My seventh circle of baseball hell is reserved for those special few who have truly earned that honor: Pete Rose, Barry Bonds, Alex Rodriguez ... and Roger Clemens. Most of you can relate.

Flash back 24 years, to Oct. 10, 1990, game four of the ALCS between the A's and the Red Sox. The A's can clinch their third consecutive pennant, having dominated the Sox in the first three games. The Red Sox send Clemens to the mound, their season hanging in the balance. And the A's counter with death-stare Dave Stewart, who clearly has the Rocket's number.

In the bottom of the second, with a run in, runners on second and third with one out, and a 3-1 count on Willie Randolph, home plate umpire Terry Cooney, who has already made some questionable calls in the bottom of the first inning against Clemens, calls ball four on what looks like a good pitch, loading the bases. Clemens goes ballistic. My brother and I are sitting in Section 214, above first base, probably a good 70 feet from the mound, and we could actually hear the snarling invective that came out of Clemens' mouth. This was the meltdown to end all meltdowns.

Cooney drops his mask, approaches the mound, screams and points at Clemens, and flamboyantly ejects the Red Sox ace. 42,000 people go nuts. I have never heard such anger directed toward a player - this wasn't just booing, but angry, venomous "sit down, you Texas a-hole!" stuff. Marty Barrett walks out of the Sox dugout with a huge Gatorade bucket and unceremoniously dumps it on the on-deck circle. Barrett is ejected, and has to be physically restrained from confronting the umpiring crew. It is the closest thing to a forfeit I have ever seen at a baseball game. You know the rest. The A's won the pennant that day and then got swept by the Reds, their last visit to the Series.

And Clemens? He went on to have one of the most storied careers in baseball history: 354 wins, 4,672 strikeouts, two World Series titles, seven Cy Young Awards. And I have hated him with all my heart ever since.

That is why he is up there in my hall of shame with Bonds, Rose and A-Rod. From accusations of steroid use that resulted in Congress indicting him on six felony counts involving perjury and obstruction of Congress (he eventually beat that rap with the help of several Republican congressmen he lobbied) to undignified on-field behavior such as throwing a broken bat at Mike Piazza in the 2000 World Series, to numerous accusations of adultery, lying and general bad behavior, the Rocket has not had an easy go of it in the eyes of the public.

Just to show what the baseball writers think of him, this year he received a paltry 35 percent of the votes to get into the Hall of Fame, even less than last year. Apparently I'm not the only one who hasn't been able to forgive him. But there's an old saying, "Don't judge a man until you've walked a mile in his shoes."

Flash forward to Feb. 16, 2014. It's a gorgeous Sunday, and I'm at Evans Field at Cal, watching the final game of the first weekend of the college baseball season, between Cal and the University of Texas, which Clemens helped win the College World Series in 1983. In fact, the college pitcher of the year award is named after him.

As I walk in, I hear the announcer say, "Now at bat, No. 42, Kacy Clemens, first base." I look down and see a handsome young man digging in to the left side of the batter's box. The pitch comes and he drills a base hit to right field. I realize, of course, that this must be the Rocket's son, who decided to attend Daddy's alma mater rather than sign with his hometown Astros. I watch the first few innings from behind the plate, sitting next to the scouts with their Jugs guns, iPads and notebooks. After a few innings I move to a little area above third base, where I stand against a low fence leaning out to watch the game, which is scoreless going into the sixth.

I notice a large man of about 50 sitting next to me, watching the game, dark sunglasses on, smartphone in his hand, earphones in his ear. He's wearing a UT Longhorn baseball cap and a UT shirt with a small No. 21 on the chest. Even with the dark sunglasses, I know it's the Rocket, Roger Clemens, right next to me, watching his son play. The fan in me comes to attention. I am in the presence of greatness - two feet away.

An inning goes by, the Longhorns score three runs and I don't say a word. The man is making a couple of calls on his phone. I don't want to disturb him or eavesdrop. But I'd like to be friendly, be civil, say something. But what am I going to tell him? That I've despised him for 25 years? That I'm glad he's not in the Hall, despite the fact that he may the greatest pitcher of my lifetime?

Two kids walk up to him and say, "Mr. Clemens, would you sign our cap and baseball? The Rocket says, "Wait right here, guys, when the inning is over I'll do it for you - don't go anywhere." After the inning he does just that, quietly but graciously. Then he stands up to his full 6 foot 3 and stretches, and I cannot stop flashing back to that day at the Coliseum, when a much younger, more reckless Roger Clemens came apart at the seams.

By the time the next inning rolls around, Texas has a 5-0 lead and here comes Kacy to the plate. The Rocket gets his camera phone ready to record the at-bat, and starts talking softly into his phone as well, giving a pitch-by-pitch description of the at-bat. Kacy pops out to short left field. I look over and see something that I know so well - the slight, almost imperceptible wince, the sag of the shoulders, the exhale I have done a thousand times watching my son at the plate. And it was in that moment - for the first time in my life - I felt empathy toward the enigma that is Roger Clemens. Here he is, a dad watching his kid play ball, with everything invested in how his son does. I can relate.

The 'Horns score a couple of more runs, and it's time for me to go. I can think of a hundred things I want to say to Roger Clemens, but I just can't. Do I tell him how much I liked watching him pitch - totally dishonest - or should I tell him how much I hated him, probably not a good idea. Damned if I do, damned if I don't. For once I am utterly speechless. But before I leave, I look over at the Rocket one more time and smile. He catches my eye behind his shades, smiles back, and nods. The guy is human. As I walk out of the park my mind is racing. I realize then that I feel differently about Roger Clemens.

He was a boy whose father walked out on his mother, and whose stepfather died when he was 9. No wonder he's so involved in his son's life, for better or worse. He never won a title in 13 years with the Red Sox. He pitched, and won, a game on the day his mother died, when he was 42. He might be the greatest pitcher of our time, steroids or no steroids. Hell, everybody did them, and he probably did it as much to rehab from injury as to add mph to his already blistering heater. He just lied about it, like so many others.

He has incurred, and justifiably so, the wrath of baseball fans like me for 25 years, and the one thing he wants - to cement his legacy by being inducted into the Hall - is out of reach, maybe permanently, because of his public persona and his unrelenting stubbornness. I wish he would come clean. It's never too late, Rocket.