El Magnífico

It was the seventh and final game of the 1971 World Series. The scoreboard read 0-0 as the announcer boomed, “Number 21 . . . Roberto Clemente!” The right fielder for the Pittsburgh Pirates stepped up to the plate. His team was expected to lose to the defending champions, the Baltimore Orioles. But Clemente had promised his teammates they would win.

Clemente had beaten tough odds before. As a Black Puerto Rican, Clemente faced discrimination throughout his baseball career. He was ridiculed for his Spanish accent, and his incredible talent was often overlooked. But his pride in himself and in his heritage never wavered. Now Clemente wanted to show the world that he belonged among baseball’s best players.

Clemente took a slow practice swing. Then he raised his wooden bat over his shoulder and waited. The pitcher wound up. The sold-out crowd held its breath.

An instant later, the ball whizzed through the air.

Clemente was born on August 18, 1934, on the Caribbean island of Puerto Rico. He grew up the youngest of seven children in what was then a small farming town called Carolina. His parents worked hard. His father, Melchor, was employed as a foreman in the sugarcane fields, and his mother, Luisa, sold meals to the workers there and did laundry for neighbors.

Young Roberto helped out by selling water in the fields. But when he wasn’t helping his family, he spent most of his time doing the one thing he loved more than anything: playing baseball.

Baseball was wildly popular in Puerto Rico, and Clemente played every chance he got. Each day after school—and sometimes all day on weekends—he and his friends and siblings would get together to play. There wasn’t money for equipment, so they made their own. They carved bats from the branches of guava trees and sewed gloves from coffee sacks. They made baseballs from old socks and string, or sometimes they simply hit tin cans.

Clemente watched a lot of baseball too. His father would give him 25 cents for a ticket and bus fare to see the San Juan Senadores, Clemente’s favorite team in Puerto Rico’s professional baseball league. Clemente dreamed of joining the league himself.

It wasn’t long before that dream came true. By the time he was in high school, Clemente could throw faster and hit better than many adult players. In 1952, when he was just 18 years old, a professional team in Puerto Rico signed him.

Soon after that, Major League Baseball came calling.

In 1955, Clemente joined the Pittsburgh Pirates. This was a significant achievement in Clemente’s career. But he arrived on the mainland during a shameful time in American history. Laws in the Southern United States, where the Pirates trained, enforced segregation in public places. That meant Black players couldn’t stay at the same hotels or eat at the same restaurants as their White teammates.

Before joining the Pirates, Clemente had never experienced segregation. He was shocked to learn that Black players had to wait on the team bus while White players dined out. After Clemente spoke up, the Pirates provided a car so Black players could drive to places that would serve them. “If I’m good enough to play here, I have to be good enough to be treated like the rest of the players,” he said.

As a Black Puerto Rican, Clemente felt like an outsider. He was one of only a few Latino players on the Pirates. When Clemente spoke English, reporters made fun of his accent. They mispronounced his name or called him “Bob” or “Bobby,” which Clemente found insulting.

Playing baseball became his only joy. Clemente made impossible catches and lightning-fast throws. He ran the bases so quickly that even a short hit could lead to a score. Most of all, he played with dignity.

“When I put on my uniform, I feel I am the proudest man on Earth,” he once said.

In 1960, the Pirates won the World Series for the first time in more than 30 years. Clemente had a hit in each game and made key throws throughout the series. As he left the stadium, someone yelled, “There’s Clemente!” and cheering fans rushed to surround him.

Clemente had won over the people of Pittsburgh. It would take much longer for the press to accept him.

The 1960 season was Clemente’s best up to that point. His batting average was higher than it had ever been, and his defensive play was outstanding. He made the National League All-Star team for the first time.

Clemente hoped to be named his league’s Most Valuable Player, an award voted on by sportswriters. Instead, he was ranked eighth. Clemente was deeply hurt. He felt the writers had not voted for him because of his race and imperfect English. It was said he never wore his World Series ring again.

Throughout his career, Clemente and the press struggled to understand each other. There was a language gap, for one thing. Reporters’ racial bias and ignorance of Puerto Rican culture were also to blame. And then there was the fact that Clemente spoke candidly. At the time, writers were not accustomed to players discussing injuries or fatigue. When they asked Clemente how he felt, he told them the truth. If he was tired or his back was hurting, he said so. Reporters turned that honesty against him, writing that he was lazy or that he complained too much.

“The farther away you writers stay, the better I like it,” Clemente once said. “You know why? Because you’re trying to create a bad image of me . . . you do it because I’m Black and Puerto Rican, but I’m proud to be Puerto Rican.”

Clemente channeled his anger into his performance. Over the next several years, his skills got even better and he began racking up awards. During interviews, he continued talking about racial injustice. Slowly, the world started to catch up with him.

In 1971, Clemente led the Pirates back to the World Series—and this time, many Black and Latino players were part of the team. In the final game, with the score tied 0-0 in the fourth inning, Clemente stood at the plate as the ball flew toward him.

Crack! Clemente sent the ball soaring across the field and into the stands. The crowd erupted in cheers as the announcer exclaimed, “A Clemente home run!”

The home run rallied the team. The Pirates beat the Orioles 2-1, winning the World Series.

 Immediately after the game, Clemente was named the World Series Most Valuable Player. TV reporters interviewed him in the locker room, and he seized the chance to address the world in Spanish. “Before I say anything in English,” he began, “I would like to say something for my mother and father in Spanish.

“En el día más grande de mi vida, para los nenes la bendición mía, y que mis padres me den la bendición en Puerto Rico,” he said. (“On the greatest day of my life, to my children [I give] my blessing, and [I ask] that my parents in Puerto Rico give me their blessing.”)

It was the first time anyone had spoken Spanish during an MLB broadcast on live television. And it touched Spanish speakers around the world.

A year later, Clemente reached a rare milestone: his 3,000th hit. After 18 seasons with the Pirates, he began to imagine life after baseball.

Clemente planned to devote himself to helping others. Already, he gave free baseball lessons to kids in Puerto Rico and mentored new players in the MLB who had come over from the Caribbean. Now he hoped to build a sports complex on his home island to train young athletes. “Any time you have an opportunity to make a difference in this world and you don’t, then you are wasting your time on this Earth,” Clemente once said.

In December 1972, Clemente had just returned to Puerto Rico from Nicaragua when a massive earthquake struck Nicaragua. Thousands died, and many more were left homeless. Clemente sprang into action, sending food and medicine. But when he heard that not all the relief was reaching the people who needed it, he decided to go to Nicaragua himself.

On New Year’s Eve, he boarded a flight so that he could personally deliver supplies. But after takeoff, one of the engines failed. The plane plunged into the Atlantic Ocean.

At just 38 years old, Clemente was gone.

People mourned Clemente as a hero—both on and off the field. And less than three months after his death, Clemente became the first Latino player elected to baseball’s Hall of Fame.

But that was not the end of his story. Clemente’s wife, Vera, and their three sons carried on the mission of giving free baseball training to kids in Puerto Rico. Hundreds of schools, hospitals, and parks were named for Clemente. In his honor, Major League Baseball created a special award to celebrate players who give back to their communities.

Today, Latinos make up more than 20 percent of players in the major leagues. Last year, Puerto Rican players wore Clemente’s number, 21, on Roberto Clemente Day as a tribute to the man who led the way. “He represented all of us,” said Francisco Lindor, who plays for the New York Mets. “And now it’s our turn to represent him.”

Only one baseball player’s number has ever been retired across all 30 teams in Major League Baseball. That player is Jackie Robinson.

The MLB retired Robinson’s number on April 15, 1997, 50 years after Robinson became the first Black man to play Major League Baseball. That means no other baseball player will ever be assigned to wear No. 42.

Today, many believe another player deserves the same honor: Roberto Clemente.

It is rare for a number to be retired across an entire league. Typically, an individual team will retire a number as a way to honor a player, usually after that player retires or passes away.

The Pirates retired Clemente’s number in 1973. But in a 2017 poll conducted by ESPN, nearly 75 percent of respondents said No. 21 should be retired across all Major League Baseball.

So why hasn’t it been?

Clemente is no doubt one of baseball’s greats. He was a 15-time All-Star, a 12-time Golden Glove Award winner, and the first Latino player to be inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame. Off the field, Clemente achieved just as much. He spoke out against racism and advocated for civil rights. He loved supporting others, especially young Puerto Rican ballplayers. He was a devoted humanitarian.

In 2016, MLB commissioner Rob Manfred made a statement on an ESPN radio show. He said that he believed players should be honored in unique ways, and that the MLB honors Clemente by giving out the prestigious Roberto Clemente Award each year.

But some think that isn’t enough. In fact, most Puerto Rican players already refuse 21 as their uniform number out of respect. For the past five seasons, no Puerto Rican MLB player has had that number.

“We recognize what he’s done, and we know that the number should be retired,” Ricky Bones, a former major league pitcher and coach from Puerto Rico, said in a 2019 New York Times interview. “In our hearts, it’s retired.”

Whatever the fate of No. 21, one thing is certain: Clemente was an extraordinary player and human being. And the many players and fans who know his story will never forget that.

^{This article was originally published in the October 2021 issue.}