SEPT. 18, 1996. --I was bartending in Boston and wondering what the heck had happened to my life. You know things are bad when you're setting your alarm clock for noon every day, only you still have to hit the snooze button a few times before rolling out of bed. That was me. I wanted to do only one thing in life -- write a sports column...
Some people's dreams should never come true.
On Sept. 18, I had the night off and was sitting at home. Roger Clemens was pitching in Detroit. Like every other Boston fan, I wasn't sure how to feel about him. He'd struggled through a dreadful contract year (4-11, 4.36 ERA on Aug. 1) before ripping off four straight wins and looking like the Clemens of old.
Suddenly, Boston was divided between two camps: "We gotta re-sign Rogah!" and "We gotta get rid of this bum!" I was firmly entrenched in the latter.
So...to summarize how you feel about Roger:
1. I don't know how to feel about him.
2. I feel that we gotta get rid of this bum.
On this night, Clemens had it going. He struck out 12 Tigers in five innings. Like every other Sox fan, I immediately thought of his famous Mariners game. Could this be ... ?
Nahhhhhh.
I called my dad. He was watching and thinking the same thing. After I hung up, my phone started ringing. One buddy called. Two buddies called. Three buddies called. Everyone was thinking the same thing.
Who said great minds are the only minds that think alike?Oh my God! Roger Clemens MIGHT strike out 20 guys in a meaningless game against the woeful Detroit Tigers!!!
Let me say that I in no way discourage getting excited about sports. I've gone nuts after a huge home run or a big win. I've called my friends...after something big HAPPENED...you know, HAPPENED. Past tense. Like a game-winning home run against the Red Sox or Mets, a big rivalry, or a big win in the playoffs/postseason. I don't call my friends about something that COULD happen, especially not in a game that means nothing.
Oh, and by the way, while the Yankees are important part of my life, they are not the essence of my life.
Clemens struck out the side in the sixth, and the symbolism was suffocating. Weeks into his 1986 breakout season, Clemens struck out a record 20 Mariners. With two weeks remaining in his Boston career, he was doing it again. For some reason, fundamentally, as a human being, at that specific point in my life, I needed him to do this for me. He had sucked against Dave Stewart his whole career, he had sucked for most of the past four years, he was putting together the most thinly disguised contract push ever ... and you know what? I didn't give a crap. He owed me this. He owed every Sox fan this.
Oh. My. God. I don't even know where to begin.
First of all, there is NO SYMBOLISM IN SPORTS. Sure, there have been some funny/weird coincidences. But symbolism is a stupid literary tool...not an element of professional sports.
For some reason, fundamentally, as a human being, at that specific point in my life, I needed him to do this for me.
You needed him to do this for you. You needed a guy you've never met who throws a cork wrapped in yarn for a living to do something for you.
By the way, between 1992 and 1996, Clemens had put up these ERA+s:
175 in 246 innings, 104 in 191 innings, 177 in 170 innings (strike year), 116 in 140 innings (strike shortened season), 139 in 242 innings.
Sure he wasn't the same Roger Clemens anymore, but to say he sucked is a bit of an exaggeration.
Oh and let me comment again just to remind everyone. Bill Simmons needed a guy he's never met who throws a cork wrapped in yarn for a living to do something for him.
And let me state for the record that I think it's perfectly reasonable for fans to feel as though professional athletes are indebted to them and that these guys "owe" them record performances.
Oh it ain't over yet...
I remember cracking open a beer and working five Marlboro Lights at once. After Clemens fanned two more in the seventh, I called my dad, and we had a two-minute conversation of only one-word sentences ("Wow!" "Whoa!").
The extensive vocabulary of two brain dead morons.
Tired of pacing my apartment, I walked down to Sully's Pub in Charlestown for the last two innings. There wasn't a more predictable local bar: The same people were there every night, the same bartenders worked the same shifts, and the guy-to-girl ratio never dropped below 5:1.
Welcome to New England.
Anytime I liked a girl, I took her to Sully's. If she didn't like it or made a sarcastic comment like "I thought we were going somewhere fun," she was a goner.
"I thought we were going somewhere fun." New England in a nutshell.
Now I was in my mid-20s, sitting in a Boston bar and legally drinking, living in the only place I had ever wanted to live ... and there was Clemens, my favorite pitcher once again, about to strike out 20 again. Maybe life wasn't so bad after all.
The same bum you thought they should have gotten rid of just hours earlier = your favorite pitcher once again. Welcome to New England fandom.
When Clemens notched No. 20, in the ninth, the roof in Sully's practically came off. I'm not kidding. I hugged complete strangers. I bought a round of shots even though I was broke. A buddy showed up, and we eventually closed the place. I woke up at noon again the next day, maybe even a little later, but for one of the few times that year, I had a smile on my face. Roger Clemens had fanned 20 guys. Again.
One of the few times you smiled that whole year. I can't even make fun of that. That's just so pathetic and depressing.
The rest of the article is discussing how steroids play a factor in Clemens' stats, legacy, Red Sox fans' memory of him, etc. I don't particularly care about what he has to say about that. However, I do want to point out just how pathetic this man's life is as well as all of the people like him. I'm so sick of this team and their fans. A bunch of bandwagon morons whose lives are defined by vicariously living through sports teams.
No brains, no lives, no fun. Welcome to New England.
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