Stubborn Roger Clemens was his own hangman

He tied his own noose, a 13-looper, the hangman's knot. Already Roger Clemens had ruined his career, wrecked his reputation and rendered his legacy fraudulent. He didn't have to do a lynch mob's work, too.

Except that he couldn't help himself. A man's strength is often his downfall, and that of William Roger Clemens, indicted by a federal grand jury Thursday on six charges stemming from allegedly false statements made to Congress, was stubbornness. It – along with the performance-enhancing drug use the government claims he lied about – helped him win seven Cy Young awards, 354 games and two World Series rings. It also could damn him to an orange jumpsuit.

Clemens wasn't in trouble when baseball released George Mitchell's report on steroid use. Sure, it disintegrated the purity of everything he spent 24 seasons building, but Clemens was no felon. Just a guy who chose the wrong drug dealer. Only when he went on the warpath to prove his innocence did Clemens tiptoe near a law that people in power are interested in prosecuting.

He offered to say under oath he never used steroids or human growth hormone. He embarrassed himself on "60 Minutes" contending the same. And ultimately, he testified, in a deposition and in front of Capitol Hill's most ravenous grandstanders, that not only had he never used steroids or HGH, he hadn't even talked about them.

[Photos: See Clemens testifying before Congress]

There is stupid, and there is Roger Clemens. He invited himself to the scene of a crime he knew he'd be accused of committing. He saw what happened to Barry Bonds, how the anti-doping attack dogs literally will Dumpster dive to scrounge up evidence to get an athlete's pelt. He witnessed congressmen foam at the mouth for their opportunity to moralize during the original steroid hearings in 2005. As he admitted in his opening statement Feb. 13, 2008: "No matter what we discuss here today, I am never going to have my name restored."

And he plodded forward anyway. Had pride not intervened – had the alpha sense Clemens nurtured on the baseball field not grown to Kilimanjaran levels – the world would never have heard his former trainer and main accuser, Brian McNamee, say that he shot Clemens' wife full of HGH before a Sports Illustrated swimsuit shoot. And Clemens' affair with country singer Mindy McCready that began when he was 28 and she was 15 would've likely died a skeleton in two closets. And Clemens would have faded away like most other shamed athletes, left to his riches instead of preparing to defend himself and stave off prison time.

The indictment, 19 pages long and rich with information, highlights 15 utterances the government deemed false leading to an obstruction of justice charge. Testimony regarding steroids, HGH and vitamin B12 comprise three false statement charges and two more perjury charges, each of which could carry five years prison time.

On page 10 is the statement most horrifying to Clemens, the rubbing alcohol in his gaping wound: "The Committee did not issue CLEMENS a subpoena, and CLEMENS was under no obligation to testify. CLEMENS retained his right under the Fifth Amendment to the United States Constitution to refuse to answer any questions that might tend to incriminate him."

He could've taken the Mark McGwire tack, treating the Fifth like his best friend. He could've done what so many other accused steroid users did: not say a thing and let the allegations fade into the ether, a black mark, sure, but not one that torpedoes a life. He could've done what his friend Andy Pettitte(notes) did: admit use, apologize for it and move on.

There remains the possibility, of course, that Clemens never did use steroids, that McNamee used his name in a plea bargain to weasel out of a drug-distribution charge, that all of this is a big conspiracy and witch hunt and, like Bonds, he's a pawn, a patsy, a victim. To which anyone not in Clemens' fan club would reply: Have I got a bridge to sell you …

Whenever Clemens' case goes to trial – Bonds was indicted on perjury and obstruction charges Nov. 15, 2007, and his trial isn't scheduled until March 2011 – the question will be whether the government compiled more evidence than the testimony of McNamee and the eight-year-old needles he said he kept in an empty beer can. Getting an indictment is one thing. Racking up a conviction on perjury charges against a group of high-octane attorneys is something altogether different.

Still, it's harrowing to see another all-time great baseball player, steroids or not, paraded in front of the country as an example that thou best not trifle with the feds. Baseball wants so desperately to rid itself of steroids. Except they're like herpes, and no amount of Bud Selig-sanctioned Valtrex is ever going to make them go away. This day was long coming – in addition to McNamee, Jose Canseco, former pitcher Jason Grimsley and steroid distributor Kirk Radomski were all summoned before the grand jury – and it adds another chapter to the sport's darkest moment since the Black Sox.

Clemens' bleakest days are only beginning. Seeing your name in a federal indictment is not a pleasure in which many partake, and the best he can do from hereon is hope like hell that Rusty Hardin and the rest of his jurisprudence dream team find plenty of reasonable doubt.

Because Clemens' freedom is all that's left to save. He put himself here, through his choices: taking the drugs he took, saying the words he said, making the decisions he made. None of this had to happen, least of all his self-guided walk down the Green Mile. He could have just dropped the rope.