PITTSBURGH — New Year's Eve marked 50 years since a plane carrying Roberto Clemente crashed while delivering earthquake relief supplies to Nicaragua. In those five decades, the iconic Pirates outfielder's legacy has soared to incredible and unimaginable heights.
In many ways, how Clemente is remembered matches how he carried himself as a player and person: flash and flair buttressed by tireless preparation and dedication, Clemente considering it his personal duty to perform for fans and be there for his teammates, whatever the cost.
Yet strip away baseball, and Clemente's legacy is framed by his charity work and selfless care for others. There's an annual MLB award in his honor. The mere mention of his name will cause professional athletes, regardless of sport, to think about leveraging their platform for good. And just think: All of it was started by a man who pursued this sort of thing as a lifestyle, not a way to attract attention.
"Dad was all about opportunities, not just baseball," said Luis Clemente, one of Roberto's three surviving sons. "Sports, art, music, you name it ... whether you were a kid or an adult, he wanted people to follow their dreams and know there were others who cared about them."
The beautiful thing about Clemente, though, is that his legacy is far from dormant.
Whether it's the Roberto Clemente Museum in Lawrenceville, the Pirates wearing the Great One's iconic No. 21 every fall (and also pushing MLB to retire it), or what those closest to Clemente have done to pass down stories of his on- and off-field excellence, it's truly a living, breathing thing.
So, as the 50th anniversary of Clemente's tragic death passes, how does his incredible legacy live on? Let's take a look at a few of the more unique ways.
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Sometimes when he least expects it, the memories will come flooding back for Tom Walker. It's simply been that kind of year, one where he finds his attention randomly drifting toward thoughts of Roberto Clemente.
There was the day after Clemente's death, New Year's Day 1973, when Walker was playing winter ball in Puerto Rico and went for a walk with Manny Sanguillen in a secluded area along the ocean.
Or another trip Walker took in the Condado section of San Juan days later, when cars flew white handkerchiefs out of their windows to commemorate the Puerto Rican legend.
"This whole year has brought back so many thoughts and memories," Walker said. "It doesn't go away."
The most vivid, of course, is the one that has shaped Walker's perspective for decades, along with that of his son, Neil. Tom Walker saw a different side of Clemente while they played winter ball in Puerto Rico together, one with a more relaxed attitude than Clemente was comfortable showing in MLB.
Clemente's playfulness was certainly on display that fateful New Year's Eve, when Walker was helping to load trucks with relief supplies the outfielder had requested through the local media and had accumulated at Hiram Bithorn Stadium.
But as the process concluded, Walker can remember Clemente standing on the runway and telling him in Spanish to leave, to go enjoy his night and celebrate.
"There were no more seats on the plane," Walker recalled. "So he just said, 'Get out of here, go have some fun.' "
Several hours later, after Walker stopped for dinner and returned to his apartment, he was opening the front door when a young girl from across the street approached him.
"She said, 'Tom, did you hear about Roberto?' I said, 'I was just with him, what about him?' " Walker said. "She told me the plane crashed, and there were no survivors. That took my breath away.
"He affected so many lives in Puerto Rico. I never realized to that point how people could affect other peoples' lives in that big of a way. He was able to do that."
The lives Clemente affected obviously were not limited to Puerto Rico. Although he didn't know it at the time, Walker's relationship with Clemente would shape his attitude on so many things over the next several decades.
Reverence for Clemente has literally framed Walker's basement. It's also something father and son routinely thought about whenever Neil would jog out to second base at PNC Park, both Walkers staring at the 21-foot Clemente Wall.
What could have been is pretty much impossible to ignore. Had their been six seats on that plane instead of five, Tom Walker knows he would have died, too.
"That will paint memories in your mind that just don't go away," Walker said. "I think about him often. I think about the whole set of circumstances ..."
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Steve Blass and Walker both remembered sitting next to one another for a memorial service in Carolina, Puerto Rico, a couple days after the crash. As outgoing and downright hilarious as Blass can be, he was terrified with the idea of eulogizing his friend and teammate.
"He turned to me and said, 'I'm scared s---less,'" Walker recalled. "I said, 'I don't know why you're so scared. Most of the people here probably don't speak English, anyway.' "
The humor, as it often has, carried Blass through. He made the speech and really has never stopped, along with many ex-Pirates vowing to carry on Clemente's immense legacy.
"I've got an 800 number," Blass said, joking again. "But, seriously, I've never said no. I made myself a promise to do that."
Blass can't help but smile when talking about Clemente. One of his favorite things actually involves the contradiction of Clemente playing right field and running the bases — "a grace and a gallop," Blass said, sounding like Bob Prince calling for "a bloop and a blast."
His outfield play, which netted a dozen Gold Gloves, was like a symphony. Clemente's violent and hurried baserunning felt like Secretariat, Blass said.
Off the field, Blass remembers Clemente turning down a commercial after the Pirates won the 1971 World Series because his teammates wouldn't be involved. Charity work, meanwhile, wasn't something Clemente did because it helped his image or he liked the attention. It was a lifestyle choice.
"There aren't many like that," Blass said. "Most of us just played ball and drank beer."
Not that Clemente was serious 100% of the time. Far from it, Blass said. In fact, the story that makes him laugh the most involves Clemente and Sanguillen in the training room at the Astrodome in Houston.
Clemente had a giant cardboard box and used a knife and tongue depressors to create two levers — his own makeshift car. It was how Clemente chose to describe Sanguillen's baserunning style, complete with noises whenever the catcher was forced to downshift.
"It was hilarious," Blass said. "He put on a clinic with a cardboard box, a scalpel and two tongue depressors on how Manny Sanguillen ran the bases in the major leagues. If I filmed it, I could sell it on late-night TV.
"If you got him into a relaxed environment, he had a great personality. But publicly, he was contained. That wasn't for everybody."
The running joke between Blass and Clemente stemmed from the original "Mission: Impossible" TV series, where the pitcher had his own elaborate delivery that involved hiding under a training table. Nothing made Blass happier than making Clemente laugh.
Which is why Blass was devastated when he received a call from former Pirates PR man Bill Guilfoile around 4 a.m. New Year's Day, alerting him of the crash. Blass and others spent the morning at Willie Stargell's house, hoping and praying the news wasn't true.
The grieving process was brutal, too, as it continued into spring training and opening day.
"It has never gone away," Blass said. "People ask me about it to this day, and I'll say, 'The shoulders of the city of Pittsburgh slumped that morning.' "
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Phil Dorsey hasn't lived in Pittsburgh for four decades, but his Clemente memories never drift far from his 69-year-old brain. Of course, that sort of thing tends to happen when you grow up with one of MLB's most iconic players as your de facto uncle.
Dorsey called East Liberty home as a kid. On Shakespeare St., near the old Giant Eagle, a stone's throw from Penn Avenue and proof that Dorsey — who lived in New Jersey for 20-plus years and lives in Towson, Md. — never lost his Pittsburgh roots, still using what used to be our own type of GPS.
If you haven't heard it, the Clemente billet family story is a good one — and it actually starts with a link to Bob Friend. Dorsey's dad ("Big Phil") served in the Korean War and was a sergeant in the 339th General Hospital group. He and Friend knew each other through the Army Reserves and would play catch together occasionally at Forbes Field.
With Clemente roughly 20 years old at the time and with little grasp of English, an idea was hatched between Dorsey and Friend as the outfielder stepped onto the field during a game of catch. With basically zero diversity at the time, Clemente would live with Dorsey as a way to get acclimated. It turned out to be so much more than that.
"My dad was his best friend in Pittsburgh," Phil Dorsey said. "We were his local family. He was like a second dad to me growing up. He was always around. He and my dad got along. I remember my dad would take Clemente for haircuts, meals, to the airport and movies."
The time his family spent with Clemente shaped Dorsey in so many ways. He saw the same fiery, strong-willed personalities in his dad and Roberto. Loyalty, too. One of the mental pictures Dorsey holds tightest involves seeing his dad and Clemente, dressed in suits, taking Roberto's Cadillac to a barber shop on Frankstown Road.
"It would be a big hoopla," Dorsey said. "People would take pictures. Roberto would sign autographs. I'd just be watching, being a kid."
There was another time where "Little Phil" and his friends were playing baseball in the street with his dad watching, waiting on Roberto to pick him up to go to the ballpark. That's when a car full of neighborhood kids drove by to mess with a couple girls across the street, and a fairly ugly confrontation ensued.
One grabbed the younger Dorsey by the throat. Big Phil Dorsey came bounding off his porch to break it up. Around that time, Clemente pulled up and also helped to break up the melee, clearly unhappy with what had transpired. Then the cops arrived.
"The police saw that it was Roberto," Dorsey said. "They just started saying, 'Let's take some pictures.' The kids apologized, 'We're sorry, Mr. Dorsey. We're sorry, Mr. Clemente.' It went from being a real tense situation to somebody getting their tail tucked between their legs."
More than anything, during this and countless other occurrences, Dorsey marveled at Clemente's compassion. How he taught those around him to be a leader, to be a friend and put maximum effort into whatever you're doing. "He was very good at being a good person," Dorsey said.
And also excellent at being an uncle, as it turned out.
"He was a major influence in my life. A positive influence," Dorsey said. "You could always have a drunk uncle or something like that, but that's not how it was for me.
"The things Clemente could do while playing ball were nothing short of amazing and innovative. But when I think back to how he lived, the intensity he put into what he was doing and the time spent talking to people and encouraging them ... it's really hard to put into words."
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Manny Sanguillen let out a full-bellied laugh, like only he can, sounding a bit like a cartoon character. He's been thinking about the 1971 World Series, as well, and a conversation he had with Orioles pitcher Jim Palmer.
Palmer was blown away by Clemente's exploits on that particular day — rocket-arm throws, graceful strides around the bases, that sweet swing. As he chatted with Palmer, more than anything, Sanguillen felt blessed.
"I said, 'I see him play every day the same way.' He didn't know what to say," Sanguillen said. "Every day was special with Clemente. [Palmer] said to me, 'Manny, you guys have a good one.'
"When Clemente played, you had to keep your eyes open. You didn't know what he would do."
That took Sanguillen to another pert of the '71 Series, when the catcher said Clemente was hearing it from fans in right field. But instead of getting irritated, he calmly came to the bench and told Sanguillen he needed to teach those ribbing him a lesson.
It was obviously delivered in emphatic fashion. While winning World Series MVP, Clemente hit .414 with 12 hits, five for extra bases, in seven games, becoming the first Spanish-speaking player to take home such honors.
"He was just so relaxed," Sanguillen said in amazement.
Many superstar athletes now might've made a show of that situation, jawing at the crowd or beating their chest. But that's not how former pitcher Dave Giusti knew Clemente. Even now, Giusti marvels at Clemente's ability and desire to remove himself from a situation whenever possible, shifting the spotlight to his teammates.
"He cared for people," Giusti said. "That was very evident with him. He was very close to a lot of the common people. He was a good human being."
As one of Clemente's best friends, Sanguillen said the Great One had an unmistakable way of instilling confidence in those around him while also exuding compassion. It's something Sanguillen thinks Clemente inherited not from his parents but another Pirates legend.
"He played with Willie Stargell for so many years," Sanguillen said. "Those two were superstars, but you never heard anything bad about them. They were special people."
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The image remains seared in Danny Torres' brain. Decades later, it has shaped the biggest endeavor of his professional career and one that's been incredibly well-received by the baseball community: a podcast launched in September 2020 dedicated entirely to Clemente and those attached to his legacy.
Torres' first unforgettable Clemente memory came when he was 6 years old, while playing with a hockey set in the living room of his family's Bronx, N.Y., home. His father entered and told him Clemente has passed away. A few minutes later, after listening to his parents discuss the heartbreaking news, Torres walked to the back room and saw his father crying for the first time.
"It's one of those things where, later in life, you really start to put the pieces together and say, 'My God, here is this man who meant so much to so many people,' " Torres recalled.
An obsessive collector from the time he was a kid, Torres began concentrating on Clemente-related items around 1998. Nothing terribly high-end, mind you — "That's a hobby that will put a dent in your pocket," he joked — but simpler items to acknowledge a player whose flair and compassion toward others has shaped generations.
Now a high school fine arts teacher, Torres likes to compare Clemente to another one of his obsessions: Bruce Lee. They shattered barriers and changed the way people thought about stuff. Torres said half-jokingly he wouldn't be surprised if both were from another planet because "they transcended the lives of so many."
The podcast launched with a terrific first season involving guest appearances from Tony Perez, Dave Cash and one of Roberto's sons, Luis. It has since become the go-to place for Clemente memories, carrying on the Great One's legacy 50 years and counting.
"I still think there's something about this man that maybe we haven't tapped," Torres said, likening Clemente's existence to Martin Luther King Jr. or Malcom X — natural leaders and legendary figures who broke racial or societal boundaries for the betterment of others ... and also died far too young.
"I think of the Bruce Lee quote, 'The key to immortality is first living a life worth remembering,' " Torres said. "Those guys are immortal because of what they did on Earth."
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When it comes to Puerto Rican baseball, Clemente is obviously one of the most prominent figures — arguably the most identifiable with a country and its passion. Not far behind Clemente is a man named Pedrin Zorrilla, whose name adorns a yearly award given out to the most outstanding Puerto Rican player in the major leagues.
Although he did a couple different things in baseball, Zorrilla is best known for being the longtime owner of the Santurce Crabbers, Clemente's winter league team. And it is here, inside this baseball family, that Clemente's incredible legacy also burns bright as ever.
Dr. Enrique Zorrilla, Pedrin's son and a dentist who lives in Guaynabo, Puerto Rico, outside of San Juan, had plenty of stories to share, stuff passed down from when his father signed Clemente to his first pro contract on Oct. 9, 1952. (The reported amount: $40.00).
"My father had a friend, Roberto Marin, who was known as a 'bird dog,' " Dr. Zorrilla said. "They went to a game one weekend in Manati and saw this guy in the outfield who could really hit, throw and run. So they went into the dugout and asked, 'Who is this guy?' Someone said, 'Roberto Clemente.' "
Clemente was obviously a slam-dunk signing for the older Zorrilla, who also discovered and signed Orlando Cepeda, Jose Pagan and Coco Laboy, among others. Santurce boasts a strong Negro Leagues link, too, with players like Josh Gibson, Roy Campanella, Ray Dandridge, Ray Brown, Satchel Paige and Leon Day having spent time there.
Two years after signing with the Crabbers, Clemente actually found himself standing next to Willie Mays in the outfield, an incredible pairing of young talent unbeknownst to most at the time.
"I feel so proud of Roberto Clemente as a Puerto Rican," Dr. Zorrilla said. "I feel even better that I was able to have this relationship with him. And to find out that my father was the one who signed him for professional baseball is really special for us."
In 1969, Dr. Zorrilla remembers Clemente signing his winter ball contract without reading it, trusting whatever Pedrin put in front of him. Although the Crabbers were competitive, going 35-33 under Frank Robinson, they never became truly great. The flashpoint for the younger Zorrilla's favorite Clemente story comes after one particular game in Mayaguez, Puerto Rico.
Dr. Zorrilla was around 13, confident but not yet aware of what he shouldn't say. Pedrin and Enrique took Roberto out to dinner, the older men discussing the team's troubles, when the teenager butted into the conversation.
"[Roberto] said, 'We have to do this and that,' then I just interrupted him and said, 'That's what you're here for. You're the star. You're supposed to take charge of this,'" Enrique said. "I was completely out of bounds. I shouldn't have said that."
When they got back to the hotel that night, Pedrin was furious. Enrique was rattled and started crying. The next day, with the youngster unsure of how to act, Clemente took charge. He informed Robinson that Enrique would stay with him. They'd stretch, throw and chat. Clemente would do everything within his power to make a young boy who meant nothing by his comment feel comfortable.
"He was so conscious that I felt so bad for my comment the night before that he wanted to make me feel good," Dr. Zorrilla said. "We know so much about Clemente the ballplayer, but really, he was just such a great human being."
