Last night I found myself doing the unthinkable: I was openly rooting for the Braves. I know I know, it doesn't make sense. I can't really explain it myself and I have been clutching my knees in the fetal position ever since. Despite the insufferable torment the Braves have caused me over the years, it would appear that my complete disdain for Roger Clemens the human being runs so deep that I so quickly -- and temporarily, one would hope -- cast aside mine and the Braves' differences as we united for the common good.
This is not an indictment of Roger Clemens the ballplayer, who without question is one of the finest -- arguably the finest -- pitchers to ever take the mound in this great game. Yet despite that -- or because of that -- he has managed to attain a level of unlikeability not seen since Fernando Vina so artfully dove into every pitch thrown by a Met hurler in the 2000 NLCS. Clemens the human being is so hideous and loathsome, I would suspect he might proverbially throw at his own kid in a father-son game.
While we are on the topic of progenies, the repugnance and pretentiousness which he wields like an axe apparently led him to unceremoniously christen each of his offspring with a moniker commencing with the letter "K", an homage to his strikeout prolificacy and unabashed borderline-narcissism akin to George Foreman naming his children after himself (or the feminine derivation of his own name).
So there I was, doing the unthinkable as Brian McCann's three-run homerun sailed into the right-field bleachers, cheering for the uncheerable but, in perhaps the only possible instance, the overwhelmingly lesser of two evils.