Former All-American athlete Roger Clemens now lives on Sirius—more so than radio hosts Howard Stern, Chris “Mad Dog” Russo, Martha Stewart, or any ESPN Radio personality.
Mr. Clemens, however, doesn’t even have a radio channel dedicated to his persona, much less host his own show. He physically lives on the star known as Sirius.*
After listening to the former Cy Young winner continue to deny any involvement with illegal performance enhancing drugs on the radio today, I’m convinced that Clemens is no longer living on this planet.
All fans want is for Clemens to come back down to our planet and give them five minutes of contrition. This isn’t the WWE, dude. So please, quit trying to act like you’re Mr. Perfect and we’ll be happy to put all this behind us. An apology will set you free. (Of course not from perjury charges, but that is a story, and sure conviction for another day.)
But in order to set Clemens free from the lie he is living, we’ll need to get creative. We’ll need someone who resonates like fellow Texan and former legendary pitcher Nolan Ryan to invite Clemens to throw out the first pitch at the next time the Rangers host, say, the A’s.
Mr. Ryan, the emcee, communicating with the sellout crowd via microphone, summons for the conga line of former professional athletes/celebrities who have apologized or come clean about anything.
“What’s this all about, Nolan?” Clemens would ask.
“This is your intervention, Roger,” Mr. Ryan would earnestly say, as a large group would walk out of each dugout including the likes of Jose Canseco, Jason Giambi, Manny, Miguel Tejada, Chuck Knoblauch, Tony Mandarich, California Gov. Arnold Schwarzenegger, Pete Rose, and local Little Leaguers. A-Rod and Andy Pettitte could join live via satellite on the jumbo tron from wherever they may be playing.
The war of attrition that is the Roger Clemens saga could finally come to an end.
As prone to petulance as Clemens may be, what’s the worst he could do here? Even if he decides to go to fisticuffs with Ryan alone, we all know he will lose (Google Robin Ventura).
The normally docile Texas Ranger crowd will embolden Clemens until he finally takes the mic after a minute of coming to terms with the fact that no neologism, i.e., “misremembered,” will dig him out of this hole. Time to set the record straight. And he would.
The fans would be shooting their guns in the air after Clemens sheds a tear in admitting and lamenting he used performance enhancers. He points to the Little Leaguers in Palmeiro-ian fashion and barks, “Don’t ever lie to America!”
Imagine the domino effect this could have on professional athletes. Telling the truth could finally become sheik.
“You mean if I tell the truth today, I won’t have to live life with King Kong on my back? Now that sounds logical,” the modern day athlete would begin to say to him or herself.
Clemens wouldn’t get paid to tell Charlie Gibson on TV at an hour when no youngsters were watching. He wouldn’t tell any crusading journalist, either. He would be doing it for free, where it should be done: on the field, on the stage, in front of everybody who spent all those years marveling at his high level of play. That’s why we’ll forgive him, because he was fun to watch. He entertained us. It’s a fair trade.
Does all this sound like a fairy tale? I know, Goldie Locks couldn’t have written a better script. But there’s nothing wrong with fantasizing the start of what could be the Steroid Era’s happy ending.
*Footnote: He chose to live on the brightest star in our galaxy because not only is it the brightest, and therefore, easier to find, but because property tax was cheaper. He wanted to move to the moon after he retired, but then President and respected “Texan” George W. Bush told him that America indeed owned it.
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