Normally, I attempt to write objective columns for the Review. Sure, I occasionally make an unnecessary reference to one of my favorite teams, be it the Red Sox, the Celtics, the Bruins and the Patriots, but I am conscious of my duties as a reporter. I must display as little bias as possible when discussing sports, and I must strive to be truthful, no matter how painful that truth might be. So on Thursday nights, when I arrive at Burton to write my weekly column for Outside Oberlin, I try to check some portion of my personality - the portion that hides the irrational sports fan within - at the door.
Not today, folks. No longer can I turn a blind eye to the plight of my beloved Bosox. On Sunday, when my fellow sports editors and I were discussing the contents of this week's section, someone suggested that a story be written about Roger Clemens, the five-time Cy Young Award winner who was recently acquired by the big, bad New York Yankees in a trade with the Toronto Blue Jays. Needless to say, I jumped at the opportunity to write the story. After all, who here at Oberlin knows the Rocket or his legendary on-field exploits better than I, a bitterly frustrated Red Sox fan? (Is there any other kind?)
During his 14 seasons in Boston, Clemens amassed 2,590 strikeouts and 192 wins, eclipsing Cy Young's record for career victories in a Red Sox uniform. As the undisputed ace of their pitching staff, he led the Sox to the playoffs on four occasions; twice, he fanned 20 batters in a single game. To a child who entertained dreams of becoming a baseball star and pitching in front of the Fenway faithful, he was simply breathtaking. Thus, it should come as no surprise that, when the Rocket landed in Toronto after testing the free agent market during the 1995-96 offseason, I was devastated.
For weeks before the signing, I would visit the ESPN website every few minutes, praying that the Red Sox brass had regained their senses and rewarded their most talented player with a richly deserved contract extension. Then one fateful day, I awoke to the sound of a telephone ringing. I listened as the answering machine fielded the call, only to be informed by my father that Clemens had signed with the Blue Jays. Unwilling to leave my bed, I forced myself back into a deep slumber. When I finally woke up for the second time, I wasn't sure whether I had heard correctly. Had the Rocket really left the Red Sox, abandoning the millions of Bostonians who adored him? Or was it just a bad dream? I listened to the message again. "Just calling to tell you that Clemens signed with Toronto," said my father. "But hey, it could be worse. He's not a Yankee."
I am not making this up. Sadly enough, I can remember that message today just as clearly as I can remember my first kiss, or the first Grateful Dead concert that I attended. (Actually, the latter portion of the concert remains somewhat hazy, but only because of the mass quantities of intoxicants that were consumed that glorious summer night.) I was angry. I was upset. I was bewildered by the strategy of Red Sox general manager Dan Duquette, who shrugged off the loss of his most valuable player as if it were inconsequential. In other words, I experienced the same feelings then that I would experience two years later, when Duquette and the usual gang of idiots in the Red Sox front office managed to lose perennial All-Star/team leader Mo Vaughn to the Anaheim Angels.
How much longer must I watch helplessly as my favorite players - Clemens, Vaughn and the like - leave Boston for the greener pastures of teams in places like Anaheim, New York and (gasp!) Canada? How much longer must I wait until the Red Sox become legitimate contenders for a World Series title? How can Duquette and team owner John Harrington keep straight faces when they claim that their organization is dedicated to winning? These are the questions that every true Red Sox fan considers as he cries himself to sleep in a room with padded walls.
Today, Sox fans can add one more query to that list: why must we be constantly humiliated by our most hated rivals, the New York Yankees, and their shrewd owner, George Steinbrenner? Watching Roger Clemens don those nauseating pinstripes at his Saturday press conference was just a little salt in wounds still fresh from the departure of Vaughn. It made me wonder why I ever allowed sports and, more specifically, the Boston Red Sox into my delicate heart. I began to imagine a life -�a happy, productive life -�without painful memories of Bill Buckner in the 1986 World Series, the untimely death of Len Bias and the Rocket in a Yankees uniform.
But enough about me. Let's talk about the trade. On the surface, it is almost meaningless. The Yankees won 125 games last season, finishing 22 games ahead of the second-place Red Sox en route to their 24th World Series championship. It was a foregone conclusion that the Bronx Bombers would win the American League East during the upcoming 1999 campaign, especially when you consider that last year's squad has remained intact during the offseason. Thus, the acquisition of Roger Clemens is nothing more than icing on the cake; after all, can we really expect the Yankees to surpass their record-breaking victory total from last year? Even with the best pitcher in the American League, it is doubtful.
That is not the only question. Can Clemens, who will turn 37 next season, fill the void created by the absence of lefthander David Wells, the man shipped to Toronto to complete the trade? It may seem like a silly question, but a quick glance at their numbers will prove that Wells and the aging Rocket are not so far apart at this stage of their respective careers. In 1998, Wells pitched eight complete games, five shutouts and finished the season with an impressive 18-4 record; his earned run average was 3.49. For his part, Clemens pitched five complete games, three shutouts and amassed a 20-6 record with a 2.65 ERA. Admittedly, his 271 strikeouts led the American League (Wells had 163), but that's beside the point. Today, Wells and Clemens are clearly comparable pitchers, regardless of their past histories. Perhaps the Yankees will win 126 games during the 1999 campaign, finishing 23 games ahead their closest division rival. But that's about it. Big deal.
Upon closer examination, however, the Clemens trade has much darker, more sinister implications for all of Major League Baseball, not just American League East fatcats like the Red Sox and the Baltimore Orioles. More than anything else, the trade reinforces the notion that teams in big markets (New York, Los Angeles) enjoy a virtual stranglehold over the free agent market. Just look at the Yankees, who boast the third largest payroll in baseball. Their roster is overflowing with the kind of high-priced veteran talent that teams in Montreal, Pittsburgh and Kansas City cannot afford. The Bronx faithful can celebrate the acquisition of the Rocket and his enormous salary all they want. For that matter, they can even build a shrine to Steinbrenner, whose desire for publicity drives him to spend money like it's going out of style. But is there really any reason to celebrate when it becomes clear that winners and losers are separated only by the size of their wallets? I suppose this is all fine and dandy to fans in Baltimore, Cleveland and the Big Apple, but I preferred the game when it was not dictated so much by economics. So call me a purist. Better yet, call me jealous. Call me whatever you like. You know I'm right.
This much is clear: Roger Clemens has dealt yet another blow to Dan Duquette and the rest of Red Sox Nation by joining forces with the hated New York Yankees. And George Steinbrenner has seized yet another opportunity to grab the headlines and embarrass his Bostonian adversaries in the process. And the Bronx Bombers will probably win their 25th World Series title next season, trampling over some hapless National League franchise with ease. Forgive me if I'm not terribly excited.
Copyright © 1998, The Oberlin Review.
Volume 127, Number 15, February 26, 1999
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