Baptists From The United States

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April 10, 2026

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April 10, 2026

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"It has been a foregone conclusion for most of his career that Old Aches and Pains from Puerto Rico, Roberto Clemente, the best player in the game who has never won the Most Valuable Player Award, had to have one foot in Mayo Clinic before he could make a shambles of National League pitching. Moreover, Roberto has to feel he is unloved, unappreciated. Roberto, who plays right field as if he invented it, never won a Gold Glove until the voting was taken out of the hands of the Reporter|writers. That he has never won an MVP is as big a crime as if [[Spencer Tracy had never won an Oscar. But, over the years, Roberto had to get an assist from nature. He had to have a virus, a mysterious tropical disease, trichinosis, his foot cut in a lawn mower. He has such a trick back, he can play it for you like a xylophone. He reported to camp 15 pounds underweight from a bout with malaria (or maybe it was typhoid that year – he’s had both) and he had to take aspirin all year just to win the batting championship (which he's done three times). People just thought he was a hypochondriac – partly because people with a fever of 102 do not normally bat .339. He was the Oscar Levant of baseball, the Sick Man of America. He complained about everything but amnesia. He skipped batting practice because he said hitting made him ‘tired.’ Not as tired as it made the pitchers – or the other outfielders – in the game."

- Roberto Clemente

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"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."

- Roberto Clemente

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"The strongest memories I have of that last summer in Columbus center on the passionate identification I developed with the Pirates’ great rightfielder, Roberto Clemente. Clemente was flirting with a .400 average through the first half of the 1967 season, and getting the kind of national attention that he always craved. I watched him on TV whenever I could, and he was the first performer from whom I derived a satisfaction I would call aesthetic. He was a compact, elegant, laconic presence on the diamond, spare and geometric, with a sprinter’s legs. His fielding and throwing were legendary – even then he was recognized as one of the very best ever at his position. Among his peers, only Willie Mays, from whom he had picked up the famous basket catch when the two of them played winter ball in 1954 for Puerto Rico’s Santurce club, possessed a comparable grace and aplomb in the field. He didn’t have the marvelous Mays liquidity – everything about Clemente was angular and emphatic – but as with Mays, his movements left you with the impression that he lived outside his body and commanded it effortlessly from a great distance. He was a bad-ball hitter – about as far as you could get, in the realms of greatness, from a student of the art like Ted Williams or a street-smart opportunist like – and a fierce, feral protector of the plate. With two strikes on him, he could foul off ball after ball, driving the pitcher crazy, until he got a pitch he could work with."

- Roberto Clemente

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"Roberto Clemente, a villainous Pirate from Puerto Rico, smashed a two-out, bases-loaded home run off rookie in the eighth inning last night to give Pittsburgh a 6-4 victory over San Francisco, and prevent the Giants from regaining third place after they had appeared a “cinch” with only four outs to go. Clemente’s slammer, the first hit by a Pirate this year, will be remembered long by the competing varsities. Going into the eighth, the Giants had what appeared to be a reasonably secure lead at 4-1, and was working on a four-hitter. But pinch-hitter {w|Dick Schofield}} doubled into the left field corner and Sanford, reaching back for just about everything he had left, struck out . When the now arm-weary Giant walked , manager came out and got him. Alvin signaled for LeMay. The first thing Dick did was hit Bob Skinner on the seat of the pants, and the bases were loaded, and 23,177 fans accepted this in mute silence that indicated they sensed impending disaster. LeMay got dangerous to pop out and had a two-two count on Clemente, the National League’s leading hitter, when it happened. Roberto smacked the next cast high and far into the black night, over the 410-foot sign in center-field. Willie Mays scratched his way up the screen in a vain attempt to grab the disappearing pellet that was a couple of feet too high."

- Roberto Clemente

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"The best damn ballplayer in the World Series – maybe in the whole world – is Roberto Clemente and, as far as I’m concerned, they can give him the automobile right now. Maybe some guys hit the ball farther, and some throw it harder, and one or two run faster, although I doubt that, but nobody puts it all together like Roberto. [...] In Game 3, Clemente hit a ground ball to the right side first time up. It was stamped DP. The Orioles got one. In the seventh, Clemente led off with a bouncer back to the box. knocked it down, picked it up, was aghast to see the batter streaking down the line, hurried his throw, high, and Clemente was safe. The next batter walked on four pitches, the next batter hit the ball out of the park. Mike Cuellar’s composure was shattered. The game was over. [...] Roberto Clemente is a 37-year-old roadrunner. He has spent 18 summers of those years playing baseball for the Pittsburgh Pirates. He has batted over .300 thirteen times, and for the last three seasons, in his decrepitude, he has hit .345, .352, .341. But everybody has numbers. Don’t mind the numbers. Just watch how Roberto Clemente runs 90 feet the next time he hits the ball back to the pitcher and ask yourself if you work at your job that way. Every time I see Roberto Clemente play ball, I think of the times I’ve heard about how ‘they’ dog it, and I want to vomit."

- Roberto Clemente

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