They see the number on his back, and they wonder.

"Baseball players and other people ask if I got 21 because of Clemente," Raul Gonzalez says.

	Roberto Clemente was known for his work off the field as much as the 12 Gold Gloves and four batting titles he earned on it.

It's a reasonable question, and not just because of the shared ethnic heritage. Gonzalez went to high school in Carolina, Puerto Rico, birthplace of the late Roberto Clemente, the first Latin American inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame and an undisputed hero in both hemispheres for his humanitarian work. Gonzalez even plays the same position, right field.

But the answer he must give those who inquire is a sheepish no. The Mets just happened to give him No. 21, which he had never worn before.

Gonzalez isn't sure he wants to follow the example set off the field by Clemente, either, whose prodigious commitment to civic causes led Major League Baseball to create an annual award in his name that goes to a player who does good works in the community.

"It's my private life and (charitable efforts) take a lot of time," says Gonzalez, who made his major-league debut two years ago but has spent most of his career in the minors. "You want to spend a lot of time with your family and people say, 'Can you do this? Can you do that?' If you don't do it one time, they think you're a bad person."

Don't get Gonzalez wrong. He expresses deep respect for Clemente, whom he calls "a great human being who died trying to help his people." He's also aware that Clemente helped forge a path as wide and long as Jackie Robinson did for African-American players, to the point where government officials in at least one Caribbean country, the Dominican Republic, feared a baseball strike because of the potential loss of tax revenue on player salaries.

But as with Robinson, or any hero from the history books, the ghost of Roberto Clemente disperses with time. Gonzalez's generation is the most recent to enter the majors and the first to have been born after Clemente died in 1972.

"Kids today hear the legend of Clemente the baseball player, but they don't know the history," says Ray Negron, a Texas Rangers official who helps Latin players make the cultural transition to baseball in the U.S. "He was a baseball pioneer who became a martyr."

Clemente died while on a mission to feed the poor. His plane, loaded too heavily with supplies bound for earthquake victims in Nicaragua, crashed on New Year's Eve while much of the rest of the world was getting ready to party. Clemente's was the type of civic commitment not enough Latin players have adopted, says Negron, a former minor-league shortstop in the Pirates organization who has worked with hundreds of players over the past two decades as an official with the Yankees, Indians and Rangers.

"The Latin player isn't any different than the American player in that respect," Negron says. "I wish there were more people like Sammy Sosa who do a lot for their people. But I don't think there are many."

	Sammy Sosa helped rebuild this field a boy was left to play on in the aftermath of a hurricane that battered the Dominican Republic in 1998.

Sosa, who does wear No. 21 in honor of Clemente, is from the Dominican. His charitable efforts at times have been criticized as clumsy, even selfish, and were punctuated by reports two years ago that his Sammy Sosa Charitable Foundation had misused its tax-exempt status for Sosa's personal gain. Questions were raised about the tax benefits he received from donating a money-losing building to his poorly run foundation.

But despite the problems, the agencies at that building reportedly still did good work - educating young mothers, inoculating children and providing dental care. He has provided funds for other community projects as well, including a hurricane relief effort in 1998.

"I don't feel like it is pressure," Sosa says. "It feels like it's returning the favor. And it's great to go home and see that you've done some good - especially seeing kids playing on nice baseball fields."

At times, local citizens have clamored for him to share more of his wealth. They were reminded of the gap between their standard of living and his with the construction of his $5 million mansion, complete with a gold No. 21 on the gates and a replica of the spiral staircase from the Titanic inside.

Still, Sosa can comfortably walk in Clemente's shadow, Negron says.

"People are jealous," he says. "Or they say Sammy is just doing it for the popularity. But the bottom line is that whether it's for popularity or not, at least he's doing it. The more popular that Sammy is, the more awareness people are going to have about whatever he's fighting for."

	"The more popular that Sammy is, the more awareness people are going to have about whatever he's fighting for," says Ray Negron, who works with Latin baseball players.

Sosa is by no means alone as a community angel, either. Other Latin players who have contributed time and money to their organizations back home include Pedro Martinez, who has built homes in the Dominican for needy families and land for schools and churches. Each winter, Mets outfielder Roger Cedeno, who calls Clemente his hero, funds a project in Venezuela; last year, he says, he gave $25,000 for a new hospital wing.

Each Christmas, Expos third baseman Fernando Tatis says he buys a dinner for about 10,000 people in his Dominican hometown, San Pedro De Macoris, where he still lives.

"Most of us Dominican players, we try to help people, poor people," Tatis says.

He says he gives not because of Clemente's example, but because it feels good.

He is saddened that the memory of Clemente seems to be fading, though.

"I think they need to do something for kids to get to know Roberto Clemente," Tatis says. "They don't do a lot (to educate children). I think they kind of shut it down."

Gonzalez, 25, hasn't turned off any charitable impulse he might feel. He just doesn't sense an obligation to live up to a standard set by the legend from his father's era, at least not this early in his career. Right now, his focus is on trying to become a regular on a major-league roster.

"Maybe quietly," he says. "If I help, I'll help quietly."

Tom Farrey is a senior writer with ESPN.com. He can be reached at tom.farrey@espn3.com