So, at (relatively) long last, “The Rocket That Fell To Earth” finally hits stores on Tuesday. This is my fourth book, and in many ways it was the most challenging. My first book, “The Bad Guys Won!” was tough because I was a rookie, and relatively clueless. My second book, “Love Me, Hate Me,” was tough because Barry Bonds is so universally loathed, I had to mentally redefine my definition of the word “balanced.” (Explanation: One naturally wants to find an equal helping of pro and con representations. Yet Bonds’ cons came in at, oh, 90%). My third book, “Boys Will Be Boys,” was tough because it involved football, a sport I’ve rarely covered. “The Rocket That Fell To Earth” was tough, because Clemens turned out to be a truly fascinating, truly mysterious, truly … deep figure.

Initially, I relied heavily on details from his 1987 autobiography, “Rocket Man,” until I started to see that Clemens’ documented life story was filled with myriad inaccuracies (Not necessarily all his fault: Clemens was turning 25 when the book was released, and my guess is he spent five hours talking into Peter Gammons’ tape recorder, then moved on with his life. It’s a pretty standard method of the celebrity “autobiography”).

I dug deep, deep, deep into his Ohio childhood, which proved arduous because almost nothing has been written of that time period. Even less was written about his season at San Jacinto Junior College, and his Texas Longhorn years—two, to be exact—are  documented in mere bits and pieces.

Really, though, I’d say the tough thing about Clemens is that, come day’s end, he inspired a lot of loyalty. Teammates—especially those in Boston—liked and respected Clemens, and if you like and respect someone, you’re significantly less likely to truly open up on that person’s full character. You’ll say great things if you love someone unconditionally, terrible things if you hate someone unconditionally. But it’s that middle ground that makes a biography … finding the people who see all sides to someone.

If you’re planning on reading this book to learn how to hate Roger Clemens, well—bad news. It’s not an ode to slamming the man. Instead, I wanted to find out what makes him tick, and how he wound up taking the path he did …

OK, I’m babbling.

I’m watching UCLA-VCU as we speak …

:23

“And Maynor hits both free throws! A time out on the floor, and we’ll be back after this message …”
:19

“Shipp grabs the rebound. A time out on the floor, and we’ll be back after this message …”
:17

“Oh, a big free throw! Big! A time out on the floor, and we’ll be back after this message …”
:12

“Whoa, Vanilla Ice and Erin Moran have stripped and are running across the court! A time out on the floor, and we’ll be back after this message …”
:09

“The president has announced we will invade Cuba! A time out on the floor, and we’ll be back after this message …”
:06

“My dog has died. A time out on the floor, and we’ll be back after this message …”
:02

“He shoots, and … A time out on the floor, and we’ll be back after this message …”
Click.

I had a very bad day today, and I internalized. I sulked and brooded and moped and complained and whined.

So what did my wife Catherine do? She probably hugged me 10 times, told me she loved me 15 times, reminded me of how lucky I am to have two beautiful children and that, materialism be damned, we are blessed (a word I probably don’t use often enough) to have found each other.

I see other marriages, and oftentimes I don’t get them. Either the man and woman have completely different interests, or they play the dominant (usually the male) and secondary role, where the woman—even in 2009—does the laundry, makes the food, vacuums, etc. My wife and I, however, are truly a team. We raise our kids together, run the house together. She cooks, I do laundry and dishes. She does my daughter’s hair and cuts my son’s nails, I give the baths and tell the stories and sing Blind Melon’s “Change” to my son every … single … night (great tune, but I’m a wee-bit sick of it). My wife is neat (except when she leaves her unwashed bowls in the sink, which drives me crazy) and I’m a semi-slob (which drives her crazy). My wife does this wacky high-pitched shout that causes our dog Norma to rush to her. I try, and Norma just looks at me like she’s on Ecstacy. I just don’t get it—the dog knows I’m calling her, hears me blaring her stinkin’ name, yet sits there and just … wait, I digress …

I’d say my wife’s greatest gift is, 99% of the time, she knows exactly what to say. I mean, exactly. If I need an ass kick, she delivers it on point. If I need affection, she’s there. I used to think, “I hope I end up with someone truly special,” and I really have.

It’s an honor to be married to her.

* Side note: As weird as this sounds, I never, ever call my wife “Catherine,” and she never, ever calls me “Jeff.” On our fourth date we went bowling, and she said I should pick out a bowling name. I selected “Earl,” and she asked whether she’s Earl or I’m Earl. Ever since that day, we’ve called one another “Earl.”

“You wanna see a great movie?” my dad asked.
Sure, I said.
“Rent, ‘In The Heat of the Night.’ It’s classic.
So last night the wife and I watched ‘In The Heat of the Night,’ circa 1967.
Zzzzzzzzzzz.
Not a terrible flick, but one that speaks to an unquestionable truth: Most “classic” movies stink. Really, they do. Poor acting, poor directing, horrible music, etc. If it’s pre-1975, odds are you’re in for a long night that will unfold as so:

8 pm: You and the wife pop “In The Heat of the Night” into the DVD player.
8:10 pm: So far, so good. Sidney Poitier, Rod Steiger … excellent cast, cool premise (black detective goes to Mississippi to help solve a crime during the 1960s)
8:20 pm: This is getting stupid.
8:40 pm: This is really stupid.
9 pm: Do we still have ‘Pineapple Express’?

I know, Dad—they don’t make ‘em like they used to. With class and honor and integrity and … whatever. The movie stunk. Sorry.

Today I spent $15 to buy my wife the ultimate gag gift—the Snuggie (read this for kicks).

Man, this thing is amazing. Before, I could never reach the phone beneath the awkwardness of my blanket. But now …

I was reading postsecret.com today, and this one freaked me out … This isn’t a deep post—just a moment that passed before me.

Over the past few days I’ve been toting along one of my two copies of “The Rocket That Fell to Earth” everywhere I go—reading, re-reading, re-re-reading; trying to figure out what will be good to highlight, what will be good to ignore, etc.

The one thing I already regret, in a major way, is not using either a Preface or section of the Acknowledgments to take some responsibility, as a member of the media, for not being more outwardly suspicious of steroids and HGH in baseball. Granted, this isn’t something a writer would normally add to a book. However, within more than one passage I take the press to task for not digging hard enough; for ignoring; even for knowing and doing nothing. All the while, I was actively thinking, “You’re guilty, too.” Yet when writing a book, it’s sometimes hard to finesse first-person elements into the text. I should have, because I’ll soon be fairly open to criticism of “Yeah, where the f#$% were you?”

So, again, I messed up just like everyone else …

** Side note: The above photograph didn’t make my book’s final cut. It’s Clemens as a member of the White Sox, a Little League team, shortly after he moved from Ohio to Texas, in 1979. Some of the pictures in the book (two especially) brought me great joy, research-wise …

Until a few months ago, my neighbor was Joe Lowry, a former character actor who appeared in a bunch of movies. He’s a great guy, and I was very sad when Joe and the gang packed up and moved to San Diego.

Anyhow, this morning I ran into Joe, who’s back in town trying to sell his house. Joe saw me, came running over (he’s in his 70s), shook my hand, “Jeff, how are you! How’s the family!” Really, I love this guy.

He said, “Jeff, I was having dinner with the Cohen’s last night, and we were saying how wonderful your life is. You’re an excellent writer, you have a wonderful family—beautiful wife, great kids. Your life must be wonderful. Just absolutely wonderful!”

I nodded, smiled, shook his hand—then retreated inside, where I spent the next 30 minutes scrubbing the hardened diarrhea out of my dog’s cage.

Not exciting, but a piece that includes my upcoming book. Here it is.

My fourth book, “The Rocket That Fell To Earth: Roger Clemens and the Rage for Baseball Immortality,” comes out two weeks from today.

Let the whoring begin.

Yes, whoring. Not writing, not editing, not readings—whoring. It’s the worst part of the book business, and yet—oddly—also sort of enjoyable. I’ve never enjoyed calling in favors to people, which promoting a book requires. I also feel awkward talking, talking, talking, talking about the book; telling the same stories over and over for the 5,000th time. It’s not that I have a problem with radio stations asking things—hell, I appreciate their interest. But there’s something about repeating a story that feels almost … dishonest. Like you should be giving everyone new material. Can’t happen, obviously, but that’s how it feel.

Anyhow, I’m babbling. But such is the life of a blog guy. I truly have no clue how this book will do. With the Cowboys, I felt fairly confident—and it sold insanely well. With Bonds, I felt REALLY confident—and it bombed. With the Mets, I had no clue—and it did great. I’m 2-for-3 when it comes to making the NYT list which, as my wife always says, is a helluva batting average. Even if this book sells 12 copies, I’ll still be a .500 hitter. Right?

Seriously, if anyone has any whoring advice, I’m all ears …