months. I rarely have to raise my voice and egg you on. You're plenty motivated.

Me: (breathing very hard, unable to speak)

Andy: I always like these parts of our sessions. You can't get the last word in.

When I got back to the house Vanessa, the kids and I are renting down here, I told Vanessa all about my mentally (and physically) stimulating day. I told her how much Rick likes to hear himself talk, how I haven't really paid attention to what anyone in authority has said to me for at least 6 years, and how I will never scale Mt. Everest without the aid of a helicopter.

She smiled and told me we should celebrate by taking tomorrow afternoon off and going with the kids to Disney World. I told her I couldn't. I'm down here to work, even when practice is over, even on weekends, even when I'm about to drop from exhaustion. I'm down here to work. She smiled some more and told me she liked my answer. To her, it was inspiring. "Sounds to me like you should've been the one giving the speech to the team today."

I gave her a kiss and a long, tight hug. It felt good to hear her say that. And it felt even better to be able to respond without the glare of the media standing three feet away, khakis and polo shirts ready to pounce. Sometimes, the best motivation happens in the privacy of our own homes, in our own minds, in our own time.

Pitchers and Catchers: Spring Training, Day One

David Philp — Fri, 15 Feb 2008 11:47:23 -0500

I paid a visit to camp today for Day No. 1 of spring training. I'll admit that I was more than a little nervous.

The clubhouse was jammed with reporters all looking for comments from me about Alvin Kirby's arrest or my grievance with the team or the "feud" between Corey Belle and me that lasted about 24 hours. They know I'm no longer speaking with them. I shook their hands, said hello and cordially said some things off the record (How are your kids? You sound like you have a cold... stuff like that). They wanted more. I need to get some practice in not giving it.

They took lots of pictures of me shaking hands with other guys, me rummaging through my locker (I couldn't find a comb, not that I need one anymore), pictures of the scar on my elbow, of me doing push ups to prove to them I can do push ups... It was kind of fun but if I'm not going to speak to them, I should probably keep my distance.

It's hard to do because I've always been so open to the media. But I shut the door in the off season and I can't let them slip through.

It was great to see Kai Goto, the me of Japan. We'd met once in the off season after the press conference surrounding his $10 billion, 100-year deal. I repeated my joke that when I go play in Japan next year after they run me out of town here, they'll call me the "Kai Goto of America." He repeated his fake laughter (he laughs with a Japanese accent). We'll get along fine.

I didn't do much more than suit up, have another physical and tour the facility, saying hello to people I hadn't seen in a long time. Keep in mind I didn't play from April 1st until the end of the season. My time with the team after the injury was limited to a few appearances. In a way, I felt like a rookie walking in and seeing a whole new team.

Here are things/people I did not see:

I did not see my manager Rick Churches. He was around. I heard his voice cackle away. But he and I did not make eye contact.
I did not see Alvin Kirby, our beleaguered GM. From what I understand, he's sequestered in his home in Westchester trying to save his marriage, his job and his freedom.
I did not see Corey Belle. Position players don't need to show up until next week. I'm sure he'll show up at the very last possible moment.
I did not see anybody shooting anybody else up with HgH, heroin, chocolate milk, or anything else. I never have before either, in case you're asking.

Tomorrow, Saturday, I start some more workouts with the team. Mostly light throwing for me since I'm way behind lots of these guys. My rehab started late but I feel good. I'm going to take it slowly so I don't have any setbacks like the scar tissue problem I had a few weeks ago. I realize I most likely won't be with the team when they head north at the end of March. Maybe I'll just play in April for AAA Nashville. It's warmer there than New York at that time of year. Probably better for my elbow than 40 degrees and rain.

My off season personal trainer, Andy, is down here. My plan is to spend mornings with the team doing drills and light workouts. In the afternoons I'll meet up with Andy at a local Fort Pierce gymnasium and go through a heavy 2-hour core and lower body workout. The goal is to be done each day by 3:00 so I can get home and be there before Alyssa and Grace return from their temporary high school, just so I can say, "I told you so." They think I'm going to blow them off for the next six weeks. I won't. Burn on them.

I'll post again over the weekend if I get the chance. Otherwise, this is the Jimmy Scott of Fort Pierce Florida signing off.

Curt Schilling Takes Sports Journalism into His Own Hands

David Philp — Thu, 07 Feb 2008 23:25:09 -0500

Curt Schilling's shoulder hurts.

The media report his career is over, surgery is inevitable, and the team wants to void his contract. No matter that the two sources who know everything about this subject—Mr. Schilling and Red Sox GM Theo Epstein—haven't commented publicly, because what does matter is that the media had a story and they broke it. It was big news.

Only, it was inaccurate.

The Boston Globe reported Thursday that Schilling had a partial tear of his right rotator cuff and might not pitch until the All-Star break. The Boston Herald said that the Schilling situation had caused "tension and friction" between the team and its pitcher, and that the club had even inquired about voiding Schilling's $8 million contract.

Schilling, who writes a blog called 38 Pitches (http://38pitches.com/), broke his short-lived silence Thursday night, posting a response to these reports:

"Please understand that a lot of what has been reported is not true. I need to make it clear that Dr. Morgan did NOT diagnose me with a tear of the rotator cuff at any time during this process, nor did he recommend rotator cuff surgery. After being diagnosed by the Red Sox medical staff I sought a second opinion, as anyone would, and when it became clear there was disagreement (which is not uncommon by the way), I agreed to see an independent doctor from a list the Red Sox provided me, for the third opinion."

The Red Sox also issued a statement that night:

"Curt Schilling was examined by Red Sox doctors in January after he reported feeling right shoulder discomfort. Curt has started a program of rest, rehabilitation, and shoulder strengthening in an attempt to return to pitching."

We can give credit to the Globe and Herald for breaking a story about a popular (in Boston, at least) pitcher and a potentially devastating injury. But let's discredit the publications, too, for the inaccuracies of their key points.

Just who are these newspapers relying upon for their information? Why did the sources speak in the first place? Did the Globe and Herald obtain corroborating evidence to support their claims?

It's not like printed inaccuracies are going to have irreparable consequences, but there should be standards.

Everybody wants to be first—not just sports journalists. Our culture is quick to coronate whoever breaks the news. Reporters, TMZ staffers, Perez Hilton, paparazzi—they're all aspiring Tom Joad's (Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath):

"I'll be ever'where—wherever you look. Wherever they's a fight so hungry people can eat, I'll be there. Wherever they's a cop beatin' up a guy, I'll be there. I'll be in the way guys yell when they're mad an'—I'll be in the way kids laugh when they're hungry an' they know supper's ready. An' when our folks eat the stuff they raise an' live in the houses they build—why, I'll be there."

Only remember this, Tom Joad was an antihero, and today's media don't have such dignity. They don't have the dignity of Curt Schilling, who—like him or not—chooses to tell the truth about himself, warts and all.

So what if Schilling no longer spoke to the media and instead communicated with the public through his blog? The media, in fact, is uncomfortable with the situation as it stands already—an athlete acting as his own reporter. There is no "taking out of context" with a blog, no misquoting.

Granted, Schilling has the kind personality to sustain this kind of self-reporting, and while other athletes act as reporters via web they don't all possess a compelling style. Derek Jeter's writing would probably be the perfect antidote to insomnia.

Schilling says what's on his mind and he writes what he thinks is the truth. He's his own source when it comes to reporting on the subject of himself.

Do we want to read it? Sure. It's interesting. I know many Yankee fans who hate the man—HATE him—but read his blog. It's compelling. It's timely. It's accurate.

You can't say as much for the rest of today's media.

Fan Fest, Day 2

David Philp — Thu, 07 Feb 2008 12:17:44 -0500

I didn't plan on attending Fan Fest for a second day—especially after the problems I had on Day 1—but super agent Jack Perry told me Pepsi had a booth there and asked me to stop by and say hello. Apparently I'm Pepsi's new golden boy, standing up against media, management, and the culture in today's sports world of either getting arrested or speaking only in cliches.

So I drove back into NYC and paid my $65. (If you didn't buy a combined Day 1/Day2 ticket for $50, you had to pay $65 for Day 2 only.) I waited in line with some fans who couldn't believe I was 1) waiting in line with them and 2) actually buying a ticket. I told them I didn't think Rick would let me in unless I paid. And besides, Pepsi was going to reimburse me for parking and gas. What's one more $65 expense?

I got inside and enjoyed the fans who swarmed around me. No interns for "security." No agent or agent's wife to hold my hand and lead me through the little people who spent $65 for the privilege of buying wet $5 hot dogs served on soft, cold buns.

I felt like the Pied Piper as I made my way to the Pepsi booth, which was not where I was told it would be. Twenty minutes, 200 fans, and one frankfurter later I found it. It was set up so kids, or older fans, could stand at a home plate and hit hard plastic balls shot through a hole in a screen that showed video of me, Kai Goto, and the rest of the team's pitchers go through our motions and fire away.

I had a blast when it was my turn to bat against myself. I struck myself out on three pitches.

But Jimmy, what about your elbow?

It doesn't hurt when I bat. Weird. Truthfully, it doesn't hurt at all anymore. It's been a week since the scar tissue was discovered and I was told to take it easy. So my three-a-days were scaled back a bit. I will start throwing again tomorrow.

By the way, it's only eight days until spring training. Normally, I'd be excited to go. But this stuff with my manager and GM, occasionally supplemented by interference from our owner, Mrs. Joan Delaney, has soured me a bit. But as sour as I was, standing in and around so many fans today was incredible.

The support I got, the pats on the back (a few hurt because the guys patting my back were like 10 feet tall Sumo wrestlers or something), the handshakes and shouts of "Go, Jimmy, go!" were pretty cool. It kind of wiped the slate clean for me and made me feel good again. So thanks to all of you.

As an aside, I did not see Rick there. I understand he was counseling the custodial staff on the proper way to use their brooms. I hope the man is as intense about whether or not to double-switch for me in the eighth inning come September. I have a feeling he doesn't think I'll be on a mound then, at least for him. But I've made a deal with myself to make it happen. I'm going to be a factor for the team this year. I'm going to make those fans who supported me today proud.

And maybe next year I can play for free. There's got to be a way to lower the price of a ballpark hot dog. I'll do my part. You keep doing yours.

I've Got The Edge Now

David Philp — Mon, 04 Feb 2008 06:29:07 -0500

It came as a total surprise to me. With about three minutes to play in the fourth quarter of last night's Super Bowl, the Pepsi ad flashed on my screen. There I was. I. Just me. Alyssa and Grace, my two lovely teen twins who took a day off from school to film the commercial, were nowhere to be seen. At least on TV. They were sitting next to me when the ad aired. Needless to say, they were a little taken aback.

It turns out this blog and my public spat with the team has "twisted my image," as super agent Jack Perry said to me the morning. In Pepsi's eyes, that's not a bad thing. The ad was originally supposed to air in two more weeks, right after pitchers and catchers reported. But, as Jack revisted with me, Pepsi thinks I've got an "edge" now. I was the equivalent of Miss America, Jack said, for so long. It's fresh to see me ranting here. It's edgy to see me taking on my team instead of taking one for them. They think I've become an individual, a voice for their target demographic, which is slightly younger than me (by about 20 years). I've become an icon.

Tell that to my kids. Well, I did. They don't really care what other people think of their dear old papa (they've never called me that). They wanted to be in a commercial for Pepsi, ahem, Lipton Brisk (owned by Pepsi). That's another thing. We filmed a Lipton Brisk commercial. But you saw me and Pepsi during the Super Bowl. It appears they not only digitized my kids out, they digitized out their own brand and replaced it with another, albeit a bigger-name brand, one I had been led to believe I was endorsing all along. Endorsement complete. I'm a Pepsi guy again. Edgy. Cool. Twisted. Just what today's youth wants.

I hope my team wants me half as bad.

Super Bowl XLII: Giants Win...and I Suddenly Feel Like Looting

David Philp — Sun, 03 Feb 2008 22:10:32 -0500

A last-minute touchdown. My team is destiny’s friend. Fans, music, tension. Victory!

The Giants—my Giants—have won Super Bowl.

It makes me want to swarm into the streets. I want to cheer. I want to scream at the top of my lungs, “The Giants win the Super Bowl! The Giants win the Super Bowl!”

And then I want to throw a brick through a Duane Reade window and steal a small humidifier.

I’m not sure what a victory against the odds like this does to me. My shrink says I’m just a passionate fan, using joy from my teams’ victories as a replacement for the joy I lack in my life.

Maybe...

But I say, who doesn’t want to flip over an ’03 Civic in Times Square after a win like this? Who doesn’t suddenly get the old clichéd “mob mentality” and roam about urinating on the homeless and shattering glass?

It’s as natural as the birds and the bees.

I used to live in Detroit. Man, those were the days. If the Pistons won anything, you could bet the hands on your stopwatch that I’d be out there making new acquaintances while lighting fires, throwing punches, and running from police. Fun times.

But the past is the past, and now I’ve got a new team. My team.

My New York Giants, who for some reason haven’t set foot in the state of New York since the preseason. But that matters little to me now. Hand me a torch. Throw those rocks. Smash that pane and let’s steal us some stuff!

The Giants win the Super Bowl! The Giants win the Super Bowl!

Shut Down

David Philp — Thu, 31 Jan 2008 06:59:54 -0500

The MRI came back. Scar tissue. I don't have bone chips, tortilla chips or the t.v. show CHiPs floating around my arm like the ship in Fantastic Voyage. No need for another surgery and no reason to believe I can't come back sometime in April, possibly early-May.

But...

The team physician, my good Dr. McGee, said for now I have to shut down all "baseball activities." He meant don't throw a ball, but he made it sound like I couldn't talk about baseball, write about baseball or coach a Little League team, not that I'd be a good coach or that I'd even have the time or patience to coach a Little League team, but I'd still like the option to try.

Here's tomorrow's NY Post headline:

JIMMY SCOTT TO COACH LITTLE LEAGUE TEAM IN 2008

Not gonna happen, but go ahead and sell your papers. I read all my articles online—for free.

Yesterday's take by the various media outlets on my health and meeting with GM Alvin Kirby and Manager Rick Churches was interesting. Some quoted my blog. Others just quoted Kirby and/or Churches, who denied what took place actually took place. A few places referenced us both and realized we're in a "he said/he said/she said" situation (Rick is cringing as he reads this, wondering who the "she" is). Here's where we stand:

* Alvin Kirby and Rick Churches met with me and told me, for health reasons, I should either retire or expect to spend the year on the disabled list.

* I told them there was no need, I'd just been to the doctor and was on progress to pitch all year.

* They told me a second opinion—a doctor I never saw and still don't know the identity of—said my arm is in such a state that my career is over, barring a miracle.

* My arm did, in fact, have a setback that day. But I should, according to the team doctor, be able to start throwing again in a week to ten days.

Nobody is quoting this phantom "second doctor" and Alvin and Rick aren't even bringing up that part of the conversation. They're saying there is no second doctor. They're saying, basically, that I'm lying.

No matter. You'll see my official grievance against the team filed today by my super agent, Jack Perry. Our wonderful team owner, Mrs. Joan Delaney, left a message at my house apologizing for any confusion, even though she had previously talked to Jack and, following what is now/was then the party line, said she didn't expect me back this season.

This has all come out of the blue. For some reason, the team is suddenly (or they planned this all along) low on funding and wants insurance to cover my salary. Or they truly don't think I'll be able to pitch, and pitch well, this season and don't want to subsidize a long and pointless rehabilitation program. Or they just want me out. Conspiracy theories fly like fleas on poop.

The columnists I'm reading are saying the same thing as me. ESPN just treats it like a sideshow. Meanwhile, Pepsi called Jack and is considering pulling the ad we just filmed and yanking away my endorsement deal. Why? Because they don't want to pay millions to someone who won't be playing in 2008. My grievance against the team will take on much greater weight should Pepsi pull out because of the actions of two men who don't appear to like me.

Here's the deal for you all to see. I'll use bullet points, because I feel bullets have been shot at my head (none self-inflicted, for once):

    * I will pitch in 2008
    * The team will not get any insurance money...
    * ...because I will pitch in 2008
    * I will participate in spring training
    * I will probably start the season in extended spring training in Florida or with a minor league affiliate. A warm one.

That's it. Don't believe everything you read (note how this can hurt me since I'm not talking to anyone, just writing). Just believe the source, me, when I say I will pitch this season. Betting is illegal in baseball, but if I were a gambler, I'd put my money on me. The payout will be huge.

Anyone going to guess on tomorrow's Daily News headline?

JIMMY SCOTT GAMBLING HABITS UNDER INVESTIGATION

Just want you to be aware of the source of their story before they report it.

Set Back

David Philp — Wed, 30 Jan 2008 07:13:36 -0500

My house is not right on the road. There's a stretch of about six feet between road and the new fence we put up for security purposes. It's about 30 yards (or 90 feet, depending if you're a baseball or football fan) from the fence to our front door.

When I got to our new front gate yesterday, it wasn't working. I hit a remote. The gate remained closed. Got out of the car and hit a code on the new keypad nearby. Nothing. Already in a lousy mood, my mood grew still darker by the second. The pretty lighting switched on, making our trees seem like multiple-armed giants towering over me, their shadows and brightness now mixing about. I called the house to ask Vanessa to open the gate from there. No answer. I was stuck on the wrong side of the fence, about 93 feet (or 31 yards) from my house. The only thing to do was to hop the fence.

Only I couldn't. With timing straight out of an episode of Murder She Wrote, or more recently, Monk, my right arm—my multi-million dollar pitching arm which had been rehabbing incredibly well over the last two months—was dead. Long live the arm.

Okay, it wasn't completely dead. But it had been fine when I visited with my doctor earlier that day. It had been fine when I visited with GM Alvin Kirby and field manager Rick Churches. It had been fine when I made my call to super agent Jack Perry, telling him Kirby & Churches (not a law firm) wanted me to either retire or sit out the season due to last year's injury. It wasn't fine after I flipped close my phone - with my right hand - and slipped the phone into my pocket - with my right hand, wrist and arm.

That's where I injured it again...

As I walked and talked with Jack, holding my cell phone up to my ear with my right hand, coincidentally connected to my right arm - the injured one - I did something to the elbow that I hadn't done since the initial injury. I don't know what that something was, but whatever I did, I couldn't bend the arm anymore. I went from sitting down with Kirby & Churches, arguing that I'd be throwing simulated games by the end of spring training to hoping Dr. McGee wouldn't have to amputate by the time I got to the parking lot.

I looked at my house through the artificial light and saw a light inside flick on. A timer did it. Nobody was home.

I thought about my emergency return to Dr. McGee after my re-injury and how he took x-rays and did an MRI and twisted and massaged and stretched out my arm. "Scar tissue," he said. "Probably some got loose. At worst, you have bone chips in there floating around." I asked what his definition of "at worst" meant. "Another surgery. You might make it back on a mound by August or September."

In a baseball season, there's huge difference between August and September, even bigger if you're thinking August 1st vs. September 30th.

I said many bad words on the drive home. This is exactly what I didn't want, and I assume what Kirby & Churches did want. I felt betrayed by them; betrayed by the business side of baseball, a side that had always been good to me (proof is the distance between my very large house and quiet suburban street).

I sat in the car with the radio on, hoping for a song to cheer me up. Nothing. It was all hip hop or angst-rock. Even Lite FM was playing depressing stuff, "Another Day In Paradise" by Phil Collins, about homelessness. I looked through the gate at my house and couldn't help but feel a kinship for the homeless, as ridiculous as that sounds. I was trapped outside, in pain, wondering if I had a future or not.

By eight o'clock, Vanessa had shown up with Alyssa and Grace. They'd been out at the mall and her phone had been off (her friend down the street, Connie, is relentless with the phone calls). She hit a code on the keypad (the code I typed in was apparently my locker combination from junior year in high school) and the gate opened up. I twisted the key in my ignition and heard nothing. My car wouldn't move. The battery was dead. Or worse. Jumping it didn't help.

I looked up at my house like a runner on first base with two outs, hoping to make it to second on the next pitch and not get left stranded by strikeout. A tow truck would come by soon to take my car (actually a Hummer) down to the shop. I sat on the front seat and waited while my girls went into the house. One more setback on a horrible day. Somewhere, I could hear Kirby & Churches laughing at me.

My Arm

David Philp — Tue, 29 Jan 2008 15:43:27 -0500

On Monday I had a checkup with the team's physician, Dr. Stanley McGee. He put my right arm, the one I throw with and, coincidentally, the one that was operated on by the aforementioned doctor last April 15th. Nine months and 14 days. I feel like an on-the-wagon alcoholic, counting the days since my last drink. Only I'm counting the days since my last operation. On the day of month ten, I report to spring training. As my mother used to say when she saw me bat in Little League games, "How queer."

Dr. McGee gave a positive report. All is well. He turned the arm and twisted the arm and stomped on the arm with a pair of lead boots. No pain. He squished it in a metal vice and stretched it like a noodle and bit on it with the jaws of a crocodile. No pain. "Strong as an ox," he said. Then he stuck his head out of room and said, "Next!" It was my turn to be examined.

Just kidding.

The examination went well. He gave me a clean bill of health and suggested implants for my semi-balding scalp. Since he's not a psychiatrist, I ignored his comments and decided to crawl into the fetal position on his examination table and suck my thumb. He's a good man.

Afterward, it was a meeting at the stadium with GM Alvin Kirby and new manager Rick Churches. They asked how the exam went, fully knowing since Dr. Stanley's report had been faxed over already and was sitting on Alvin's desk. But I played along. "Amputation scheduled for Thursday. I hope they chop off the right arm. Literally." We laughed. Well, I did. Rick doesn't laugh much. He's always been serious, but now, since he's our manager, he's intense. There are managers who are "players managers" and managers who are "field generals" and managers who don't know who the hell they are. I've played for all three. As long as the team wins, it doesn't matter who the old guy n the funny outfit is at the end of the bench. A manager rarely affects the outcome of a game. But they're lots of fun to criticize!

Being a starting pitcher all my life, I am generally up for criticism once every 5 days. A manager is available to have his ego dragged through the mud 7 days a week. It's not a job I would want, especially with my hair thinning on top. My ego is fragile without the public criticism.

It was a pleasant "sit down" at first, the meeting between Alvin, Rick and me. They asked how my rehab was progressing, asked if I planned on coming to spring training... I stopped them on that. What did they mean, did I plan on coming to spring training? Yes. I have a contract. I'm going to pitch. Then this exchange happened:

Alvin: We're not sure if your arm will be ready for the season.
Me: Dr. Stanley thinks it will be.
Rick: Does he?
Me: Does he? (I made fun of Rick's voice right there. Once again, he didn't laugh.) Of course. he told me himself.
Alvin: We have a second opinion that thinks your arm won't last a bullpen session.
Rick: No shot.
Alvin: You might want to consider retiring.

At this point, I was somewhat angry. Retire? Hadn't we been through all of this in December? We had a little contract trouble, but we worked it out. Then I started working out. I feel good. What were they doing.

Me: I think my agent should be here for this.
Rick: He doesn't have to be here.
Me: Neither do you. (That line pissed him off. It was so cool.)
Rick: I'm the manager of this team.
Me: One you're trying to break it up. Good job, skipper.
Rick: Shut the hell up -

Let me cut in and state some nasty words were used at this point by various parties, including a woman who came in to empty Alvin's ash tray (he's a chain smoker). Alvin asked her nicely to shove the ashes up her poop shoot.

With that in mind, the woman left and we continued with this shocking meeting.

Me: I feel like you guys are ambushing me. No agent. No warning that you now want me off the team. I'm not going to retire and give up the $9 million plus bonuses you're going to pay me.
Alvin: Then insurance will cover everything.

He held up Dr. McGee's report and said it, along with this phantom "second opinion," would be sent to the insurance company. I was welcome to come to spring training and "test out" my arm, but they expected me to spend the year on the disabled list. The insurance company would subsidize the cost of my contract. The team would pay nothing.

We didn't end the meeting on good terms. I stormed out when Rick started talking about team chemistry. The guy probably failed high school chemistry, and now he wants to talk about how he's going to motivate 25 guys to piss where and when he tells them to. I don't think so, Ricky.

I didn't make it 10 feet down the hall before I got a call from Jack Perry, super agent.

Me: Did you hear?
Jack: Mrs. Delaney told me.
Me: This isn't right.
Jack: I'm already filing a grievance with the players association.
Me: My arm is fine.
Jack: I'm sure it is.

We were done. I made it to the parking lot and tried to pull the car key out of my pocket. I couldn't. It was my right arm. Suddenly, I couldn't bend it.

With my good arm, I called Dr. McGee. This wasn't good.

Having A Catch

David Philp — Sun, 27 Jan 2008 15:46:57 -0500

It's Sunday, it's sunny and it's 22 days from the official start of spring training. My head has come a long way from being up my hole when I started posting back in November.

Since then, my health has improved, the diet has improved, our team has improved...

Well, the Cory Belle arrest from the other day may hurt us. But maybe not. If the league suspends him for his off the field problems, it'll hopefully just be for a handful of games and nothing crazy.

Anyway, back to Sunday sunny thoughts. Just wanted to throw a short post out to let you know I've begun throwing again. I quietly started about a week ago throwing from flat ground. No pain—in the elbow or the wrist. Today, day 7 of the throwing regimen, was great. My catcher was none other than my lovely wife, Vanessa. I paced her off about 50 yards (since it's still winter and we're a week away from the Super Bowl, that's half a football field) and threw. I wasn't whipping it, but I was able to put some pepper on it. I felt great.

You should know Vanessa's a good catcher. The fun thing about her is we do have a catch a few times a year. She was a standout softball player for her little hole in the wall college. She never had a shot at the Olympics or anything, but she was, from what she tells me, a solid shortstop with a little pop in her bat. So when I tell you I had a catch with her, it wasn't some lazy Sunday afternoon catch. I made her sweat.

Just wanted to make the official announcement. I visit with the team physician tomorrow in New York, meet with manager Rick Churches and GM Alvin Kirby afterward, and spend the afternoon working out with Andy, my personal trainer.

By the way, Andy is singing next week an open mic night at The Apollo Theater next weekend. Go and check it out if you're in the area.

Finally, the filming of the Pepsi commercial went great on Friday. More on that in the coming days. And I thought the Diane Sawyer special Friday night on ABC was pretty good. I looked balding though, didn't I? Time for some performance enhancers for my scalp.