Power of Caring
  presented by CIGNA

Issue date: March 31, 1997

When he stepped out of the clubhouse and into the sun on a flawless spring training morning, he wore a strange new uniform, a sight as shocking as a police car in the rearview mirror. His number 21 jersey was as bright and blue as Windex, and it appeared as if someone had put fresh batteries in his cap. It was impossible to take your eyes off him—which, of course, was the point.

From the pasty-white Canadian tourists behind the chain-link fence to his new teammates on the practice diamond in Dunedin, Fla., everyone had the same reaction to Roger Clemens's first appearance in a Toronto Blue Jays uniform: They stopped dead and stared. Can you believe we really got him?

"It's just so blue," Debbie Clemens said upon seeing her husband in Toronto practice garb. "I guess it's going to take some getting used to."

For 13 years Clemens wore the conventional grays and whites of the Boston Red Sox, and most people had assumed he would finish his career in a Boston uniform. In this era of major league mercenaries, there was something different about Clemens, something proudly permanent. He was a self-styled throwback athlete in the ultimate throwback town, inspired by the knee-buckling intensity of the Red Sox nation and undeterred by the cumulative pressure of the team's past failures. For more than a decade Clemens was Boston, and Boston was Clemens, and until six weeks ago it was impossible to imagine him glaring out from under an enemy cap.

But there he was on the first day of spring training, bouncing out of a new clubhouse like a kid heading for the playground, all tangled up in Blue Jay blue. He was tanned and trim, as fit as he had ever been at the start of a season. He talked a blue streak for the army of reporters and photographers who chronicled his every step, and he signed autographs for tourists and even some teammates. "I don't think anyone could have more desire than Roger has every year," said righthander Erik Hanson, who left the Red Sox for the Blue Jays as a free agent after the 1995 season. "But I think he's got a little more energy this year. He's a little more fired up. He wants to live up to the contract and to the billing."

Clemens has always come to camp with high expectations to fill, but never more so than this year. When he marched across the border to Toronto after last season, he did more than just upset the competitive balance in the American League East. He lifted the hopes of an entire franchise and knocked the rest of the baseball world on its ear. He proved that a player's mere presence can be as important as wins and losses, as valuable as experience or ability. When Clemens signed with the Blue Jays, he set the price of presence, and he set it high.

"If he had no arm or pitching ability left, we wouldn't have signed him," says Blue Jays president Paul Beeston. "But the fact is, this is a statement—to our fans, to our players, to the rest of the league. We've got Roger Clemens now. We mean business."

They've got Roger Clemens now. Just try to look away.

Last Sept. 28, after the Red Sox lost to the New York Yankees in their penultimate game of the season, Clemens pitched in a Boston uniform for the last time. His five-year, $25.5 million contract was about to expire, and he would be, for the first time in his big league career, a free agent. The Red Sox retained exclusive rights to negotiate with him until 15 days after the World Series, but everyone knew Clemens intended to test the market. Everyone knew there would be interest in his services. No one had any idea the bidding would get so crazy. "We knew Roger had value," says Boston general manager Dan Duquette. "But it went way beyond what we thought the market would bear."

The Red Sox misread the market, but who could blame them? Clemens went 10-13 last season. He was only one game over .500 (40-39) for the last four seasons combined, and on Aug. 4 he will turn 35. He has been on the disabled list twice in the last four years and four times in his career. He is one of the great pitchers of his generation, but his prime is behind him. Duquette, punching all of the above into his computer, offered Clemens a four-year, $20 million contract, although only $10 million was guaranteed. Clemens laughed at the offer and headed for the open market. He is laughing still.

"I thought we might have a chance to do something special when he became a free agent," says Clemens's agent, Alan Hendricks. "I think a number of teams recognized that Roger brings an awful lot to the party. His market rate included an intrinsic value for intangibles. As much as any player out there, Roger has charisma."

The bidding war began in mid-November and raged out of control for weeks. According to Clemens, a dozen teams made multiyear offers. Five of them wanted to send private jets to Houston, where he lives in the off-season, to fly Roger and Debbie to their cities for negotiations, but Roger stayed home and let the money come to him. It came like rain. "I think he was taken aback by how aggressively they went after him," says Mike Capel, a former big league pitcher who has been a close friend of Clemens's since they played together at the University of Texas. "He said to me, 'Man, maybe they do understand what I bring to a club.'"

Beeston and Yankees owner George Steinbrenner each flew to Houston and spoke with Clemens in his home. The Red Sox brass wanted to make the trip in early December, but Clemens and his agents told him not to bother. The game had gotten too rich for Boston. The Red Sox increased their bid to $22 million, all guaranteed, over four years, but it wasn't even close to being enough. Clemens was the most-sought-after 10-game winner in history. "Just about every team said the same thing," says Clemens. "They said, 'We can't believe we have a chance to get you.' The best word I can use to describe it is flattering."

On Friday, Dec. 13, Clemens stunned much of the baseball world by choosing Toronto and stopping the other bidders before they hurt themselves. Everyone wondered, Why Toronto? It wasn't all that complicated. The Blue Jays offered a three-year contract worth a guaranteed $24.75 million, with an easily attainable incentive clause that would add a fourth year. Clemens only has to pitch 200 innings in any of the first three years or 360 innings over the first two seasons, and the fourth year is guaranteed, bringing the total deal to a staggering $31.1 million. His signing bonus: $9.75 million. Not bad for a guy who hasn't won 20 games in a season since 1990.

Naturally Clemens says his decision "was not about money," which, with most professional athletes nowadays, is usually a good indication that it was about money. When asked what gave Toronto the edge, Hendricks says bluntly, "Guaranteed money and guaranteed years." Says a Boston front-office man, "He took the money—it's as simple as that."

Clemens's average annual salary of $8.25 million is the highest ever for a pitcher, topping the deals signed after last season by 29-year-old John Smoltz ($7.75 million per year), who stayed with the Atlanta Braves, and 27-year-old Alex Fernandez ($7 million per season), who jumped from the Chicago White Sox to the Florida Marlins. As outrageous as Clemens's price seems, it might have been even greater. Steinbrenner said he would have topped the Blue Jays' offer if Clemens had given him a chance. Clemens says he might have gone to New York if he were single, but he decided life would be easier for his wife and four sons in Toronto.

"Is [the money] nuts?" says Beeston. "Of course it's nuts. But it's been nuts for 20 years now. If we didn't pay it, someone else would have. I look at him in a Blue Jays uniform, and I still can't believe we got Roger Clemens."

The $25 million man is crouching behind home plate, barking orders to the young pitcher. The man commands the boy to toe the slab before delivering a pitch. "Get your foot on the rubber," says Roger Clemens. "Come on, do it right."

The pitcher is Kacy Clemens. The rubber is a piece of paper. Home plate is a stuffed Tazmanian Devil doll. The playing field is the living room of a $350-per-night suite in a golf resort 15 minutes north of Dunedin. Kacy is two years old, but he toes the rubber as instructed and fires strike after strike to Dad.

Now it is time for BP. With a plastic bat as big as he is, Kacy drills line drives all over the living room and a couple that bang off the chandelier in the adjacent dining area. Seeing this is like watching those grainy home videos of Tiger Woods stroking golf balls as a toddler. Can a kid this young really do that? Roger not only pitches but also chases down the line drives and provides a play-by-play narration. It's hard to say which Clemens is having more fun. "Debbie's really got five boys," says Capel. "Roger's the biggest. He's always playing something: Nintendo, golf, basketball, you name it. He never stops moving."

Or talking. Playing a round of golf with Clemens is like sitting on Dick Vitale's lap at the Final Four. People run up to him on the tee for autographs, his cell phone is ringing, and all the while Clemens is talking. In his self-styled Texas lingo he is analyzing each approach, reading each putt and saluting each good shot from everyone in his foursome. He is talking about football, Italian food, his Harley, roller hockey. When his foursome gets backed up, he reels off a half-dozen jokes to fill the time. (You can be sure the folks who pay to play with the Rocket in charity tournaments never ask for a refund.) Then he picks up the phone and places an order for helmets for a youth baseball team he sponsors in Houston.

"More than a lot of people, Roger really enjoys who he is," says Hanson. "Everyone thinks he would like to be as rich and famous as Roger is, but I often wonder how many people could handle it. I don't know if I could. So many people want a piece of Roger, and most of the time he handles it remarkably well."

Clemens devours the afternoon as gleefully as a kid at Disney World. Forget his arm. It's a miracle his voice has held up this long. When the round of golf is over, no one has to ask Clemens if he had a good time. Clemens always has a good time. He's making $8 million a year to throw a baseball—why shouldn't each new day be more fun than the last? "I see young guys who just go from the hotel to the ballpark and back to the hotel, and I feel bad for them," he says. "That's not living. You got to get out there and see what it's all about."

"People see him on the mound, and they think he's some kind of superintense maniac," Capel says of Clemens. "But when he's not playing, he's a different person. He just wants to enjoy life. He's a big teddy bear, and he'll do anything for anybody."

Capel is quick with an example: Last August, when Capel had to have his father taken off life support in a Houston-area hospital, Clemens showed up unannounced and spent the night with him. Clemens told a grieving Capel the same thing he has been telling friends and teammates for years: Be thankful for the time you had with your dad. Clemens had very little of that time, and the void did much to shape him. "Sometimes I see my teammates' fathers come into the clubhouse and visit them, and I'm just so jealous," he says. "Sometimes it hurts. To be 30 years old and still have a father by your side—man, I wish these guys knew how lucky they are."

Clemens's father left his wife, Bessie Jane, and five children when Roger was 3 1/2 months old, and Clemens's stepfather, tool-and-die maker Woody Booher, died when Roger was nine. The family was living in Dayton, Ohio, at the time, but after Woody died, they moved to the Houston suburb of Katy, where Roger blossomed into a high school football and baseball star. Clemens says the loss of his father and stepfather is the reason he is determined to be there for Kacy and his brothers, 10-year-old Koby, eight-year-old Kory and 10-month-old Kody.

"My two oldest boys are about the same age I was [when Woody died], and I can't tell you how painful it was for me," says Clemens. "I remember he got up from the dinner table and kind of made his way to the bedroom, and we called the ambulance. It was his second heart attack, but this time I knew it was bad. My older sister kind of shoved me down into the basement to keep me away, but I stacked some books on a chair and looked out the window until they carried him by. I knew he was gone. From that day, from the cruelty of it all, I knew I had to grow up fast."

Roger was raised by his mother and grandmother Myrtle Lee. When he is asked where his legendary drive and work ethic come from, he does not hesitate. "My mom," he says. "I watched her stock coolers, clean buildings, work all day and night to make sure her kids had a good life. We were probably lower class growing up, but no one knew it. I always had the best spikes, the best gloves. People thought we had money."

He has money now, but it has done little to temper his drive. Clemens has always found something to ignite a fire inside him, to give him that edge on the field. Maybe his decision to join Toronto wasn't about the money after all. Maybe his first experience with free agency was, like everything else, a showdown: Roger Clemens versus all the people who thought he was over the hill. And maybe the result wasn't such a surprise. Clemens won.

He's a three-time Cy Young Award winner (1986, '87 and '91) and was voted the American League MVP in '86, but Clemens is more likely to impress his new teammates with his work habits off the field and his bulldog determination on it. In a game full of self-absorbed stars, few players cause their colleagues to step back when they walk by. Clemens is one. The Blue Jays asked some of their top pitching prospects to arrive early in Dunedin just to share the clubhouse with Clemens.

"What Roger brings far exceeds pitching ability," says Toronto third baseman Ed Sprague. "He's a leader, an icon—something we've lacked the last two years. He commands respect around the league, and it doesn't matter what his record is. If he's 0-20, he's still Clemens."

When the Blue Jays signed Clemens, designated hitter Carlos Delgado offered to turn over his number, 21, even though he had worn it in honor of his hero, Roberto Clemente. Delgado asked for nothing in return, but when he arrived in Dunedin two months later, Clemens presented him with a Rolex watch worth more than $20,000. "Do you want number 48 too?" pitcher Paul Quantrill shouted across the clubhouse. When manager Cito Gaston asked Clemens for his thoughts on who should be the Opening Day starter, Clemens gave the nod to righthander Pat Hentgen, last year's Cy Young winner.

"People keep asking me what Roger brings to the team," says Quantrill, who was Clemens's teammate in Boston from 1992 to '94. "First of all, he's an absolute stud on the mound. But I guess the biggest thing he brings is the most incredible desire to win I've ever seen. A lot of guys talk a good game, but he means it. He wants to win a World Series. I think he'd trade all his Cy Youngs for the chance to play in another World Series."

By his second day in the Blue Jays' camp Clemens had heard enough about aura. It was all fine and flattering, he said, but he didn't appreciate the suggestion that Toronto signed him as some kind of honorary captain. "I keep hearing about presence and all that," says Clemens. "But let me tell you something: I can still pitch. I might not have my A game every night, but like I tell the young guys, you've got to go and win when things don't feel just right. I see some guys walking around the clubhouse before a start, and they're afraid to lose. I tell them, 'If you don't want them to beat you, they're not going to beat you. It's all up to you.'"

Toronto made other bold moves in the off-season, doling out a reported $67.5 million on player signings, but until they landed Clemens, no one was betting on them to beat out the Yankees and the Baltimore Orioles in the American League East. Now, six months after finishing in fourth place, 14 games below .500 (74-88), the Blue Jays are the trendy pick to win what is arguably the toughest division in baseball. "Clemens puts them into contention now," says Yankees starter David Cone.

The addition of Clemens gives Toronto the best starting staff north of Georgia. With Hentgen and Juan Guzman already in place, the Blue Jays appear to be almost incapable of a long losing streak. Hanson, who started on Opening Day a year ago, is now No. 4 in the rotation. Last season Clemens led the American League in strikeouts, while Guzman was tops in ERA (2.93) and Hentgen had a league-high 10 complete games. They were the best three in the league at holding opponents to the lowest batting average, slugging percentage and hits per nine innings pitched. Clemens also led the league in average pitches per start, with 125, a statistic that might best illustrate his value to a staff.

Clemens was a star defensive end at Springs Woods (Texas) High, and he still brings the tenacity of a 17-year-old pass rusher to the mound. He has, at various times in his career, pitched while wearing 1) eye black, 2) Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle shoelaces or 3) a rubber mouthguard that was custom-made to save his teeth from incessant grinding during games. He still wears the mouthguard on occasion. In Boston his name was once removed from above his locker by some of his teammates and replaced by his favorite nickname: Possessed Rebel. Anything to sharpen his edge and fill hitters with fear and doubt. "He emulates Nolan [Ryan]—that presence on the mound," says Boston catcher Mike Stanley. "You can see it, you can sense it, and you can feel it. It puts a lot of fear in some players."

"He's one of the more intimidating pitchers I've seen in the two decades I've played," says Minnesota Twins designated hitter Paul Molitor. "In certain games the mind-set of opposing hitters is one of survival, not of trying to figure out a way to be successful. Young players who face him for the first time feel a little defeated before they go to the plate."

"He's not afraid to pitch you inside and knock you down," says Yankees first baseman Tino Martinez. "But he's got enough control to come right back with a pitch on the outside corner. That's how he controls a game."

The Blue Jays may not possess the offensive firepower of the Orioles or the Yankees, but Clemens is accustomed to receiving scant support. Last year his Red Sox teammates averaged just 4.40 runs in each of his starts, the sixth lowest in the league. His average run support over the last five years (4.19) is even worse. "If he'd pitched for Atlanta last year," says Hendricks, "he'd have been 18-8."

Perhaps the trait that most impresses baseball people is Clemens's knack for stopping losing streaks. In his Red Sox career he won 111 times after a team loss. In this age of bandbox ballparks, annual threats to Roger Maris's home run record and increasingly weak pitching, Clemens represents a seawall against the tidal wave of celebrated young hitters. "If Roger doesn't win 20 games this year, does that make it a stupid signing? I don't think so," says Beeston. "The fact is, Roger brings everyone in our organization up a bit."

Indeed, when Toronto backed up the Brinks truck to Clemens's door, they were buying much more than just a No. 2 starter. Last year the team's season-ticket base slipped to 22,000 (from 26,000 in the world-championship seasons of '92 and '93), and the leases to the SkyDome's luxury boxes expire at the end of the '99 season. The Blue Jays are also concerned about their local broadcast-rights fees because their TV ratings have fallen drastically since their last World Series appearance, in 1993. Among men over 18, the television audience for Toronto games has dropped 40%. After their five-year TV deal ended at the close of last season, the Blue Jays could only come to terms on a one-year contract.

Since that five-year broadcast-rights agreement was reached, the Blue Jays have lost second baseman Roberto Alomar, pitcher Jimmy Key, centerfielder Devon White and general manager Pat Gillick, among others, and over the last three years they have finished no better than third in their division. Beeston knew he couldn't return to the negotiating table without rearming himself with star power, and Clemens was the best weapon available. So his signing was big business. "There is a buzz about baseball in Toronto again," says Beeston, "and I haven't heard one person criticize the high cost."

The price the Blue Jays paid for Clemens may have defused any uprising by irate Red Sox fans. They didn't want to lose the Rocket, but they weren't wild about breaking the bank to keep him, either. Duquette reports that Fenway Park ticket sales have increased and that only three season-ticket holders bailed out after Clemens departed. Boston, with a smaller ballpark and a less fickle fan base than Toronto, could not justify the huge investment that Clemens required.

In the off-season the Red Sox also traded designated hitter Jose Canseco to the Oakland A's, cut loose leftfielder Mike Greenwell and hired peppy manager Jimy Williams. Duquette appears intent on rebuilding with younger, cheaper players. "For Toronto it was a reasonable business decision," says Duquette. "But putting all that money into Clemens didn't make sense for us. We offered Roger a chance to finish his career in Boston and be well paid, but he made his choice. We redirected the money to younger players without the risk of multiyear deals."

Clemens, of course, wasn't about to slip out of town unnoticed—during 13 years in Boston he had never done anything quietly. So on his way out the door he unloaded on the front office. He says Duquette got exactly what he wanted. "I don't know what Dan's complaining about," says Clemens. "He wanted me out of there, and I'm gone. He got his way. He should be happy."

Clemens sure is.

He laughs and then spits out the numbers as if they were bugs that had flown into his mouth. "Four-three-two-one," Clemens says. "That was the offer. I couldn't believe it. I told my agent, 'Maybe they're looking for Aaron Sele or some other pitcher.'" Those numbers, Clemens explains, were the guaranteed millions of dollars that the Red Sox originally offered for the next four years. They added up to $10 million, which was only slightly more than the signing bonus the Jays later handed him.

Clemens insists he would have stayed in Boston for less money than what Toronto gave him, but not that much less. Like many of today's financially flush professional athletes, he sees the dollars as numbers on a scorecard, and those always matter. "He could have stayed in Boston," says Duquette. "Terry Steinbach took less to go to Minnesota. Tim Naehring took less money to stay with us. Why? Because Tim felt comfortable here."

While Clemens is elated with his contract, he says he is disappointed that he had to leave Boston. On Sept. 18, when he reached back in time and struck out 20 Detroit Tigers, matching the major league record he set in 1986, he also tied the Red Sox record for career wins (192) and shutouts (38). The coleader in both categories is a guy named Cy Young. Any player with an appreciation of baseball history would get a charge out of being in such company. Now, of course, Clemens won't get his chance to stand alone in the Boston record book, nor will he realize another dream: to be standing on the mound when the Red Sox win their first World Series since 1918.

"It was not easy for Roger to cut those ties," says Hendricks. "He loved Boston, the fans, the city, the history, the whole deal. He was like Tevye in Fiddler on the Roof: He was arguing with himself for days before and after signing with the Blue Jays."

Clemens says that as much as he loved Boston, he didn't care for the boss. The cold-blooded Duquette makes no excuses for his style: If players want love, they can call a 900 number. He is there to run a business. He likes to keep players on their toes with short-term contracts and a busy shuttle back to Triple A. The Red Sox used 53 players two years ago when they won their division, and 55 last year. "I know of at least two veterans [on the Red Sox] who are pretty good pitchers, but they're always on pins and needles," says Clemens. "They're afraid to go out and just pitch, because they think if they give up a home run, they'll be back in the minors. You can't treat guys like that."

Clemens says one of the things that made Toronto attractive was the opportunity to hit ground balls to his sons on the SkyDome infield—a practice, he says, that was frowned upon at Fenway Park. He adds that Toronto gave his two older sons Blue Jays uniforms, their own trading cards and use of a locker in the team's clubhouse in the SkyDome—still more roses in the successful romancing of Roger Clemens. Duquette laughs aloud when he hears the list of goodies that allegedly enticed Clemens over the border. "Let's just say I think his choice speaks volumes about what was important to him," says Duquette.

It also makes things a good deal quieter in Boston. The greatest Red Sox pitcher since Cy Young has turned eyes toward Toronto and put the Blue Jays back in contention. The buzz is coming from north of the border now, and if Clemens has his way, the retractable roof of the SkyDome will no longer have to be opened and closed. The fans might just blow it off.

"That will be my first challenge when I get up there," says Clemens. "I want to get the people all fired up and into the action. I want them to go crazy. I hope we can make it feel like it did in Boston."