Channeling Clemente, two generations down

The first time I saw my father cry, he had just put down the children’s paperback “Roberto Clemente: Young Baseball Hero.” Moments earlier, I had walked into an upstairs room and there he was, book on his lap, in tears. I was 7 or 8 years old. I’ll never forget the sight.

He cried at the way the book ended, the same way Clemente’s life ended: In a tragic plane crash on Dec. 31, 1972, while flying supplies to earthquake victims in Nicaragua.

When I later read the book, I was enthralled at the man Clemente was. I’ll never forget the illustrations of him helping his parents with chores, loading and unloading trucks and throwing any type of ball he could get his hands on. It’s still vivid: Clemente hacking away at sugar canes and hammering nails in the Puerto Rico heat.

What Clemente did on the baseball field was beautiful. His rocket throws from right field, while I am too young to have had seen him, still resonate. Growing up, I’d wake to a photo of Clemente swinging at an off-speed pitch, one he drove to leftcenter field for his 3,000th and final career hit, which came on my dad’s birthday, Sept. 30, 1972.

Off the field, the Hall of Famer did just as much as he did on it. He routinely visited sick children in the cities he visited.

As Puerto Rican poet Enrique Zorrilla wrote, Clemente possessed “the fire of dignity.”

He played, lived and loved with grace. That I must live on.

“Any time you have an opportunity to make a difference in the world and you don’t, then you are wasting your time on Earth,” he once said.

The values that my father and Clemente showed have driven me to find something worth loving to do for the rest of my life. That is to live each day by their core values of work and love.

• This summer, as a PostGazette intern, I continued to channel Clemente. While watching the Pirates at PNC Park, I’d remember the grace with which he lived. It’s why, when I passed Clemente’s statue outside the center field gate, his values were refreshed in my mind.

Walking where Clemente once stood — I’m where Clemente once stood — heightens my sense of being.

The morning my father drove me to Syracuse University for college, I left a note back in my room at home thanking him for 18 years of unconditional love. One of the things I mentioned in the letter was that moment, the moment I saw him cry for the first time.

A few weeks later, he wrote me saying how much the note — and the Clemente cry — meant to him.

“We grew up that ‘men don’t cry,’ ” my dad wrote. “I learned that crying is natural and can be useful. It can be a way of handling a situation and transitioning to a positive thing, growth. In this case it was being able to pass on the story of a great man to my son.”

At around the same time as the cry, my dad taught me another value he and Clemente lived by.

As he said, “Don’t let anybody out-work you,” the power of those six words smacked my 8- or 9-year-old self in the face like a brute gust of wind. The intensity of that moment still airs. The ring of those words still reverberates a decade later.

Never have I been outworked since then. It’s what Clemente did. It’s what my dad did. And it’s what I’ll do.

It’s the reason I donned the venerable jersey No. 21 in Clemente’s honor.

It’s why, when a new student from Venezuela wanted to play on my high school baseball team, I provided him meals, lent him my uniform and helped him study for exams.

It’s why I heat leftovers for 21 seconds in the oven. It’s why, at the gym, I perform 21 push-ups per set. It’s why, when once given the option to stay on a hotel’s 20th, 21st, 22nd or 23rd floor, I didn’t even think, even if it meant sacrificing a nice view.

It’s why I sometimes elect to take the Clemente Bridge to work in the morning, even if it means doubling the length of the commute.

It’s why, when packing for college, a Clemente collectible poster was among the first items ready to go.

It’s why, when in eighth grade, I drew a blueprint of a state-of-the-art baseball stadium I hope to somebody build in his honor. Named “Roberto Clemente Field,” it has a 21-foot high wall, 321foot dimensions in both left and right field and a small monument honoring Clemente in the outfield.

It’s why I began dishing out cash to homeless people in Pittsburgh, with the thought that Clemente would probably do the same.

It’s why I blocked out time to read David Maraniss’ bestseller, “Clemente: The Passion and Grace of Baseball’s Last Hero” as an early teen, a time I could not fully comprehend Maraniss’ eloquence on the page but sure did appreciate Clemente’s story.

And it’s why, as a journalist, I ask: What are the stories that aren’t getting told? While there will not be another Clemente, there are people who channel Clemente in their own ways, many of them so small they’re hardly noticed, if at all.

So perhaps the first time my child sees me cry, it’ll be thanks to Clemente, and the passing to my child the story of a great man.