Another Side of Roberto Clemente

There was another side to Roberto “Bobby” Clemente — as most NL players called him in the 1960s — that the press and public never saw: Clemente was one of the most entertaining jokesters and story tellers in the clubhouse.

“He was the funniest man I every saw in there,” Tony Bartirome, the longtime trainer, told me as we sat in the bleachers at the old spring ballpark in Bradenton. “But he was that way only among the players. As soon as the writers came in, he clammed up. They never saw it.

“He had a knack of getting the team up, if they were in a slump, by making everybody relax and feel good. You always found him at the center of the noise and life and laughter.”

Bill Virdon, Clemente’s last manager in 1972, agreed. “You got him going on a plane or bus telling jokes and stories and he had everybody in stitches.”

Clemente was proud of the six months he spent in the Marine reserves. All somebody had to do was ask him about it and he would go into an hour-long act describing the experience down to the last detail.

One of his favorite stories involved the practical joke they played on the team doctor. There was a life-size wax statue of Clemente in the Pirates’ front office. One day Bartirome carried it into the clubhouse.

“I took it into an empty room adjacent to the clubhouse,” the trainer recalled. “lt was dark and shadowy and very cold in there. The only light in the room came from a nearby bathroom. I laid it on a platform and covered it to the chin with a blanket while the players watched. Then I called the doctor and told him, ‘Bobby’s real sick. Doc. you better come and do something. We put him in the side room in case the writers came in.’”

The doctor came and touched the statues hand; it was cold as ice. Concerned, he put his ear to the chest. Failing to detect a heartbeat, he cried, “My God, he’s dead!”

The players crowding the doorway erupted with laughter that gave away the prank.

“Every time I told that story,” Bartirome said, “Bobby would stand there listening and beaming.”

In addition to his sense of humor, Clemente was known among his players as a kind and considerate person. He went out of his way to speak to the wives and children of employees at the ballpark whenever he saw them. His kindness extended to players on other teams. One snowy winter night he and Richie Ashburn shared the spotlight at a banquet.

“After it was over he offered to drive me to the airport,” Ashburn recalled. “The snow was deep on the roads. I figured it was on his way, so I said okay. I found out later that he was really going to the other side of the city and it was far out of his way.”

Public appearances often netted star players $500 or more in those days; the ‘other’ guys on the team seldom got invited. One day Clemente called a team meeting. He proposed that all speaking fees be pooled and divided up among all the players at the end of the year. But he could not get a unanimous agreement. After that, he agreed to appear only if a lesser-known player was also invited, and the two of them would split the fees.

Television commercials offered big paychecks to stars. Once, Clemente agreed to appear on one in which other players also appeared in the background at much lower fees. When he discovered how much less they were being paid, he demanded that all the players be paid the same as he was getting. The sponsor refused; Clemente turned down the job.