Mike Celizic

Oh, to be Roger Clemens.

It’s not for the reasons you may think that I express that wish. Yes, it would be beyond nice to have his talent and his career and his money and his life. But, to tell you the truth, I’d rather have Eric Clapton’s fingers or Ansel Adams’ eye than the Rocket’s fastball. And if I could have anything at all, it would be Mark Twain’s ability to turn a phrase.

What I envy about Clemens is his ability to be 17 or 18 years old again. I suspect there aren’t many people who find themselves on the wrong side of the big four-oh who don’t feel the same way as I do.

The time warp Clemens has entered has taken him back to when he was a kid in high school and the college coaches came around, begging for a chance to sit down with his family and chat up the benefits of bringing his powerful right arm to their schools, there to join the rest of his body in the pursuit of a higher education and a national baseball championship.

He’s back there now, with the biggest and best programs in Major League Baseball begging to be allowed to sit down to convince him to join their program. And all he has to do is soak in all the love they can manufacture to send his way.

That has to be a great time for any young athlete. Adults with expense accounts and expensive suits, guys who don’t have the time or the inclination to talk to most pimple-puss kids, fairly grovel at their feet, telling them stories about how great they are, how great their programs are, how great the kids’ futures will be if they just sign the letter of intent.

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Once a kid does that, the dynamic changes forever. When he shows up at his school of choice, the coach who couldn’t draw another breath if the kid didn’t come to the chosen school now acts as if he can’t face another day if the bb-brained whelp doesn’t learn how to cover first base on a bunt. Every mistake is magnified, every mental error punished with laps to run.

If the kid is good, eventually, he’s drafted by a major league club. Now, it’s not multiple options. The athlete signs with the team that picked him or he doesn’t play. That’s followed by annual salary battles. When a player eventually becomes a free agent, his agent runs around the league, trying to sell him to another team, trying to justify the price he’s asking.

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But not Roger Clemens. Not this time around. His agent isn’t running anywhere. Unlike Scott Boras, who produced a glossy brochure to sell his star client, Alex Rodriguez, Clemens’ agent, Randy Hendricks, is sitting back and letting the suitors come to him.

Agents who have a hot free agent are the most available people on the face of the earth. They answer all calls, talk to all reporters, appear on all talk shows. If you have to leave a message, they’re returning the call almost before you hang up the phone.

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