My Clemente: Luis Rodríguez Mayoral

Away from the ballparks, Roberto Clemente was a happy and gracious person who loved to tell stories.

“Once in San Francisco,” he once recalled, “I hit a great shot to right-center field that appeared to be a homer. The wind held it up in the air and Willie Mays caught it. I got so mad that I threw the helmet up in the air — and the wind blew it clear out of the park.”

And he then gave me a peculiar smile that was difficult to decipher.

My Clemente is probably different from your Clemente. The first time I heard of Roberto Clemente, I was a 9-year-old Little Leaguer in Puerto Rico. It was 1955, his first season with the Pittsburgh Pirates. The next year, I was living the Panama Canal Zone. It didn’t matter. I was overjoyed as Roberto hit .311 for the Pirates.

The first time I saw Roberto play in person was in November 1959, when he returned to Puerto Rico Winter League action after spending the previous winter in the U.S. Marine Corps Reserve. His San Juan Senators were at home against the Ponce Lions. I don’t remember the final score, but I remember clearly Roberto hitting a double and a home run that Sunday.

The first time I spoke to Roberto in person was two years later, November 1961, in Puerto Rico during a baseball clinic he conducted in Bayamón along with Luis “Tite” Arroyo, then the New York Yankees’ stellar lefty reliever; and Orlando Cepeda, the San Francisco Giants slugger who later would accompany Roberto in the National Baseball Hall of Fame and Museum.

As I arrived at the Fonfrías Baseball Park early that Saturday morning, I noticed Roberto sitting on a stool, in a small booth near the playing field, tying the laces of his cleats. Like on a cloud, I floated towards him and the vibes I got were those of a classy, special person. But today, some 56 years later, what I remember most is the fragrance of the cologne he was wearing — sandalwood. I liked it so much that I bought the same brand for 10 years afterwards.

The first time I visited Clemente’s home was during the winter of 1965. My friendships with Howie Haak — the Pirates super-scout in Latin America — and Pancho Coimbre — the Pirates’ scout based in Puerto Rico, and Roberto’s mentor — paved the way. I remember that in a corner of the balcony of his home overlooking San Juan, Roberto spoke to me for about a half hour. I truly don’t recall the conversation, but his interest in me affected me very positively. Several years later, I would see Roberto on and off in Santurce or at Hiram Bithorn Stadium in Hato Rey, allowing our friendship to flourish.

Daredevil driver

Roberto Clemente was both a public and private person. By destiny, I was able to know him up close. The Hall of Famer had exemplary manners, which he kept even as he endured the discomforts of discrimination along with the joys of recognition. In many ways, he had a much more relaxed life in his native Puerto Rico than in the United States.

One afternoon, late in 1971, he picked me up at the airport in San Juan and we spent a couple of hours driving around the capital city. Leaving the airport, he stepped on the gas pedal and began a demonstration of his driving abilities, bordering those of a daredevil behind the wheel.

Roberto saw that I was nervous and with that same peculiar smile, said, “Don’t worry, I’m the best driver in the world.” Incidentally, to this day, many people do not know that as a young man, Roberto pulled someone from a burning car, saving their life.

Several times he told me that as a 6-year-old, he was so strong that he could bend nails with his hands. And, again, he gave me that peculiar smile.

Yes, Roberto was fun. One spring training, we were killing time in his Pirate City room in Bradenton, Florida, and abruptly he said, “I’m going to prepare you a punch; the kind that keeps me strong.”

He proceeded to empty two bottles of grape juice into a mixer and, one by one, he cracked eight eggs into it. I saw his dedication preparing that punch, and was surprised he did not add any sugar!

When he asked me how I liked it, I said, “It was great.” He then gave me a smile of satisfaction. In all honesty, that punch tasted terrible.

An aspiring chiropractor

Roberto’s hands were large, sculptured to a degree of perfection. I believe that his hands reflected his spirit. On the field he gripped the bat and ball with the strength of a tiger, but when he saw a child and patted their head, his hands were as gentle as a lamb.

Upon retirement, he envisioned himself as a chiropractor and always took pride in the countless friends he had alleviated with his treatments.

He never studied music, but he enjoyed playing instruments. He had an organ at his home in San Juan, and with his gifted hands he could play it quite well. His second son, Luis Roberto, says that his father also had a harmonica that he loved to play while driving, using a neck holder to keep both hands on the wheel.

‘I will never live to be old’

His glory days coincided with the ’60s and early ’70s — a period of great social change in the U.S. African-Americans and Hispanics strived for equality and better tomorrows. With resounding pride in his color and heritage — without at the same time demeaning others — all Roberto wanted was to make human beings aware of the strengths within themselves.

One Saturday afternoon, he recalled how proud he was of having met Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. years before. He discussed how he admired the principles of John F. Kennedy’s Peace Corps to benefit countries around the world.

In the world of sports, he admired and respected boxer Muhammad Ali and Puerto Rican golfer Juan “Chi Chi” Rodriguez, with whom he played amateur baseball in the San Juan metropolitan area as a youngster.

With dignity and grace, he helped others understand that when you come from a different culture and speak a different language, adapting to life in the U.S. is a long and very difficult process.

He proved to others that not mastering English while feeling uneasy in a new culture and being shy do not make a person arrogant or ignorant.

He told me two different times — once in the spring of 1972 and once in Atlanta that same summer, “I will never live to be old. I want to get that hit (No. 3,000) this year.”

Roberto got to 3,000 hits in his last at-bat in a regular-season game that September.

Final Memories

The last time I last saw Roberto was around December 25, 1972, at Hiram Bithorn Stadium. He was dressed nearly all in brown. A brown guayabera with white designs, brown pants and boots. He was bending over, collecting boxes of goods for Nicaraguan earthquake victims in the stadium’s main corridor.

I will never forget how his facial expression that day reflected the same pride and determination as when he wore his Pirates uniform prior to any given game.

We chatted for several minutes and he told me, “I’ll see you around New Year’s.”

That never happened. His plane, an old Douglas DC-7 loaded with goods and bound for Nicaragua, crashed into the Atlantic Ocean about a mile and a half northeast of the Luis Muñoz Marín International Airport on December 31, 1972, around 9:15 p.m. His body was never recovered.

On Friday, January 12, 1973, in front of Roberto’s widow, Vera Clemente, Pirates catcher Manny Sanguillén and shortstop Jackie Hernández, the U.S. Coast Guard commander at the base in Old San Juan informed us that:

• The movement of the improperly secured cargo on the plane could have crushed those on board at the moment of impact.
• Human remains could have spread out across the Atlantic Ocean.
• Human remains could have been devoured by sharks.

Roberto was a very special person, touched by God. His legacy reflects the good of his life, his joys and his sorrows. In my mind, I see him through a corridor of time, and I know that he stands up to time, spiritually, with proper defiance and classic dignity.

He lived 38 years, 4 months and 13 days.

Today and forever, I consider myself a very fortunate man, as God allowed me to discover and befriend Roberto Clemente.

Featured Image: Luis Rodríguez Mayoral

Inset Images: Luis Rodríguez Mayoral