Roger On The Hill

Watching the Roger Clemens/Brian McNamee showdown on Capital Hill yesterday was surprisingly riveting theater. Whenever you get to watch crusty old congressmen utter phrases like “the palpable mass on his buttocks” you know you’re in for some good TV. It’s obvious to anyone with even a cursory knowledge of this story that one of these guys is lying under oath. As Representative John Tierney pointed out to Mr. Clemens, there were real inconsistencies even within his own deposition from last week. Then Representative Dan Burton took his allotted time to scathingly point out many of the very many instances that Mr. McNamee had lied in the Mitchell report and all throughout this sordid saga. For much of the proceedings, neither of them seemed particularly credible, like a couple of kids in trouble for something bad that happened on the schoolyard––both in the wrong, and both making up new and increasingly preposterous stories about what really happened to avoid punishment.

When I set out on the nearly five hour journey of watching this ultimate display of what sports writer Mike Lupica smartly called real “reality television,” I thought I cared who’s being truthful and who’s not, but a couple of hours in, having polished off a large bowl of popcorn and gotten over my natural, culturally-cultivated thrill of celebrity-in-trouble curiosity, I found myself growing quite angry.

Ostensibly, the point of this congressional hearing was to protect national health––the health of young American athletes who look up at their heroes and think it’s okay to cheat and it’s okay to take drugs. The committee led hard with that idea at the outset, but that wasn’t what went down at all. Today congress conducted a very public celebrity witch-hunt. Is Roger Clemens a liar and a cheater? That was all they were out to determine, and the worst part is, they didn’t come away with a verdict.

Representative Elijah Cummings spoke for many jurors of the court of public opinion, though, when he told Clemens: “It’s hard to believe your story. I hate to say that. You’re one of my heroes. But it’s hard to believe you.”

My issue is that with all the problems facing our nation today––oh, say, the sub-prime mortgage crisis to name one––can anyone honestly believe that this was a good use of Congress’s time and American tax dollars? If they think Roger Clemens broke the law by taking illegal drugs and perjuring himself, indict him. Try him in court. That’s what they’re there for. Roger may well be the best pitcher of his generation, and one of the greats of all time, but that shouldn’t grant him Congress’s time. If the government is worried about what the kids will think, they should think about the message a fiasco hearing like today’s sends. A star––even a rule-breaking star––gets special treatment, even at the heights of government.

Baseball needs to be cleaned up, that much is clear. But let’s let Bud Selig deal with his own mess. Congress should be more worried about the millions of Americans losing their homes.

Out of the Shadow At Westminster

You could almost see the World War I Flying Ace darting about high above the action at Madison Square Garden Tuesday night––artfully dodging his Sopwith Camel between the retired banners of Messrs Leetch and Giacomin.  Finally––finally a beagle took the top at Westminster.  And that’s a long way from the Daisy Hill Puppy Farm.

Uno is a hound with leading-man good looks, which, to be fair, is what we all knew it would take for a beagle to win.  My heart goes out to beagles––they live in the perpetual shadow of a legend.  Few people are as charming, dynamic and debonair as Snoopy.  How could we ever expect another dog to be?

When I was a boy, Snoopy was my best friend.  My Snoopy––and with all due respect to loved imposters everywhere––is the Snoopy.  He still is.  For anyone curious about the recluse star, he’s aged gracefully.  He still looks smart in his blue loungewear sweat suit.  He’s grown a little more modest about showing off his legs in summer and only dons his shorts on truly hot days, the––well, how can I not?––dog days of summer.  His wit is sharp as ever, acerbic and insightful.  His ego was never a hindrance, and I wish I could tell you that he’s embraced a tad more humility in his later years, but I’d be lying.  He still corresponds regularly with his publisher, but alas remains unpublished.  The writers’ strike was hard on him, as the world famous screenwriter had only just begun his masterwork with the promising opening: “Fade In.  Exterior – Dark and Stormy Night.”

He misses acting, he tells me, but he doesn’t miss the long days on set.  He remembers the Halloween Special particularly, still becoming quite agitated by the memory of that especially fierce battle with the Red Baron.  That night in the pumpkin patch has always been the one he felt got away.  He likes that I’ve chosen writing as my career, mostly because it means I’m around a lot of the time.  He doesn’t talk as much since we moved out of Mom and Dad’s place some years ago, or really, since Mom stopped tucking us in at night, but when something important is going on, he’s sure to weigh in.  He likes my wife, and in some sense I think he’s relieved to know that there’s someone else to help keep an eye on me.  He keeps to himself most days, puttering with one project or another in the back bedroom, but I think we both take comfort knowing the other is there.

I didn’t make a big fuss when Uno broke through Tuesday night for beagles everywhere, but I’m pretty sure I heard a voice in the other room call out: “I told you I’d get you, Red Baron.”