Debating the lasting images of some tainted legends

Roger Clemens' old legacy may be completely erased when the FBI is done with him. AP

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For a minute more, think back to the image of Roger Clemens sitting before Congress. (Just for another tick of the clock; then we'll take this in another direction). Thick neck. Burr-head. Twitchy, righteous indignation on his face and in his body language. Fish out of water. Fish in a barrel. Either way. Got the image? Okay, onward.

Clemens's protestations to the contrary ( "I could give a rat's ass about the Hall of Fame,'' said the big man famously, weeks before his Congressional appearance), there's a strong case to be made that everything he did that day and everything he does from here on is about salvaging some dignity for his Good Name. About how he is remembered 20 years or 50 years from now. Or 100 years from now. About his legacy.

Will history recall Clemens as the greatest pitcher of his generation or the most notorious cheater? As the cold-blooded staredown artist with the legendary work ethic or as the Texan who was, in the end, all hat and HGH? It's a lot on the line.

Sports fans of a certain age like to debate legacies, like a parlor game. Two weeks ago in the Hartford Courant, the newspaper that is delivered to my home every day, the excellent columnist Jeff Jacobs asked, "who is in charge of putting the stamp on a man's legacy?'' The answer, of course, is the same as Time magazine's 2006 Person of the Year: You. Me. Everyone.

There's another question, too, about whether there is still currency in legacies at all. More on that later. But for now, think about the legacy alterations put in play recently: Clemens, Bill Belichick, Isiah Thomas, Marion Jones, Bode Miller.

So play the game for a minute. Imagine the original legacy, contrast it with the new legacy and pick one.

Some old school examples:

Pete Rose

Old legacy: The Hit King. Charley Hustle. The blue collar hero of the national pastime. A guy who would run over his mother to score the lead run in a spring training game, because, you know, it's all about winning and getting dirty. An icon, by any measure.

New legacy: A sad, compulsive gambler whose love for baseball couldn't match his love for the action. An ex-con who wouldn't come clean until it was clear that the truth was his only possible path to Cooperstown.

The winner: New legacy. The last 20 years trump the previous 20.

Florence Griffith Joyner

Old legacy: Flo-Jo. The woman who raced in what she called "a negligee'' and shattered world records. She was a supermodel on a running track. And then she was gone.

New legacy: She died too young, and really, ran just a little bit too fast.

The winner: Old legacy. Griffith Joyner never tested positive for anything banned and, except for a grumpy, suspicious cadre of track experts, is recalled lovingly by the public.

Mark McGwire

Old legacy: Paul Bunyan. The man with the massive forearms who, with Sammy Sosa in 1998, led baseball out of the dark ages with the Great Home Run Chase.

New legacy: A cheater. A man who stood before Congress, shrunken and with granny glasses perched on the end of his nose, and refused to confess.

The winner: New legacy. Not even close.

Wilt Chamberlain

Old legacy: The greatest offensive big man in the history of basketball, a 7-foot-1 giant with little-man skills who would still be a force if he were playing today.

New legacy: A guy who wrote that he slept with 20,000 women in his life, a claim that is bigger than the man himself and an image that is harder to shake than scoring 100 points in a single game.

The winner: Old legacy. In the end, his new legacy is comic relief that does little to make us forget the player.

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