"Playing baseball, Roberto Clemente conjured a vision of some African prince standing waste-deep in the surf and brandishing a spear at a retreating slave ship. Majestic. Indomitable. Perhaps his loss sounded the first real death knell over the game in this city. Without him, pennant races or no, its excitement has somehow waned. Others make diving catches; he made them one-handed, sliding across the field on his rear end, or at his knees, so self-assuredly that to see him do it a thousand times was to be certain he would not drop even one. Others deftly retrieve baseballs from the outfield walls; he snatched barehanded and flung them back like so many arrows. Others swing hard; he swung as mad suicides leap from cliffs. And all of these things he did effortlessly, no strain to muddy the esthetics of his skills; no caution to soil his craft. In time, most have forgotten his injuries and his battles with the press and the pride that drove him, and even that he died in an airplane trying to help people who needed it desperately. What has been remembered, and will be, is this: For a generation, no one played the game of baseball with more dignity or grace, and that when Roberto Clemente died, the people of an island and a city were truly saddened. A stamp in his honor could not be more fitting. I'd like to be there in that sleepy town tomorrow morning to get the very first one."