In Boston, bosses of the rampaging Red Sox have been known to refer to the New York Yankees as the “Evil Empire.” But that’s when the Yankees were so annoyingly competent, they merited the back page of the tabloids instead of the front page. Now the Yankees are so creaky and frayed, change that to the medieval empire.
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The Yankees have fallen, and are showing no signs of getting up. Into this noxious mix comes Roger Clemens, 44, the best part-time pitcher available, who will end another sabbatical and begin another farewell tour soon but not soon enough for the Yankees.
If you have studied Chicago baseball history over the last century, it’s nice to see another franchise grope. The proposition of Clemens saving the Yankees, when he isn’t off seeing his family or playing golf between starts, is patently outrageous. At best, Clemens will finish what he starts about the sixth inning, followed by trouble. On any given night, Yankees relievers glow in the dark, like their counterparts with the Cubs, whose efforts are measured not with a speed gun but a Geiger counter.
Clemens is blameless for this crazed marketplace. George Mitchell, the gumshoe drug sleuth who gets paid for doing almost nothing, thought he had a sweetheart deal? Clemens will collect about $18 million on an NFL diet of 16 games. He doesn’t dabble in exhibitions, his salary is guaranteed, he won’t wind up paralyzed, and between assignments, Clemens can be like Mark Prior. You remember him. The Cubs promised Prior would make magic, and they were right. He disappeared.
But even if Clemens posts a record of 16-0, it is unlikely he will lead the Yankees to the postseason. If, because of Clemens, the Yankees were to elevate from their current hole to 10 games above .500, that would mean a final mark of 86-76. That isn’t wild-card material, not in an American League with the Cleveland Indians and Detroit Tigers around.
This would be a revolting development for Clemens, because it wasn’t about money — ho, ho — but about winning. He was set to stay home and cut the grass when, by happenstance, he wound up at spring training in owner George Frankensteinbrenner’s box. Apparently, George whispered something that touched Clemens, and not in his wallet.
“My innermost thoughts and feelings, I’m keeping close to my heart,” Clemens sighed. “At the end of the year, I’ll tell you the exact reasons why I did what I did.”
In his dotage, Steinbrenner has been oddly quiet about his expensive losers. During an angrier era, he would have fumigated the scene, but now he’s venting mainly at Jason Giambi, who has been roughed up for being honest about the sport’s steroid culture. Commissioner Bud Selig appointed Mitchell to discover truth, correct? But when Giambi goes near there, he’s an outcast? Somebody, please explain. As for Alex Rodriguez, apparently he didn’t relax on the recent road trip to Toronto by watching the Stanley Cup finals.
Clemens’ graduation creates a gaping hole for ESPN, which breathlessly traced the legend’s latest comeback throughout various bush league outposts, replete with pitch counts, but not pulse rates. Thank goodness for the spelling bee. One only hopes cameras zoom in if and when Clemens gives way on the mound to Kyle Farnsworth, who wishes the future Hall of Famer wouldn’t hang around the team like he’s double parked.
Clemens is no doubt sensitive to such attitudes, but nobody can say he was lying. During the winter, he provided odds of 80 percent he would retire and 20 percent he would pitch in 2007. For a few bucks, he’s doing both.