He was here in Boston for 13 years, and has been around baseball for what seems like forever, but what did we ever really know about Roger Clemens?

I suspect we didn’t know a whole lot.

We knew his baseball résumé, certainly, and we knew his periodic problems with the media, and we knew that for a while the 'ol "Possessed Rebel" seemed to be out there on some personal plank. But in a curious fact of life, considering the relentless media cycle we now live in, Clemens was one of those superstars who moved through his career as if he was all but packed in ice somewhere between starts, almost like some baseball cartoon.

Yes, there were his occasional rants, those times when he seemed to be a rocket just waiting to explode, like his bizarre 1990 confrontation with umpire Terry Cooney in a playoff game in Oakland, or his equally bizarre incident with the Mets’ Mike Piazza in the 2000 World Series.

But what was Roger Clemens really like?

Most of this was hidden behind the public persona, Clemens as the Rocket, Clemens as the ageless ace who got better as he got older thanks to his rigorous workouts and tireless commitment to his craft.

That was the spin anyway, and it was lapped up by all of us as if it was mother’s milk.

Until, of course, the issue of steroids started to come pouring on Clemens like a fastball just under his chin, and he appeared before a Congressional committee no doubt thinking he could deal with it the same way he used to deal with sports writers hanging around his locker. Until the world changed for Clemens, and Roger became like the Rocket that fell to earth.

Which is the title of the new book by Jeff Pearlman, subtitled: Roger Clemens and the Rage for Baseball Immortality.

It’s an interesting subtitle, for it’s Pearlman’s premise that it was exactly Clemens’ desire to be in the Hall of Fame, to achieve his slice of baseball immortality, that was at the root of his dance with the devil, a dance that now has him in disgrace, his future in doubt.

Or as Pearlman writes, “Looking back, it is unfortunate how easily the fable was lapped up by the mainstream media, fed to reporters in a gold-plated bowl with sparkling diamonds along the rim . . . So what if his achievements were physically impossible?”

It is also Pearlman’s premise that Dan Duquette had been right back there in '96, when he thought Clemens was essentially done, back when Clemens’ fastball had topped off at 92 mph, back when the glory days seemed all in the past, the Rocket still a good pitcher, but no longer a great one.

But we all wanted to believe.

We wanted to believe that a pitcher in his late 30s could begin to throw ball harder than he did when he was in his early 30s, even though no one in else in baseball history had ever done that. Maybe more important, we so want to believe in our heroes, to somehow think they walk with kings, immune to the realties we all have to deal with.

That was part of it, anyway, as Clemens amassed more strikeouts and more Cy Young awards as he pitched into his baseball golden years, throwing more evidence for the argument that he was the greatest pitcher of all time.

Until it all blew up in his face.

The question is why?

He certainly didn’t need the money. He certainly didn’t need the fame. And for someone who always said that he didn’t care about the Hall of Fame, what kept him flying so close to the flame, especially when many people inside baseball were starting to question both his physique and his velocity?

It’s an interesting question, and it goes to the heart of the question, who is Roger Clemens?

One of the book’s themes is that Clemens was an overweight and awkward kid who grew up idolizing his older brother, a small town high school superstar whose life would eventually derail because of drug abuse. This was all happening in a family in which the father left when Clemens was just a young child, and his stepfather died when he was nine years old.

It’s Pearlman’s contention that Clemens has carried this baggage around with him ever since, to the point that when he became a star in Boston he started referring to himself as "Rocket" and "Rocket Man," as though he was in no way emotionally or psychologically equipped to handle his new found celebrity with any kind of grace. Case in point: his four children’s names all start with the letter “K”.

"If you want to make the argument that we're talking about one egomaniacal — look at the four K names," Pearlman quotes one of Clemens’ major-league peers saying.

It’s this quality that might be at the root of Clemens’ problems today, this sense that he’s always the center of his world. Did he really think that he could keep beating the devil, really think that even in this age of increased steroid awareness, this age where so many of baseball’s secrets are creeping out of the closet, that he always was going to be bulletproof, even if the evidence kept piling up outside his door?

That’s the question, and it hangs over both Clemens, and his legacy.

This should be a great time in Clemens’ life. Instead, it’s the worst time, real life intruding into the fantasy life that was Clemens’ career, the once overweight and awkward kid who grew up to be one of the greatest pitchers in baseball history, only to sully it all with his hubris, this incredible journey that is recounted in The Rocket That Fell To Earth.

breynold@projo.com