My Vasectomy

You know how channels like Lifetime - Television For Women used to air made-for-TV movies with great titles like My Breast or Yeast Infection At 16?  Today, you're going to read about something that should probably be turned into a movie for Spike or, if we really don't want anybody to see it, Vs.  This movie would be called My Vasectomy.

"Why, Jimmy?  Why bring this up?  You disgust me," you say, meanwhile scanning down the post to see how many times I write the word Penis.  (Turns out just that one time.  Sorry.)

I will tell you why.  First, it popped into my head.  "Ouch," I said.  No, seriously, the idea instantaneously appeared in my head, like a vision of the Virgin Mary hovering over a plate of rice.  Second, once the popping took place, I felt that you are worthy of this knowledge.

"What knowledge, Mr. Jimmy?" you say while waxing my Hummer. 

I tell you.  You see, I got my V-section (that's what cool guys like me like to call Vasectomies) while still in the game.  The timing wasn't so great.  Vanessa wanted me to get one during the off season of '06.  Like most men, I suggested she go under the knife.  She asked me why she should get her tubes tied if she'd already had a C-section bringing my children into this world.  I told her I was the man and the decision was final.

Laying on the couch that evening, I wondered about how great it would be to be the kind of ballplayer who cheated on his wife AFTER getting a vasectomy.  I would never, ever have to worry about a headline screaming JIMMY SCOTT LOVE CHILD WINS PGA TOURNAMENT.  The V-section would mean I was free, free I say, free to express myself like a guy in the '60s (not in his 60s, but the 1960's).  I would be part of the great Love-In of 2006.  Sociologists would write books about the incredible music and art and tie-dye shirt sales that took place that year.  And I'd be a huge part of it, leading the way with my decidedly unsperm-like demeanor.

"You cad!" you say, eating some jerky and putting your feet up.  Yeah, you like how this is alluding to sex.  Here, let me make it more fun for a moment:

SEX

There.  We got that out of the way.  Back to me and the containment of any possible spill from the fellas residing in my underpants.

It's the off season of '06 and Vanessa wants me to get "it" done.  I, being a man, am scared to death of anyone going "down there" and messing with the plumbing.  We agree to disagree, which for me means celibacy.

Then it got kind of serious.

A guy on my team, who shall remain nameless out of respect for his wife and 4 kids (2 out of wedlock), was outed.  His wife found out he'd been cheating on her and, even worse, made the aforementioned 2 out of wedlock kiddies.  It was the talk of the MLB Wives internet chat room.  And it created more pressure for me.

"Do it," Vanessa said.  "I don't want to end up like her and find out one day you've got seven kids with five different women."

I suggested she calm down.  I had all of my women sign confidentiality agreements before I screwed their brains out.

My wife didn't think that was funny.

I understood her feelings.  If I'd been in her shoes, I would have felt the same way.  I mean look at me.  In 2006, I was a rich, handsome, successful millionaire.  (Today I'm just a rich, handsome, retired millionaire.)  If I was another woman, I'd want me.  Right?  So I told Vanessa I'd get it done.

Only, spring training was two days away.  The vasectomy would have to wait until the off season, a full 8 or 9 months away. 

"Then we have a problem," Vanessa said.

"Yes we do."

I called my super agent, Steve Fortunato, who at the time was still working for Scott Boras.  It was Steve, however, who I considered my main man.  "Dude," I said, "what do I do?"

"I don't know, Jimmy," he said.  "Why are you asking me?  I don't want to hear about your, your junk."

That was the first time I'd heard the word Junk as it pertained to my Minnesota Twins (if you get what I'm saying).  Very big moment for me.

"Steve," I said, using his first name to show the seriousness of the situation, "I can't wait all season.  Vanessa will drive me crazy.  I won't pitch well, won't get another big contract and you won't get any big payday from me."

"Get it done!" a voice not belonging to Steve said, followed by a distinct click.

"Who was that?" I said.  "Was Boras listening in again?"

"Yeah," said Steve, "he's especially paranoid today.  Johnny Damon threatened to switch to the Hendricks brothers if Scott didn't get him an extra $2,000 from the Yankees to cover shaving cream purchases for the next four years."

I was at a loss.  Vanessa wanted it done.  The trucks had left Shea for Port St. Lucie already.  What was I to do?  Suddenly, I had an idea.

"Steve," I said.  "tell Omar I'm sitting out the first week of spring training if he doesn't get me something I really want that he can't give me."

"Like what?"

"I don't know.  Wait - I want ownership of the Mets.  Tell him that.  In five days, I'll recant my demand, be all healed up, and rock and roll.  Whaddya think?"

Steve thought I was being stupid.  He said Omar would think I was stupid.  I reminded him that Omar already thought I was half-village idiot, so this would just add to my legend of stupidity throughout the halls of Shea Stadium.  Besides, I was one of his best pitchers.  What was he going to say, no?

"He's going to say no," Steve said.  "You'll get suspended, this'll become a big issue with the players association, the media will chime in, half your teammates will think you're being selfish, and you'll spend the season on the defensive."

"Maybe, " I said.  "But my wife will be off my back.  I can take fans and teammates using my name in vain.  If my spousal equivalent hates me, that's another story."

"Fine," he said.  "Go get your vasecto-"

"V-section," I said.

"I'm not going to call it that."

"Steve, you need to get in touch with your inner man."

He hung up on me.

To make a long story just a hair longer, I got it done.  My guy was good.  He let me watch.  A mirror was positioned just so and I could see him do his work.  It only hurt a little, mostly on the left side where he didn't give me as much anesthesia as the right side.  When I screamed, he merely gave me another shot (and a tissue to wipe away the tears).

Afterwards, Vanessa drove me to the supermarket where I picked up the requisite bag of frozen peas.  (Note to all supermarket cashiers: If a guy comes into your store and only buys frozen peas {beans if there's an international pea shortage], you know he is about to get, or just had, a massive vasectomy.)  I sat on the couch for the next five days with my peas and watched the mouths on SportsCenter call me a selfish child.  "Yes, I am," I said in reply to my widescreen.  "But at least I won't make any more of them."  They never responded.  I won.

Five days later, I was down in Florida, shaking hands with Omar and Willie and apologizing for my inappropriate actions.  As I left our closed-door meeting, Omar waited for the door to open before getting in the last word. 

"Next time you get a vasectomy, Jimmy, do it before spring training!"

I turned to the boys in the locker room, Beltran, Wright, Reyes and the rest, each facing my direction and wearing nothing but a jockstrap, and smiled. 

"I promise," I said, suddenly wondering how good the Hendricks Brothers were at keeping secrets.