"Yes," said Scioscia.
I contemplated the last thing I might have said as a journalist: "I thought you were trying to win this season."
I remember thinking there was something wrong with my speech as I talked to Scioscia. There still is. I now sound more like Mike D'Antoni than myself.
He had a picture of himself playing basketball in a Huntington Beach youth league. First time I ever saw a player as wide as he was tall.
Later I vowed to recover so I could see Conger take on Howard. I know some Lakers fans will be picking Conger.
I finished typing Sunday's Albert Pujols column in the emergency room. Now you understand the headline: "Looking forward to nine more years of Albert Pujols."
They had me stay overnight so the nurses could practice taking blood in the dark. Brener and Tom Lasorda stopped by. Lasorda used the bathroom so I would know he was there with me the whole way.
The Times' obit writer emailed to wish me well.
Hernandez stopped by to see if it was time to apply for the Page 2 column. Ned Colletti was a visitor. There were no Angels, and I was pretty happy about that because the last place you want to see angels is in a hospital.
They tell me I'll be fine. I'm supposed to interview Floyd Mayweather on Tuesday, so we'll see.
To be completely honest, I wrote this to see if I could still do it. (I await the messages to the contrary.)
When I was discharged, one of the nurses gave me a going-away gift. I wasn't surprised, knowing how much the nurses wanted me to go away.
Inside I found the fish — the singing bass that my daughter and I exchange — while trying to outdo each other in the process.
The very best medicine. I've got to take care of myself so I can find a way to get it back to her.