Twins at Houston. Francisco Liriano 4, Roger Clemens 2.

The Astros fans camped out for days trying to get tickets for the first show in the newly announced Roger Clemens Farewell Tour. Excitement hung in the air thick like full-fat mayonnaise, tinged with hope and longing and memory and the faint scent of stale brats.
"I can't believe we're going to get tickets," said one fan, just as the gates opened.
"Oh!" exclaimed another, "I hope he sings 'Believe!'"
"I was there when he retired last year," said a third. "It was amazing. You should have seen the costumes."
"It couldn't have been as good as the retirement tour of '04," said the first. "Now that was a tour! The laser light show afterwards was kickin'."
"I don't think any of this has really had anything on the retirement tour of '03, though," mused the second. "Now that was a tour! You know, I really thought that was going to be his last show!"
The other fans looked at him in surprise. "Really?"
"Yeah! Aren't I a dipshit?"
"Yeah!"
Meanwhile, inside the clubhouse, Clemens was preparing for tonight's performance, spreading Retin-A on his face, getting his plastic surgeon to add just a little more ass-skin to stretch out the area around his eyes, rubbing his arm with plants from the Genesis Planet, drinking shots of his special concoction of walnut oil and virgin blood with Ponce de Leon, and pulling the velvet curtains over that strange self-portrait that oddly seems to age more horribly with each passing day.
"I'm still beautiful," he whispered to himself.
"You're still beautiful," de Leon agreed. "Have some more walnut oil."
"ESPN is showing the game, right?"
"Right."
"All the networks are here, right?"
"Right."
"The house is packed, right?"
"Right."
"They think I can save them, right?"
"Right."
"Who's pitching for the other guys?"
"Oh, I don't know. Some kid," said deLeon. "I think you had 75 wins before he was born!"
"I—what?" Something flashed through Clemens' face which he quickly restrained, and behind the thick dusty velvet curtain another pustule appeared on the portrait's face. And then it was time. "I'm ready for my close up, Mr. Gammons," he shouted as he strode out onto the field.
Five innings later, Clemens returned to the clubhouse to shower and ready himself for the throngs of press waiting in air thick like mustard, tinged with anticipation and asskissing, while somewhere a game was still being played and a Kid who was born when Clemens had 75 wins showed those who still watched that the ingénue always prevails, especially when he has a kickass fastball. As he strode out to meet his press, a little kid wearing a Twins hat and Francisco Liriano shirt stumbled into his path.
"Wow," the boy said, eyes wide. "Roger Clemens! You used to be big!"
Clemens gasped, then drew himself up.
"I am big," he said grandiosely, "it's the ballparks that got small."