WASHINGTON. As she watched her husband's defiant testimony before Congress yesterday, Debbie Clemens could only shake her head in sadness over how far she has fallen. "I stand by Roger 110%," she said with tears forming in her eyes. "I only wish that--like him--I could have just said no."
Debbie Clemens
While her husband continues to deny that he used performance-enhancing drugs during a career in which he won seven Cy Young Awards, more than Cy Young himself, Debbie Clemens has admitted that she used human growth hormone before a Sports Illustrated photo shoot, enabling her to appear more buxom than Yankees' second baseman Chuck Knoblauch. "It was wrong, and I apologize," she said, "especially to all those little girls out there who are just strapping on their first training bras."
In happier times.
In her prime, Debbie Clemens was considered one of the greatest housewives in baseball history, chauffering her four children to school and youth sports events while maintaining a rigorous workout schedule, spending up to 35 minutes on exercise machines unless other people were waiting. She holds the modern-day record for consecutive children named after strikeouts--Koby, Kory, Kacy and Kody. In the pre-modern era, Lucy Yemm, wife of Bill "Five Finger" Yemm of the Cleveland Spiders, gave birth to Kevin, Karen, Kelly, Kyle and Kenneth.
"C'mon--you're hogging the Stairmaster!"
Clemens' confession was met less with surprise than relief by her circle of friends on Boston's North Shore, where the Clemens lived when Roger played for the Red Sox. "We'd go out for Mexican food," said Alice Sheehan, a neighbor. "The next day everybody'd be puffy but Debbie--you don't recover from a pitcher of margaritas like that unless you're on something."
"We lost your kid, so we're going to give you a FREE PIZZA!"
Clemens was sentenced to a year's probation and 200 hours of community service, which she will satisfy by working at the gift counter at a Chuck E. Cheese restaurant in a Houston suburb.
WASHINGTON. Former major league second baseman Chuck Knoblauch emerged from a meeting with congressional lawyers investigating drugs in baseball this afternoon denying he had named names of any player other than himself. "Today, under the pains and penalties of perjury, I admitted to Congress that I took human growth hormone," Knoblauch said with emotion in his voice, "but only to avoid having a disease named after me."
Knoblauch: "Oops--sorry about that!"
Knoblauch played ten years for two major league teams, the Minnesota Twins and the New York Yankees, and one season with the Kansas City Royals, a minor league team with a fake ID. In 1999 he developed throwing problems, and was diagnosed with Steve Blass Syndrome, a disease named after the Pittisburgh Pirates' hurler who pitched two complete-game wins against the Baltimore Orioles in the 1971 World Series but subsequently left baseball after contracting "pitcher's yips".
Steve Blass
Because Knoblauch was not a pitcher, he feared that a new disease for second basemen who couldn't throw to first would be named after him, and started taking human growth hormone. Knoblauch's condition improved, but he left the game after injuring several fans sitting in seats along the first base line with his newly-revived arm.
Lou Gehrig: "Get your own disease!"
The New York Yankees have a policy of creating diseases named after players who succumb to them, such as Lou Gehrig, in the hope of collecting royalties from others who subsequently contract the ailment. The Yankees have the highest payroll in baseball, and try to hedge their "luxury tax" exposure by buying life insurance policies on fans who ask their players for autographs.
Sent down to the minors, or the Royals, which is worse.
Knoblauch urged Congress to legalize steroids and other performance-enhancing drugs for use by second basemen, saying he had noticed a veritable epidemic of "Knoblauch's Syndrome" as he traveled around the country. "It's so sad," he said as he wiped a tear from his eye. "I go to Little League games and I see second basemen who can't throw to first, just like me!"
SHERBORN, Massachusetts. This quiet town in the suburbs west of Boston features a traditional town green, a Colonial-style inn, and something a bit more sinister; a croquet lawn that is the site of viciously-competitive contests between teams from the American Croquet Association.
Sherborn, Mass.
The ACA was formed in the early twentieth century by six "original member" clubs up and down the Eastern seaboard, and has managed to remain out of the sports pages through the native shyness of its old-line members. "A good WASP gets his name in the paper when he's born, when he's married, and when he dies," says Putnam Everly III, coach of the Boston Brahmins, repeating an old New England saying about white, Anglo-Saxon Protestants. "Plus, by the time we finish everyone's so drunk we forget to call in the scores."
But the courtly game that was borrowed by the British from the French in the 14th century and never returned has been rocked in recent years by accusations that top players are "juicing" their swings with the same anabolic steroids that made a mockery of long-standing home run records in major league baseball. "You look at some of these guys, back in their forties they could 'send' somebody maybe thirty yards with the wind at their back," says Edward "Bink" Terwiliger, a reporter for Croquet Today, the leading--actually the only--magazine to cover the sport. "Nowadays, if you don't launch a guy out onto Route 27," the state highway that runs alongside the lawn, "you're considered a wuss."
The good old days.
The most egregious violator of the long-standing code of ethics that kept the sport clean from the 1850's through the end of the twentieth century is Roderick "Treasury" Bonds, a stockbroker who plays for the New York Plutocrats. "Treas is the man," his teammate Warner Herrick says. "Man, when he puts his foot down on his ball"--the first step in "sending" an opponent's ball after striking it with one's own--"I just hide and watch."
"Treasury" Bonds prepares to "send" an opponent's ball.
But the prodigious blows of bashers like Bonds have caused an equal and opposite reaction--a backlash among old-line fans who long for the days of intellectually-stimulating matches instead of wood-on-wood explosions. "This isn't the game I grew up with," says Millicent Minot, heiress to the Minot Mechanical Tape Dispenser fortune.
Just do it!
So as Bonds walks onto the lawn for today's match he is greeted by a chorus of boos from the customarily-reserved gallery of fans seated on the Sherborn Cricket Club's veranda. "I wouldn't have an affair with your wife for all the alimony in the world!" one elderly gentlemen in a cable-knit sweater and Panama hat shouts. The others begin to chant "STER-oids! STER-oids!" in an effort to break the New York slugger's concentration as he lines up a shot.
The crowd gets ugly.
Bonds ignores the crowd and hits a shot that effectively blocks his opponent's path to the first wicket. A torrent of cucumber sandwiches rains down on the lawn, and officials stop play to eject two troublemakers who have had a few too many Bloody Marys.
"Blow it out your Depends, you losers!"
Nathaniel Highsmith is first up for Boston and hits a rare double-tap, a fault that causes him to lose a turn and exposes him to the merciless Bonds, who promptly causes his ball to strike his opponent's, setting up a "send". Bonds lines up his shot like a hunter drawing a bead on a deer, raises his mallet, then swings forcefully down--into his own foot!
"You'd better move!"
A hush descends on the crowd as Bonds writhes in pain; although the rivalry between New York and Boston is intense and often bitter, the spectators rise as one and applaud quietly as Bonds is carried off on a stretcher. "I thought you hated him, Daddy," a young boy says as he sees his father wipe a tear from his eye.
"I do, but the only doctor in town who isn't playing golf today is the veterinarian," the man says with a lump in his throat. "I hate to see a great thoroughbred put down."
WELLESLEY HILLS, Mass. In this affluent suburb of Boston where the median home price hovers around $800,000,"keeping up with the Joneses" can be a difficult task.
"You have the traditionalists, who sail and ski and play golf and tennis," says Marci Upham, president of the local PTO. "Then you have the radicals, who snowshoe and cross-country ski, or go hiking and kayaking," she notes with a scowl. "Too sweaty in the winter, and too many bugs in the summer."
Marci says she and her husband Dan were looking for a compromise between the traditional country club scene and what she calls the "crunchy-granola" set. Their solution? Jack-and-Jill shot-putting, using an 8.8-pound weight for the women, and a 16-pound shot for the men.
"It's great exercise," says Dan, "and you have plenty of time for ####-chat while people are getting ready to throw." Unlike golf, it is unusual for a putter to get the "yips" and ask for silence once he or she enters the circle.
Tonight, Dan and Marci are entertaining a couple they met through their children, Jack and Sarah Billings. "Everything revolves around the kids' soccer and hockey games," laughs Sarah, as she hoists a shot onto her shoulder and prepares to go into her "glide" style of throw. "Jack can pull off the spin move, but not me!" she says as she pushes her hair back with a plaid head band she purchased for the occasion at the local Talbots store.
"Give her a go, sweetie," Jack says. It is customary for guests to throw first, and for women to precede the men.
"Okey-dokey, artichokey!" Sarah replies as she plants a kiss on her husband's cheek. She crouches low, cradles the shot against her chin, steadies herself, and pumps backwards across the circle, turning at the last moment to release the shot.
"Wow," says her hostess. "Nicely done!" Dan Upham grabs the tape measure, pulls it out to the point of impact, and calls "Forty feet!" back to the rest of the party.
"Sarah--really! That was fantastic!" Marci says with genuine admiration.
"Thanks," Sarah says modestly.
"Great put, honey!" Jack says as he kisses her sweaty forehead.
"If I didn't know better, I'd say somebody's been taking--STER-OIDS!" Dan says with a look of mock skepticism on his face.
The foursome erupts in laughter at the jeer first used to greet slugger Jose Canseco at Fenway Park when he ballooned up in size as a result of performance-enhancing drugs.
"Nope--all I've been eating is Total cereal and a little wheat germ on my yogurt," Sarah says.
"C'mon, Sarah--you know the rules!" Dan says sternly as he hands her a plastic cup. "I'm going to need a urine sample, or you guys are buying drinks next time at the club!"
"All right," Sarah says with good humor. "I had to pee anyway." She takes the cup and starts to enter the Uphams' house when she turns to add one last jibe at Dan. "You know I'm a shy whizzer, so I may not be able to fill this up!"
The others laugh, and Dan relents. "Do the best you can!" he says graciously.
It is now Jack's turn, and he puts some resin on his hands before he enters the circle. A former college hockey player, Jack is powerfully built from the waist up, and after he settles himself at the back of the circle, he spins and grunts as he releases the shot.
"Wow!" Marci exclaims as she sees the metal ball go flying. "You guys have really been working out!"
"I think I bulked up helping Courtney," the Billings' daughter, "move her stuff into Dana Hall," a local private school, Jack says by way of explanation.
Dan takes the tape and measures the distance of Jack's throw.
"Holy cow!" he says as he looks down at the tape. "Fifty feet! You guys are going to be hard to beat!"
"Aw, you're just being nice," Jack says.
"No, seriously. That was something!" Dan says. "Here's your cup."
"Thanks," Jack says, as Sarah emerges with her sample. "Here you go," she says with a sly smile as she hands it to Dan. "Don't get it mixed up with the chablis!"
They all laugh, as Marci prepares for her throw. "Sarah, you're such a stitch!" she says. "I can't keep a straight face with you around." She stays out of the circle for a moment until she can stop laughing, then composes herself and gets ready to throw.
As she does so, Sarah takes out a camcorder. "Look at my new toy!" she says with glee.
"Neat!" Dan says. "You're going to tape this for posterity?"
"We love to play home videos," she says with a note of sentiment in her voice. "It brings back such fun memories!"
Marci readies herself as Sarah adjusts the focus on her new video camera. "All set!" Sarah says after a moment, and Marci starts her glide across the circle.
The shot flies out of Marci's hand and Sarah tracks its arc with her camcorder. "My goodness! Look at that!" Sarah says with excitement as she presses the "Fade Out" button while Dan runs to the spot where the metal ball lands.
"I think that's a personal best, sweetie!" Dan says as he stretches his tape measure out. After a second, the shock of recognition sets in. "Forty-two feet! Way to go, Marci!" he shouts as he runs to give her a big hug.
"I got it on tape!" Sarah says, and the host and hostess gather round as she plays it back. "Uh-oh, Marci," Sarah says as she watches the action again on her screen.
"What's the matter?" Marci asks with concern.
"Looks like you fouled--see?" she says, and sure enough, a slo-mo replay shows that Marci's shot-put skirt touched the top of the toe-board, a no-no in this competitive field event. "Sorry," Sarah says.
"That's all right--fair's fair," Marci says with a forced smile. "I wouldn't have it any other way."
"Here's my pee-pee!" Jack says as he emerges from the house. "What'd I miss?"
"I fouled again!" Sarah says with a tone of self-reproach in her voice. "I need to take some more lessons."
"More lessons!" her husband says with horror. "Please--we have a mortgage to pay!"
The group explodes in laughter, knowing that the Uphams' house is worth around two million dollars, and was purchased eighteen years earlier for approximately $450,000.
"Your turn, Dan," Jack says, as he hands Marci his urine sample. "Try not to break a world record, okay?"
"I don't think you have to worry," the host says, and indeed, his throw flies outside the white chalk lines that the Uphams have laid down across their well-tended lawn, and across a neighbor's wooden picket fence.
"Oops," Dan says with a smile, but the group's laughter is cut short as the squeal of an injured dog is heard.
"Poodie!" an old woman cries. "My dear little Poodie!"
"Sorry about your dog, Mrs. Keezer" Dan yells as he suppresses a grin. "I'll get you a new one next weekend."
"You #### social climbers and your McMansion! I hope you rot in hell!" the old women screams as the revelers turn back to their drinks.
"She'll be fine," Marci says with a dismissive air. "As soon as her kids get her in assisted living!" The group's embarrassment fades away like morning dew beneath the bright sunshine of Marci's effervescent personality, and they return to their cocktails.
"Let's see," Sarah says as she notes the distances on a cute plaid scorepad that Marci picked up at a local stationery store. "We won both the women's and the men's events, right?"
"Not so fast," Dan Upham interjects with a mischievous grin as he holds up a test tube. "I think I've detected some Clomid in Jack's urine sample!" he says, referring to the female fertility drug that is used by professional athletes to mask the presence of steroids.
"What you're seeing is perfectly legal," his guest replies. "It's the cheap gin you put in your martinis!"
Con Chapman is a Boston-area writer. He is the author of "The Year of the Gerbil: How the Yankees Won (and the Red Sox Lost) the Greatest Pennant Race Ever," a history of the 1978 AL East pennant race, and a number of plays, including "Number One Hockey Mom," "Please, Pope," and "What Mickey Belle Isle Told You," a trilogy about hockey (JAC Publishing). His work is available on Amazon Shorts (at 49 cents a dowload), and he writes on sports for Flak Magazine.
