Cy Young	A younger Roger Clemens Photo-Globe File Data-Joanne Rathe

The pitcher jumped in the car after another session with his lawyer, another strategy session as to the best way to combat the damage done by the Mitchell report.  Although they still hadn't decided to sue Major League Baseball, they hadn't really ruled it out yet either.  They had almost NO evidence, just hearsay.  One guy he thought he could trust blabs about shooting him up a few times and his reputation is totally suspect.  No matter that he had won all those Cy Young Awards, pennants, World Series.  No, all anybody wants to talk about is steroids.  His dream of being named the best pitcher of all time, and even his nomination to the Hall of Fame was very questionable now.  "Well", he thought, "at least they can't take the money away".  He chuckled a little despite himself at the 18 million he made just last year for about a third of a season.

Didn't they realize he was just keeping up with the competition?  What shame is there in that?  If the batters were shooting up and other pitchers were juicing, how was a guy to survive?  Besides, it's not as if he didn't work to build the muscles.  The stuff just helped him complete a rugged workout regimen.  He still had to make the pitches.  he still had to hit the corners, change speeds, and all the rest of the skills a pitcher needed since time began to get batters out.  Hell, it hadn't even been against baseball's rules, at least not at first. 

Oh well, he thought, if I can just stay away from the press and let my lawyer do all the talking and litigating, I should be Ok.  Already they'd managed to get one newspaper to print a retraction, and there were more than a few media types already questioning whether they could justifiably punish a player for juicing. 

As he turned his attention back to the road, he realized he had missed his turnoff.  God, how long had he been driving?  As he turned on his GPS System, one of the finest in the world, he realized there was a craggy-looking  face on the screen and he seemed to be saying something.  "What the hell is this", he thought?  This whole affair is playing with my very sanity. He quickly turned the system off, but the face reappeared in the screen.  The pitcher, rattled now, asked himself whether these systems could be hacked into, and whether it was some reporter on the screen.  So he asked, a little shakily, "um, who are you and what do you want ?" 

And the face replied, "I'm Lyle Alzado, Roger. Although steroids helped me compete in the NFL and made me a star with the Broncos and the Raiders, they eventually took my very existence away, and caused irreparable harm, not only to me, but to everyone who loved me.  As I know I'm just an old football player, and it's unlikely you'll listen to me, I've arranged for you to be visited by three kind spirits, three pitchers I know you hold in high regard.  It is my most fervent wish that you'll hear their message.  I don't want you to end up like me.  Although I did everything in my power to talk about the dangers of steroid abuse while I was still alive, that period was unfortunately very short.  Look for the first spirit tonight after Sportscenter.  Good bye for now and, oh, turn left at the next light, then another left, and head back along this highway for about 20 miles, then you should start seeing things you recognize."

 

Roger had a late dinner with his wife that night and made sure he spent some time with his boys before they went off to bed.  He picked up a book, he’d be damned if he was going to watch SportsCenter.  That incident in the car was either his imagination running wild or maybe some genius hacker playing games with him.  In fact, he’d mention it to his lawyer tomorrow, the only person he seemed to be able to converse with these days.  As he read, his eyes got a little tired, and, just as he started to nod off, several things happened.  The cat tore through the room like a shot, knocked the remote control off the table and the TV turned on. 

 

He heard, “…and that’s it for SportsCenter, good night.”  And then, the TV went a little fuzzy, then cleared up again, and a big guy in an old baseball uniform appeared, and, not only that, he looked a little familiar.  And the man said, “hello, Roger, you must know me, you’ve won quite a few awards with my name on every one of them.”  And then it hit Roger, oh my God, it was Cy Young.  This couldn’t be happening.  If this were a joke, somebody would pay.  But, for now, he decided to go along.  “Hello, Mr. Young, what can I do for you this evening?” 

 

 The face appeared now very large in the screen, and his look was somewhat incredulous, and he just said, “you just come with me, young fella.”  Then, the scene shifted to a bright, sunshiny day, and it appeared that he was flying through the air and right over the wall of a ballpark, the stands filled with people, and he recognized that park, my God, it was old Fenway Park and he was whisked into a seat behind home plate.  And damned if it wasn’t himself on the mound, as a young man, and that young man reared back and fired, the umpire called “Stee-rike 3”, and the boy sitting alongside him flew up in his seat and cheered, clapping his hands wildly.  Then the boy hugged the man seated next to him, and exclaimed, “that Rocket, he’s got it today, that batter didn’t stand a chance.”  And the man, probably his father, shouted “uh, yeah, boy-o, he’s the best pitcher Boston has seen in many a year”.

 

Then, they were whisked off again and whirled through the streets of Boston.  Roger found himself now in a small, warm kitchen with a family having dinner, and he saw the same boy, although he now seemed a few years older.  And he seemed sad.  His Dad said, “now Charlie, don’t let it getcha down, now, those ballplayers, even the best of ‘em, they’re in it for the money”.  And the boy murmured, “no, Dad, the Rocket will never leave the Red Sox”. 

 

Then Roger found himself flying again and the world was spinning wildly, and, after what seemed an eternity, he found himself standing behind home plate again, but it was a different park, and the pitcher on the mound now seemed a lot bigger, and, it was, of course, himself.  The pitcher reared back and fired again, but this time, the ball was inside and cracked the batter’s bat in a few pieces, one of which flew toward the mound.  Roger pleaded with the spirit Cy, “Please, Mr. Young, I don’t need to see this again.”  And Cy replied, “oh, yes, Roger, I’m sorry, but yes, you do.”  The pitcher picked up the shard of the bat and threw it at the batter, who had started to run towards first base.  As the batter started to walk towards the mound, Roger said, please can we get outta here now, Mr. Young, I was never proud of that.”  And Cy said, “you know, Roger, as I got older, I mastered my control and chopped wood in the off-season to stay in shape.  And I kept winning and winning.”  Then, placing his arm over Roger, they both rose through the air and Roger soon found himself in bed again.

PART 2 to follow on Christmas Eve
Here's Part 2 of 2

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