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The Life


September 30, 2002
¡Que viva!
ESPN The Magazine

2 + 1 = 3.

He had exactly 3,000 hits. His home ballpark was Three Rivers. He batted third most of his career and hit .300 or better 13 times. He shares the modern major league record for triples in a game, which is, naturally, 3. He led the Pirates to three straight division titles (1970-72) and batted .333 in the 1971 NLCS. When his plane went down three hours before 1973, he left behind three sons.

Roberto Clemente
Clemente's legacy lives on -- look no farther than the number on Sammy Sosa's back.
So the 30th anniversary of No. 21's final hit is not just any anniversary. It is a reminder that there is a mystical quality to Roberto Clemente that just a few other players have ever had. He was as charismatic as Ruth, as committed as Jackie Robinson, as gifted as Mays. He touched Pittsburgh, Latinos everywhere, baseball fans anywhere.

The people who knew him closely called him Momen, a term of endearment. Those who didn't know him at all at first called him Bob -- a vestige of America's discomfort with things Latin. In Pittsburgh, announcer Bob Prince hung Arriba on him, and arise he did, time and time and time again. Still does.

His bio reads a little like mythology: His own hero was Monte Irvin, who played for the Santurce Cangrejeros. He was first spotted and signed by Dodger scout Al Campanis, then stolen away in a minor league draft by the Pirates GM -- guy named Branch Rickey.

Though he was an immediate star in Pittsburgh, where he roomed with a middle-class family named Garland and boarded with another named Kantrowitz, the rest of America was far too slow to embrace him. (Teammate Dick Groat was the NL MVP in 1961, an injustice when you consider that Clemente, who had a better year, finished eighth in the voting.) But from 1961 to 1972, a pitcher's era, Clemente averaged .331, 17 homers and 81 RBIs while redefining the right field position with his cannon arm and hell-bent-for-leather fielding. (The doors of the Clemente home in Rio Piedras, Puerto Rico were held open by some of his 12 Gold Gloves.) His 3,000th hit (a double off the Mets' Jon Matlack) and a third straight postseason appearance put the stamp on his greatness, and then ... the plane he had chartered to bring relief supplies to the earthquake victims in Nicaragua fell from the sky. The next year he was inducted into the Hall of Fame, alongside Monte Irvin.

Big as Clemente became, he wasn't a large man, just 5'11'', 175 pounds. He hit for average with a slugger's 36-ounce bat. He was a hypochondriac -- "My bad shoulder feels good, but my good shoulder feels bad" -- who never asked out of the lineup. He was mostly agreeable and sometimes testy, especially if his pride was wounded: He pulled out of the filming of The Odd Couple when he found out the script called for him to hit into a triple play, which is why Bill Mazeroski does the honors in the movie.

But the contrasts disappeared in the light of his spirit, a spirit that transcended language, color, stereotypes -- all the barriers that Clemente knocked down. His teammates were devoted to him not just because of what he could do on the field, but because of what he would do off it. One of them, catcher Manny Sanguillen, did not attend his funeral because he was still desperately diving into the waters off the airport, trying to find Clemente. Another, Steve Blass, simply lost his bearings after Roberto's death. Together, though, they beat the Orioles in the '71 Series, with Blass pitching a three-hitter in Game 3 and a four-hitter in Game 7 and Clemente hitting .414 with two home runs.

In the crush that followed Game 7, the two heroes -- the best of friends -- were carried off in different directions. It wasn't until the flight home from Baltimore that they caught up to one another. Blass recalled it this way 10 years ago: "After the plane was in the air, Roberto walked back to where we were sitting ... I'm sorry, I'm getting the chills remembering ... and he leans over and says, 'Come out here, Blass. Let me embrace you.' ".

Thirty years after his death, Clemente lives on -- in the number on Sammy Sosa's back, in the work carried on by his widow, Vera, and his eldest son, Robertito, in the ache Pirate fans will feel again this October.

So go ahead, make out whatever all-time All-Star team you want. Just leave the three-spot open for Clemente.

Steve Wulf is executive editor of ESPN The Magazine. E-mail him at steve.wulf@espnmag.com.



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