Poem: Ode to Roger Clemens

[Gregory Pratt]

From here:

 

http://baseballevolution.com/gregory/odeclemens.html

 

There's nothing lonelier than to be a lost Rocket in space,

alone

knowing that there are many others hiding

on the surface

who could join you and spare you the miserable solitude

but don't because they're afraid of being caught in an asteroid field

and so they leave you to your weightlessness.

 

You didn't want to be alone, when you decided to fly off the earth,

so you asked around for company before

takeoff,

but no one would come with you.

Your best friend didn't want to invade the sky

for fear of angering God;

your wife didn't want to let go of gravity;

you'd burnt your bridges with Mike Piazza;

so you asked Barry Bonds, and he declined:

he doesn't fly with white people.

You knew better than to ask other hitters,

who are notorious for keeping the secrets of their successes to themselves

and who you have built a twenty four year

sixty foot six inch

separation

from.

You turned to other pitchers.

Pedro Martinez was a no, claiming a preference for mother Earth;

Greg Maddux was busy playing catch with his children;

Randy Johnson was laid up in the Arizona desert,

and you certainly weren't going to take anyone less than you

into the sky because mere men can't handle the pressures

a Rocket can.

So you left the Earth

alone.

 

You made a stop in the stratosphere,

where fallen stars are swallowed,

wondering if anyone had survived the trip into space but

knowing that no one had ever returned.

Prospects are bleak.

At first you didn't find much in this exile, but when you thought all hope lost

you stumbled on a group of old ballplayers, tossing rocks made of cloud

underhand

and hitting them with door handles from the jets

they were flown in on; they ran around the

bases with singles and doubles and triples not seen since

a more Earthly era. Your heart skipped a beat.

You called out

"I'm taking a trip into space! Who wants to join me?"

Shoeless Joe Jackson turned away from you, thought you foolish

for taking the trip voluntarily when all you could ever want

was on Earth.

"Baseball ain't fun on the moon, ah've been!" he shouted

and Buck Weaver turned you away too:

"I've been begging to return to Earth too long to leave this spot

for some place colder than any place I've ever been."

Just when you thought all hope was gone

Pete Rose came, and offered to be with you

for a price,

promising to whistle the star spangled banner

and the pledge of allegiance

and take me out to the ballgame

for your amusement,

pledging cracker jacks and intensity and dollars.

"What the hell" you said,

"it's company," and you took off

but halfway to the moon you lost your way;

you were already growing tired of Rose's song and dance,

so when he bet that he could find your way back

if you'd hold him at the door you took him up on it

and let him go into space. You cut your losses and then epiphany:

"is this what will happen to me?"

 

As you are hit by asteroids hurled by force of Bob Feller,

Walter Johnson or Pete Alexander you can't help but feel

alone, like a batter facing the great headhunter of his era,

overmatched,

like nature were exacting its revenge upon you.

As Houston advises you to take the beatings

now, and how to take the beatings,

you start to wonder whether or not you would be better off

at home

except it is too late now: you are lost in space

with no clue how to get back home.

The separation between you and the world is greater

than it was before,

in those times when

you appeared to be an immortal from space

but you are now a mere mortal in space

alone in a field of asteroids you willingly walked into.

[Kyyle23]

I found this on czabe.com

 

I believe Roger Clemens.

 

I know, call me a fool. But there’s just something so nice, so honest about the guy that’s got me hooked.

 

Sure, there’s “evidence” that points the other way. There are red flags, sirens, flashing lights and loudspeakers all saying something isn’t quite right about Clemens' incredible “story.”

 

I don’t care.

 

I’m with the Rocket. Here’s why.

 

I believe everybody ELSE is lying.

 

I believe Andy Pettitte is honest, but quite forgetful.

 

I believe “misremembers” is actually a word.

 

I believe Brian McNamee is a snake.

 

I believe Jose Canseco’s word is as good as gold.

 

I believe it’s impossible to play golf AND go to a pool party in one day.

 

I believe Clemens post-40 statistics were nothing but a “hot streak.”

 

I believe it’s normal to have your wife take HGH from your trainer.

 

I believe Roger’s mom was a big proponent of injectable B-12.

 

I believe “for all he’s done for the game of baseball” this can’t be true.

 

I believe those dirty syringes and gauze belong to somebody else.

 

I believe a secretly taped phone call is the first clue somebody is honest.

 

I believe Roger’s nanny misremembers too. In Spanish.

 

I believe those “guys” on that “commercial” about HGH, really didn't have their lives improve that much. After all, they still "had to hit a curve ball" and we all know HGH can't do that.

 

I believe any photos of him at that party are doctored.

 

I believe that just because a guy claims he treats his body “like a temple” that its no big deal to also say he “popped Vioxx” like they were “skittles.” What? You’ve never seen a big bowl of Skittles in church next to the votive candles?

 

I believe Mike Wallace probed Clemens as hard as anybody could on 60 Minutes, and the fact that he also is a guest in the Steinbrenner luxury box has nothing to do with nothing. Move along.

 

I believe that just because so many guys on the Yankees were juicing – Mike Stanton, Jason Giambi, Gary Sheffield, Canseco, Chuck Knoblauch, Andy Pettitte – was merely coincidence.

 

I believe that “a third ear growing out of a forehead” is indeed a telltale sign of steroid use as Clemens claims. Clearly, he only has two ears, and none on his forehead. See?

 

Come on people, stop being so cynical. It just takes a teensy bit of imagination and faith to believe Roger.

 

And yeah, the Tooth Fairy and Santa are real. I swear. Their stories check out also.