Clemens' new ballgame could be brutal

So now the feds and their grand jury are sure Roger Clemens lied to Congress 2½ years ago, which brings them up to speed with everybody else.

And we have two iconic ballplayers straight out of the steroid era under federal indictment, one the all-time home run king and the other a 354-game winner, and there's nothing their bloated egos or bodies can do for them anymore.

As one baseball official noted of Clemens today, ''His is now a non-baseball problem," and there could be few more ominous words for the seven-time Cy Young winner.

Clemens' all-hat, no-conscience Texas attorney, Rusty Hardin, said Thursday he would fight to the end (Clemens', not his) against the perjury charges for his client, which is what he's paid to do. There's no telling what a jury might find, as the government's chief corroborator – former trainer Brian McNamee – is no shining model of fair play himself.

Clemens took to Twitter to defend himself: ''I never took HGH or Steroids. And I did not lie to Congress. I look forward to challenging the Governments accusations, and hope people will keep an open mind until trial. I appreciate all the support I have been getting. I am happy to finally have my day in court."

Doesn't sound like he's seeking a plea bargain.

While the public – non-baseball and beyond, Clemens worshippers and slayers – and for the moment Clemens undoubtedly will focus on the distant outcome and its consequences, one man in particular will warn that grief does not wait at the destination, but rides shotgun on the journey.

Handcuffed, and more than two years after his BALCO offices had been raided by federal agents, Victor Conte on Dec. 1, 2005 walked into Taft Correctional Institution in Northern California. He would serve 120 days after entering guilty pleas for conspiracy to distribute steroids and money laundering, two of the 42 charges brought against him. The other 40 had been dropped.

Going on five years later, Conte said in the wake of the Clemens indictment, the fear and shame he felt while entering prison did not compare to the months of gnawing distress that preceded it. Of course, the tennis courts at Taft didn't hurt.

Regardless of whether Clemens ingested steroids and lied to Congress about it (and Conte happens to think he did: ''My opinion is, and it's only my opinion, he's as guilty as a three-dollar bill."), Clemens now faces a life unfathomable for its suffering, he said.

''He's in a living hell," Conte said. ''I know because I've been there."

Lashed to Barry Bonds, bound to the daily breaking stories of cheating in sports, outed as the evil enabler for our poor naive athletes/idols, and hounded by lawyers and G-men, Conte became physically ill waiting for the charges to play out.

''What a slow grind this process is," he said, ''and the physical and emotional and fiscal toll it takes on the people involved in this. This is all the prosecutorial heft of the government coming after you."

Even while Conte told his side of the story, even while he admitted to distributing illegal performance-enhancing drugs, nothing he did or said or paid for eased the burden. It is the burden Bonds, indicted for lying under oath to a grand jury, has carried for going on three years. His trial is scheduled for March. Though he has never officially retired, Bonds – like Clemens – has not played in the major leagues since 2007, which he undoubtedly views as part of that burden.

When Conte's health began to fail, and when a handful of doctors and specialists could find no cause, he did happen upon a doctor who told him, ''You know, Victor, a human being is just not made to be chased around in the jungle by a lion that wants to eat you alive."

''That's what it feels like," Conte said. ''No rest. No breath."

And the government, he said, much like the athletes they chase, also cheats. He maintains investigators falsified evidence against him, spent taxpayer dollars to excess, and lied to carry out its vendetta.

''They," he said, ''use the equivalent of The Clear and The Cream themselves."

It's the new game Clemens is in.

Conte opened the front door of his house one day to find his lawn and sidewalk teeming with television, radio and print reporters. When he called the police, the officer suggested he gather his family, go over the backyard fence and live in a hotel.

''Which we did," Conte said, ''for two weeks."

It's the new ballpark Clemens plays in.

Nearly seven years have passed since federal agents first came to Conte's door. Nearly five have passed since he left prison. He claims to have gone straight, and a new stable of Conte athletes – clean, he said – is again growing and thriving. He's even playing his bass guitar again.

''I made a serious mistake," Conte said. ''But I did it. And I paid the price."

It's the new world Clemens lives in. The trial, by most estimates, is at least a year away. Guilty or not, clear of conscience or not, defiant or not, everything changes.

''The burner just got turned up on Roger Clemens," Conte said. "He might think he's a tough guy. Believe me, it's relentless."