Presidential Medal Of Freedom Recipients

"Everybody looked rumpled next to Roberto Clemente."

"I asked Face if he remembered where he was when he learned that Clemente had died in an airplane crash on New Year's Eve of 1972. Again, somewhat strangely, a smile. "I was sleeping," he said. He was living in Penn Hills at the time with his first wife, Jeanne Kuran, who was from Pittsburgh and to whom he was married for 25 years, and their daughter Michelle, then 17, who woke him up to tell him the bad news about Clemente. Face remembered his reaction to Michelle's wake-up call. "I said, ‘Better him than me,’ and rolled over and went back to sleep." It sounded harsh. Face chortled at his own story."

"There wasn’t too much contact with Clemente off the field; just at the ballpark. He was pretty much by himself, a loner. We were never close… He didn’t hang around with us much. He was always with , or or . He had other friends. There were always people from Puerto Rico or other Latin countries wherever we traveled. He was just more of a loner."

"He came over to me and talked to me for about ten or fifteen minutes. He talked about life in general, about family, and he tried to bring out the belief that baseball wasn’t the end all in our lives – that we had to make sure we kept things in balance. He wanted to make sure you kept them in the right order; like family and your wife. He wanted us to remember that these were the most important things. He didn't have to come over and talk to me, but he did."

"Roberto’s body didn't appear because God wanted us to remember him as he was: that handsome negro, so strong, so beautiful within and without."

"As we were talking, I was moving my neck around so he asked me what was the matter. I told him that my neck hurt because of an old baseball injury. In a 1958 spring training intrasquad game, I had cracked the third cervical vertebra in my neck when I had a collision with another player trying to catch a popup. Bobby told me to go take a shower with the water as hot as I could stand it. I did that and when I came out of the shower beet red all over, he had me lie on the trainer’s table for a massage. With his very strong hands, he kneaded the muscles in my neck and back and it felt wonderful. Afterwards, he told me to stand up with my back to him. He took two towels, wrapped them together into a cylindrical shape, placed them along my spine, and grabbed me in a bear hug. Then – in something similar to the Heimlich maneuver – he bent backward, pulled me toward him, lifted me off the ground, and sort of bounced me up and down for a moment. As he did, I heard a sound like a xylophone and felt my spine go into perfect alignment. He put me down and said, ‘You’ll feel better tomorrow.’ Heck, I felt better already. But the thing that really impressed me was that the next night I got a call from the visitors’ clubhouse in St. Louis. It was Bobby, and he wanted to know if my back was better. That was the act of a compassionate man, and I didn’t need the crash that ended his life to know that about Bobby."

"Well, somebody asked me if it was true that I scuffled with Roberto Clemente and he pulled a knife and cut me on the hand. Then they said and came in to break it up and Stuart threw Clemente against the wall and that's how he hurt his arm. I never had an argument with anyone, Clemente doesn't own a knife, and I doubt if Stuart, strong as he is, could pick up Clemente—an ex-Marine—and throw him against a wall."

"If I went along with all the praise he gets, I’d be a hypocrite. Because it’s not my true feelings. I didn’t look up to him as a person. He was a great ballplayer, when he wanted to play, but as a person – from my point of view – he wasn’t my kind of guy. I’ll probably get shot for that, but that’s the way I feel."

"Both Walkers owe a debt of gratitude to the most revered player in Pirates history. Tom Walker played winter ball in Puerto Rico in 1972 and helped Roberto Clemente load a plane carrying relief supplies to earthquake survivors in Nicaragua after Christmas. He offered to accompany Clemente on the trip, but the plane was full and Clemente told him to stay behind and enjoy New Year's Eve. A few hours later, Tom Walker returned to his condo and saw the news reports that Clemente's plane had crashed off the coast of Isla Verde, Puerto Rico. Four decades later he's still awed by the notion that he would have perished without Clemente's selfless gesture, and his four children never would have been born."

"For a long time he was a loner. People would ask, "Why doesn’t he go out with the rest of you?" Well, Clemente doesn’t go out, period. He watches TV, orders room service, sleeps. He enjoys that; that’s the type of guy he is. This year he’s changed some. We took him to a Chinese restaurant in Chicago, and he looked so happy. I think he was surprised he had such a good time. I said, "Momen, you have to do this more often." But he’s the kind of guy who’ll go out when he wants to... you can’t influence him. He’s too independent."

"I don't believe if Clemente were still alive that there'd be a statue. It's the way he died. I think, in my mind, Stargell did as much for the people of Pittsburgh, for the team, for the organization. He deserves a statue as much as Clemente does for the contributions he made here. That's my feeling. Stargell mingled more with the public, and he mingled more with his teammates, and he was more of a positive influence all around."

"Clemente was an emotional man, and that was his beauty. It drove him not only to physical anguish, but also to nearly incredible performances on the field as well as to the good work he was engaged in at his death. Often, although not so much in his maturing years, he seemed almost paranoid in his complaints against this or that, but when he said he loved mankind you had to believe him, because even the heat of his most bitter outburst almost always blew over, and where he had been loud, he would suddenly become reasonable and even eloquent. A man to confuse you? Yes, absolutely, but only because man’s full range of passions ran strong in him. Cunning he was not. Honest he was. And the proof is that he was no honorary chairman of that relief committee for Nicaragua -- he was no figurehead chairman in name only; he was not merely a celebrity lending his prestige but not his heart or his labor to a cause. Honorary chairmen do not disappear into the Atlantic in the performance of duty."

"He always complained about pains in his stomach. He’d come to the plate and I could see he was in pain and I’d say, "Robby, what’s wrong?" And he’d say, "Tom, I don’t feel too good." But he didn’t like to go to the doctor – he didn’t believe in doctors."

"and all those different guys – they’re partying types. And if they're the partying type, would you expect a man who was a sedentary individual to get involved? No. These individuals were drinking, they were out having parties – they have fun. Clemente was not that type of individual. Clemente said, "If I’m here to do a job, the job must take precedence. Now after the season is over, I can have all the parties I want. But if I’m here to do a job, I’ve signed a contract to do a job." But the American mentality is not that way."

"One of the things that he really liked to do was go to Children’s Hospital in Pittsburgh and visit kids. That’s something that many people don’t write about. That’s where his real passion was – making other people feel important."

"Roberto was a very mature boy, even when he was ten or so. Basically, he was a good kid. He did two things, played ball and stayed home. He never got into trouble. We called him "Momen" from the time he was little. When he had grown up and become a star, no one could remember what the name meant. He was always quiet, never got whipped. We used to kid him about that."

"I learned a lot about Clemente from Rod Carew, who was my hitting instructor in Milwaukee. Carew told me that when he came up to the big leagues (in 1967), Roberto had made it very clear to the Latin guys (throughout baseball), "We’re a minority here in the States. Take pride in what you do, and take care of each other and the young (Latins) coming up.""

"Roberto Clemente was a guy who had a stern face, but people misread his intensity as militancy and his humility as complacency."

"He would talk with me often about his feelings. You know, Clemente felt strongly about the fact that he was a Puerto Rican and that he was a black man. In each of these things he had pride. But it was a beautiful, uncompromising kind of pride, because I never heard him – and you must remember here that I am fluent in Spanish – I just never heard him make a slurring remark about anyone’s color or religion. In this he was remarkable. On the other hand, because of the early language barriers, I am sure that there were times when he thought people were laughing at them when they were not. It is difficult for a Latin-American ballplayer to understand everything said around him when it is said at high speed, if he doesn’t speak English that well. But, in any event, he wanted very much to prove to the world that he was a superstar and that he could do things that in his heart he felt that he had already proven."

"If anybody needed help with advice or money, he would give it. Once, when he was about 11, there was an automobile accident. The car caught fire, and he crossed the highway and took the driver out so he wouldn’t burn. In school he was a leader. When they needed to build a fence to protect the school, he organized a group of boys and, through various activities, they raised money to help build the fence."

"This was a man who looked at the television pictures coming back from the moon and saw the world. Clemente thought of all the people who came together to put that guy there. He conceived of them as a brotherhood."

"We sometimes got pretty light-hearted, and when Robby got involved was always a crowd. You knew something really funny was happening. But I never saw anybody so much aware of who came in that clubhouse door. He was concerned that if media people were there, it could be taken out of context and the feeling between the players would be lost. But when we were alone, oh gee – he and Tony would agitate each other back and forth and then Giusti would come in and they’d get going about the Puerto Ricans versus the Italians – screaming – and just loving every minute of it. But despite all the kidding, Roberto always insisted that you must never lose your dignity. ‘Tony,’ he’d say, ‘lose everything else, but never lose your dignity.’ He’d say it in a half-kidding tone, but you knew he meant it."

"Clemente truly loved Tony and ‘Hully’ [John Hallahan, Pirate clubhouse attendant]. Hully was part Russian, I think, and he’d run off all these Russian phrases to stir up things. Whatever he was saying, it seemed to get a good rise out of Roberto on a regular basis. Tony was always giving Roberto a rubdown before every game. It was a pre-game ritual. He’d work out all the kinks in Clemente’s neck and shoulders. Sometimes I’d crawl under the training table and do a bit like I was a voice in the distance giving them instructions. There was a popular TV show at the time called ‘Mission Impossible.’ I took my cue from that show. I’d say, ‘Good morning, Mr. Clemente; this is your neck. Your assignment today is to get three doubles off . As usual, we will disavow any knowledge of this conversation. And Tony, get thees son-of-a-beetch outta here!’ And Clemente would go crazy."

"I have it arranged so that Curt and Roberto and our other colored boys play in our 'home' games. The white boys competing with them for positions play our 'away' games. That way our guys are protected against the little unpleasant things like waiting in the bus while we bring sandwiches out of lunchrooms to them, and like having having to go 'across the railroad tracks' to find places to stay overnight or relax until park time. With this system, everybody gets to play about the same number of games, and it's a happier outfit all around."

"He reacted more to rookies than to guys who had been around for awhile, maybe because he would’ve liked someone to have helped him when he was a rookie. Clemente had known the same problems – the new language, getting acclimated to the big league atmosphere, how to deal with the media, where to eat on the road, how to dress. Sangy got picked off twice in one game. Robby came into the clubhouse, got a big piece of cardboard and put two sticks through it. He told Sangy to pretend it was a machine that he would use to take control of Sangy when he got on base. We laughed for 20 minutes, but it made Sangy realize he didn’t have to stick his head in his locker if he made a costly mistake in a game, that we were all in this thing together. That’s a valuable lesson and it could’ve saved Sangy a couple of years anxiety because he learned right away that no teammate holds a player completely responsible for losing a game."

"The sad part is Pittsburgh had him so long and never really understood him."

"My thoughts about Roberto are not so much about the ballplayer, but more of the man I respected as a teammate and an opponent for nine years. The quality of his play was directly indicative of his values. He gave all he had every game. He was kind and helpful to all of us younger players. He had a desire to be appreciated and drove himself to higher levels of performance than others. He recognized the need to excel in all phases of the game, and he encouraged everyone to do the same. [...] One real important thing – which probably cost him his life – was that if he thought he was right to do something, he did it with all he had in him regardless of the risks or what anyone else thought. He was a hero on and off the diamond."

"Robby was one of the most decent men I ever met, yet somehow no one seemed to understand him. Maybe there was a language barrier. I don’t know. I do know he was absolutely selfless, not a distant person. When he talked about his physical problems, the writers made jokes, but what he was trying to say was that blacks and Latins play hurt, too. The writers didn’t get that. They said he was a hypochondriac. But I never knew a Pirate player who felt Clemente wouldn’t play with an injury unless it was so severe he simply couldn’t play. It was horrible when writers started coming in the clubhouse saying, "I wonder what’s going to be wrong with him today?" That was unfair – totally unfair. They always seemed to react to his words instead of the thought he was trying to convey – I guess it was easier than getting to know him."

"Roberto rarely took time for himself. His time was for others, his family, strangers. Only time he did something for himself was after the season. He'd go to a farm he owned near the rain forest. He'd just relax. If the Pirates weren't in the World Series, he'd relax on that farm and watch the World Series on television. He once spent the day with Martin Luther King in his other farm in Martín González in Carolina. They talked about everything. Roberto admired how he gave poor people a voice."

"I remember once Clemente called a meeting in the clubhouse. Back then, only the top three or four players on the team were ever offered any money – $300 or $400 – to make any appearances or do any promotions. Now they all participate. Clemente proposed that everybody on the team would share – that all the money would be put in a pot to be divided at the end of the season. All the players and coaches would participate, and so would the trainer and the clubhouse man. Clemente said it wasn’t fair that only a few got the extra money. But we had one player on that team who’d been an All-Star with another team. He said everyone should keep his own money – that it should be every man for himself. And that was the end of that idea. But Clemente always wanted to share. He was always thinking about his teammates."

"He was very leary of the media. He was misquoted a lot of times, and they made fun of the way he spoke. They made him sound like one of those Indians in the movies. He was a proud man and this really got to him. He had fierce pride. He was proud of being a Puerto Rican. He was proud that he served in the military service here. He was proud that he was in the Marine Corps. He trained at in South Carolina. That was the toughest kind of training soldiers had to go through. I remember this one time he was late getting to the dressing room when we were playing in San Francisco. He walks to his locker, and we tell him he better hurry up and get in uniform. He said something about how fast a guy could get dressed – something he had learned in the Marine Corps. He said, ‘I’ll be undressed and dressed in three minutes.’ I bet him he couldn’t do it. And I put the clock on him. That sonofagun was in full uniform in less than three minutes. A lot of times he’d run out onto the field with his pants unbuttoned, or his glove on top of his head as he pulled at his belt. And he’d be hollering, ‘Where’s my glove? Where’s my glove?’ I’m telling you – he was a funny, funny man."

"We became quite friendly, and he even began to ask my advice, informally, on legal matters. The next year, a man Roberto loved very much died in an auto accident and left a large family. Their family lawyer had to leave the case because he was appointed to a government job. He asked me to take over the case. The family was offered $30,000 to settle, which was about the maximum ever paid before in Puerto Rico. Roberto had been financing the family for quite some time, with considerable amounts of money, and if they won the case they could pay him back; if not, he said forget it. I explained to Roberto that $30,000 wasn’t really equal to the economic loss of the person, and in the course of the conversation he displayed such a degree of logic that he even gave me a few pointers that I used in arguing the case! Finally, we settled for $348,000, although the Supreme Court later lowered it to $95,000."

"How many people just shit on him because he was so nice? He couldn’t refuse anybody. He used to rub down some of the players. At first he thought I’d mind, but I’d say, "No, you know more about it than I do!" Which he did. He studied about the spine, the muscles in the back. He was gonna open a clinic, and he told me, "I want you to come down and work for me in the winter time." I’d say, "Bobby, please be careful. There's a lot of people who’ll come to you; you’ll work on ‘em and they’ll claim that you hurt ‘em. There’s a lot of bad people in the world." He would never believe that! He couldn’t believe that anyone would try to deliberately hurt him. He’d kid me, "Aw, don’t worry – you dagos, you’re always suspicious.""

"After it was over, he offered to drive me to the airport. The snow was deep on the roads. I figured it was on his way, so I said okay. I found out later that he was really going to the other side of the city and it was far out of his way."

"He was one of the most dignified human beings I ever met, but he also could be very funny. Last year, we went to have breakfast in San Francisco. There was an elderly black woman in the restaurant who keeps looking at Clemente. Finally she comes over and says, "Mr. Blue, can I have your autograph?" "I’m sorry," he says, "but I’m not ." "Oh!" she says and walks away. Roberto looks at me, shrugs his shoulders and says with a smile, "See? That’s fame and fortune for you." The time I’ll never forget is when we went to a Chinese restaurant in Philadelphia. There were three of us – Roberto Clemente from Puerto Rico, Eddie Acosta of Panama, and me, a Hungarian. A real old Chinese waiter comes over. Roberto says to him, ‘We want sweet and sour pork, duck almond, fried rice, wonton soup – but we don’t want individual servings. We want it all in big dishes so we can serve ourselves." The old Chinese waiter looks at me, a real puzzled look on his face. So there we are – a Panamanian, a Hungaraian, a Puerto Rican, and a Chinaman. Roberto is laughing. He stands up and says real loud: "For Heaven’s sake, doesn’t anyone speak English in this joint?""

"I saw him on the field and I said, "Tommy, why did you tell that story?" He said, "What do you mean?" I said, "One: Clemente didn’t hang out with you. Second: Clemente speaks English. There’s some Puerto Ricans who speak English." No, Clemente did speak English. Cepeda speaks English. Puerto Rico, you know, is part of the United States. So, over there, youngsters do have the privilege of taking English in classrooms. He wouldn’t give a speech like Shakespeare, but he knew how to order breakfast and eggs. He knew how to say, "It’s a good day," "Let’s play," or "Why I don’t play?" He could say, "Let’s go to the movies." I played with guys – like when Sandy got on the Dodgers, he knew maybe twenty words of English. That’s why they roomed with me, because I spoke a little Spanish from playing in Cuba. But that wasn’t the case with Clemente. Clemente was able to communicate with those he wanted to communicate with."

"Everybody knows what kind of player Bobby was, but I’ll miss him most as a man. He was probably the best friend I ever had in this game. On the buses and planes, in the clubhouse, he was a joy to be around, so happy all the time, always looking for something to laugh about. He had something going on with each player. It’s kind of unique in baseball when a person – especially a superstar like him – can get along so well with twenty-five different players. I’ve never heard anybody talk about Clemente being aloof. Any time a guy would be going bad – say, Oliver or Cash – next day you’d see Clemente sitting by his locker, talkin’ to him. Nobody else around – just real quiet talk. Players on other teams used to come to Clemente and ask, "What am I doing wrong?" He’d tell ’em no matter what it cost our club – that guy could beat us a ball game – but none of our players felt bad when he tried to help somebody. That’s the way he was."

"A Los Angeles newspaper reports Roberto Clemente is asking a $60,000 fee from publishers considering his autobiography. The great one is worth every dollar."

"Frank Eck, Associated Press feature sports writer, arrived here this morning to report that he has completed an agreement with Clemente to write a book. "I haven't decided on a title," Eck said. "It could be 'Clemente Speaks Out' or 'Clemente, the Great.'" Whatever the title, the book should make good reading."

"Speaking of books, one news wire service will soon come out with four of them on Roberto Clemente ... Frank Eck, New York Associated Press sportswriter, says he has the only real book on Clemente ... composed of recorded interviews."

"I was reborn in Chicago. In 1971, I hit over .300 for the first time ever. Now I’m a little smarter, and I want to go for it all – I want to be back in that lineup with Billy Williams, who surpassed Roberto Clemente as the greatest hitter in the game."

"It’s sad, but there’s a myth in baseball that certain classes of players are more susceptible to fits of ‘dogging’ than others. This dread ballplayers’ palsy is widely believed to affect blacks more than whites, and Latins more than either. I have never seen anything to substantiate it, but the superstition is present in almost every locker room. For instance, Roberto Clemente did have a very capricious set of vertebral discs. He could play them for you like castanets – and would, on demand. But the grand old game was skeptical. “How can you bat .351 with a bad back?” the dugouts scoff. The point is Hemingway had to write best sellers standing up because of a bad back. John Kennedy had to run the country wearing a corset. But no one believed you could bat .351 with a bad back. Actually, Clemente himself fell into the trap one night when, speaking of Sandy Koufax’s reported sore arm, he asked a reporter irritably, “How can you strike out 15 batters a night with a sore arm?” Said the reporter gently, “Roberto, how can you bat .351 with a sore back?” Roberto got the point."

"You were an island Alone where the three rivers meet A beautiful fury, you moved like a fish Ranging that great, green sea Un boricua You were summer in The solitary skin, the tongue The arm of God The hand of gold Puerto Rico’s son"

", Roberto and myself, the three of us palled around. We went out to eat, we went to the movies together, we laughed and we joked. Oh yeah, he was funny. The three of us, we just laughed all the time. See, we joked amongst ourselves. Some people think because you’re colored, they’ve got the stereotype that we’re like those guys in the old days – always cracking jokes. I’m not a joke cracker. Clemente wasn’t either, but we could say things now and then that were funny and we could ad lib things."

"Kids – he always liked to talk about kids. You know, he was always kind of reluctant to go on an interview show, but once you got him on there, you couldn’t stop him. He’d talk forever – about baseball, about Puerto Rico, and about kids."

"After Roberto passed, I was looking at some documents about Roberto, and I saw him registered as Roberto Enrique Clemente Walker. He never used the name Enrique. I didn't know that was his name. My baby has the same name – Roberto Enrique – as his dad."

"What was incredible about Clemente was not only how skilled he was at each part of the game, but this kind of ferocity that he played with on each play of the game — even in years when they were pitiful and they had no chance to get into the pennant or anything like that. He would throw it in, he would pick guys off who got a single who took too much of a turn going around first; there was just something intense about this guy that was not necessarily what was going on in Baseball at that moment."

"I knew last year the All-Star Game was going to be here. Ever since then, I wanted to be here where he played. He was the greatest. That's why I wear his number, in honor of him. Not because I can be like him but because of an honor for him."

"On a single, Andruw rounded first base and put on the brakes to get back to the bag, but he never lost his balance. I hadn’t seen anybody do it that gracefully since I once saw Roberto Clemente do it against the Phillies in old [[w|Shibe Park}} years ago."

"Well, I'm sort of glad to see Pittsburgh win because that Clemente is so great."