just like jewelry."
There were so many questions, Jeff and I stayed at her house longer than we should have, and when we got back into the car to drive to Anaheim Stadium for the game, we realized there was no way we were going to make it in time. I was going to be late, and that meant I would have to confront Tony LaRussa, my manager, who was going to be mad. I decided that I'd better tell him the truth.
"Tony, I was at Madonna's house, talking to her, and I'm late," I told him. "So I missed batting practice." Tony was pretty pissed off, but he let me play, so that was the end of that.
With Madonna, though, that was just the beginning. Before long, she was calling me every day, wherever I was. She was amazing. She knew exactly what my schedule was and exactly where I was.
A lot of the times, she would call the clubhouse, using the code name Melissa. But all of my teammates and other people around the team figured out who it was, and they were always talking about it. You can just imagine what it was like. I didn't tell them much. I wasn't the type of guy to brag about anything.
But they'd always be bringing it up and giving me shit.
"Jose, Melissa is on the phone," they'd say all the time, whether she was really calling or not.
For a while, Madonna and I would talk just about every day, although I have to say it was always kind of strange. I wouldn't say we ever really got to know each other. Usually she just called to ask about my schedule, and when we could see each other.
She never asked about baseball or anything related to that. She never talked about her own work or career. She would just ask me questions about my marriage to Esther and the details of our separation, and would try to figure out a time when we would be in the same city so we could meet again.
Madonna doesn't fool around. She's a woman who knows what she wants, and goes after what she wants, and for a few weeks that year she had decided I was what she wanted: I was Cuban, I was a superstar baseball player, and she liked the way I looked. She never really got a good look at my body when I visited her house in California, and on the phone she kept asking me a lot of questions about how different parts of my body looked. So I had the A's team photographer take a shot of me wearing nothing but some tight riding shorts, and sent that to her.
"It looks nice," she said. I didn't ask what she meant by "it."
The rumors got heavier and heavier. For some reason, there was an awful lot of curiosity about what happened between Madonna and me. I guess it's no surprise: I was the bad boy of baseball at that time and she was the bad girl of music, so we made kind of an interesting combination. There was all this talk about how she was in love with me, and how she wanted to be with me. I tried to tune it all out, but at the same time, it was a big compliment.
That May, the A's went on the road for a series against the New York Yankees, and when I arrived at our hotel in Manhattan I gave Madonna a call over at her penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park.
"Why don't you come up to my apartment?" she asked me.
"I've got to see you."
I took a taxi over to her apartment on the West Side, and as soon as I got out of the cab, I realized there were paparazzi out in front of her apartment building. She also had her own personal security guard down at the front gate. He was huge, almost seven feet tall and easily 350 pounds.
"Hi, I'm Jose," I told him.
"Yeah, I know who you are."
So as I'm walking past him toward the elevator, I can hear people talking in the background.
"Who was that?" one voice asked.
"Wasn't that Canseco?" someone else said.
I forgot all about the photographers and went up to see Madonna in her penthouse apartment. In some ways seeing her this time was a lot like the first time I'd met her, back in California. She showed me around her place, the way she had in the Hollywood Hills. But this time she didn't play any videos.
Mostly, we
There were so many questions, Jeff and I stayed at her house longer than we should have, and when we got back into the car to drive to Anaheim Stadium for the game, we realized there was no way we were going to make it in time. I was going to be late, and that meant I would have to confront Tony LaRussa, my manager, who was going to be mad. I decided that I'd better tell him the truth.
"Tony, I was at Madonna's house, talking to her, and I'm late," I told him. "So I missed batting practice." Tony was pretty pissed off, but he let me play, so that was the end of that.
With Madonna, though, that was just the beginning. Before long, she was calling me every day, wherever I was. She was amazing. She knew exactly what my schedule was and exactly where I was.
A lot of the times, she would call the clubhouse, using the code name Melissa. But all of my teammates and other people around the team figured out who it was, and they were always talking about it. You can just imagine what it was like. I didn't tell them much. I wasn't the type of guy to brag about anything.
But they'd always be bringing it up and giving me shit.
"Jose, Melissa is on the phone," they'd say all the time, whether she was really calling or not.
For a while, Madonna and I would talk just about every day, although I have to say it was always kind of strange. I wouldn't say we ever really got to know each other. Usually she just called to ask about my schedule, and when we could see each other.
She never asked about baseball or anything related to that. She never talked about her own work or career. She would just ask me questions about my marriage to Esther and the details of our separation, and would try to figure out a time when we would be in the same city so we could meet again.
Madonna doesn't fool around. She's a woman who knows what she wants, and goes after what she wants, and for a few weeks that year she had decided I was what she wanted: I was Cuban, I was a superstar baseball player, and she liked the way I looked. She never really got a good look at my body when I visited her house in California, and on the phone she kept asking me a lot of questions about how different parts of my body looked. So I had the A's team photographer take a shot of me wearing nothing but some tight riding shorts, and sent that to her.
"It looks nice," she said. I didn't ask what she meant by "it."
The rumors got heavier and heavier. For some reason, there was an awful lot of curiosity about what happened between Madonna and me. I guess it's no surprise: I was the bad boy of baseball at that time and she was the bad girl of music, so we made kind of an interesting combination. There was all this talk about how she was in love with me, and how she wanted to be with me. I tried to tune it all out, but at the same time, it was a big compliment.
That May, the A's went on the road for a series against the New York Yankees, and when I arrived at our hotel in Manhattan I gave Madonna a call over at her penthouse apartment overlooking Central Park.
"Why don't you come up to my apartment?" she asked me.
"I've got to see you."
I took a taxi over to her apartment on the West Side, and as soon as I got out of the cab, I realized there were paparazzi out in front of her apartment building. She also had her own personal security guard down at the front gate. He was huge, almost seven feet tall and easily 350 pounds.
"Hi, I'm Jose," I told him.
"Yeah, I know who you are."
So as I'm walking past him toward the elevator, I can hear people talking in the background.
"Who was that?" one voice asked.
"Wasn't that Canseco?" someone else said.
I forgot all about the photographers and went up to see Madonna in her penthouse apartment. In some ways seeing her this time was a lot like the first time I'd met her, back in California. She showed me around her place, the way she had in the Hollywood Hills. But this time she didn't play any videos.
Mostly, we
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