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By GARY SHELTON
© St. Petersburg Times, published October 24, 2000
NEW YORK -- In one universe, Roger Clemens is a teddy bear.
In this dimension, he is mistreated, miscast, misunderstood. He is a victim of perception, not to mention that danged old media. He spends his days reuniting orphans with lost puppies.
It is in this existence that we find Clemens, the day after, with the innocent look on his face. He is standing at Shea Stadium, in front of his locker, having freshly arrived from a morning of helping the homeless.
"What do you want me to say?" said Clemens, because the guy is nothing if not accommodating. "There was no intent."
The last phrase, of course, is the new fight slogan of the Yankees. If Frank Sinatra were alive, he'd incorporate it in his song. "Start spreading the cheer ... there's no intent here." Come on. Everybody sing.
In the other universe, Roger Clemens is a thug.
In that dimension, Clemens is a dangerous man with deadly weapons, not to mention the other way around. He snaps. Then someone gets hurt. He spends his days eating those lost puppies.
It is in that existence that we find Mike Piazza, the day after, with a confused look on his face. He is sitting at a table, still trying to make sense of a situation that offers none. What's going to happen in the next game? Is Clemens going to throw a chair? His cleats? A fit?
"He seemed unsure and confused," Piazza said. "And unstable."
So where do you live? In the land where Roger was just trying to help out the grounds crew by picking up litter and tossing it gently from the field? Or the one where he blew a valve, picked up a stake and assumed he was Buffy the Vampire Slayer?
A day later, and the World Series is on the undercard and Piazza-Clemens is the main event. The incident has swallowed the event because you can see a baseball game on a lot of days but Batman on only a few. Who cares who is pitching tonight? We just want to know if Shea Stadium is going to aim its own brand of lunacy at Clemens. These days, you get the feeling Mets fans greatly prefer Rocker to Rocket.
In one universe, Clemens is a victim of circumstance. This is what he is saying. He keeps brushing his hand over his crewcut and shaking his head. He says he wishes it had been Mike Bordick at the plate, suggesting that none of this attention would have followed him if it was.
In the other, Clemens is a villain. Do you hear what he is saying? That he wishes it had been Mike Bordick! What? Does he want to hit all of the Mets?
In one universe, Clemens is guilty of nothing beyond competitiveness. He talks about being so juiced up for the game, he mistook In the other, Clemens is guilty of going loopy. He was so out of it, he couldn't tell a bat from a ball. And if he thought he was gripping a ball, why was he throwing that at Piazza?
In one universe, Clemens was merely throwing the bat from the field toward the bat boys.
In the other, you notice he was throwing it toward the wrong on-deck circle. There were no bat-boys there. The Yankees weren't batting.
In one universe, Clemens is merely an intimidator, knocking the faint-of-heart out of its game.
In the other, you worry about the Rocket, because it appears ground control has lost touch with Major Tom.
In one universe, you note that Joe Torre, the beloved diplomat who manages the Yankees, has rushed to cover Clemens' back. Torre never has appeared more emotional than on this issue, so much so that he almost stormed out of his postgame news conference before coming back.
In the other, you remember that Torre, too, once vilified Clemens, before he became a Yankee, after Clemens plunked Derek Jeter. You get the feeling that Torre is being loyal to the uniform but deep down, Torre knows better.
In one universe, you think that Clemens is just an excitable boy.
In the other, you think the jails are full of them.
In one universe, you think Clemens is one of the great pitchers of all time.
In the other, you'd like to see him in a batfight with Juan Marichal.
In one universe, you think that poor, poor Rog is going to suffer a few indignities from the Shea crowd tonight.
In the other, you wish it was bat day.
In one universe, you point out that Jack Nicholson is a fan of of Yankees, and presumably, of Clemens.
In the other, you wonder the star of One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest can slip the phone number for Nurse Ratchet to Clemens.
In one universe, it was the Mets who should be questioned for disappearing after Clemens' lumber lobbing.
In the other, it was Clemens who doesn't quite understand the meaning of throwing a splitter.
In one universe, you think the Mets cannot hit Clemens no matter how much batting practice they take.
In the other, you wonder if batting practice is supposed to include hurdling them.
Where do you live? If you are in New York, a Yankee or a Met, you have to decide. Was this merely an odd little play that would be forgotten if, say, Jeff Nelson and Benny Agbayani had been involved? Or was this everything you suspect these two teams to be?
One more time, here's the view from my orbit. I think Clemens was so jacked up that he approached road rage. I think he saw something flying toward him, and the juices kicked in. I think he picked it up and, trying to injure his attacker, he threw the bat at Piazza. And, yes, he should be disciplined for it.
In this universe, and in the one where he justifies things to himself.