Read Online Roberto & Me by Dan Gutman - Free Book Online Page A

The ump called time. Clemente scraped at the dirt in the batter’s box with his toe until he had it just the way he liked it. Finally, when he got into his stance, the pitcher stepped off the rubber. The umpire called time again.

    He was deep in the batter’s box. It didn’t look like he could possibly reach a pitch on the outside corner.
Pittsburgh Pirates
    â€œWhat’s taking them so long?” Sunrise asked me.
    â€œThey’re playing head games,” I told her. “It’s like poker.”
    Clemente positioned himself very deep in the batter’s box, as far back as you could be without crossing the chalk line. It didn’t look like he could possibly reach a pitch on the outside corner, even though his bat appeared to be longer than a regular bat. Also, Clemente’s bat had no knob at the end. It was like one of those old-time bats with a thick handle and large barrel.
    He was not a big man. The catcher and umpirewere both taller than him. He held his hands back and low, near his waist. Stargell took a lead off second base.
    The pitcher finally decided he was ready and looked in for his sign. He delivered the first pitch, and Clemente took it for a called strike. It looked like he had no intention of swinging no matter what. He was checking the timing, trying to figure out the pitcher.
    The two of them fidgeted around some more, and the next pitch came in. It looked high to me, but Clemente liked this one better. I recalled reading somewhere that he was known as a “bad ball hitter.”
    Clemente took his stride forward impossibly early but somehow managed to keep his bat cocked until the last possible instant. His front leg was off the ground as he lunged at the ball. He didn’t have a classically perfect swing like Joe DiMaggio or Ted Williams. It looked like he was throwing the bat at the ball.
    It was a violent, furious swing, and it missed. Clemente spun around and grabbed his batting helmet so it wouldn’t fall off his head. Strike two.
    A few fans on the third-base side began chanting. At first I couldn’t tell what they were saying. Then I figured it out.
    â€œÂ¡Arriba! ¡Arriba! ¡Arriba! ¡Arriba!”
    That was on my Spanish vocab quiz just last week. It literally means “upstairs,” but Señorita Molina told us it could also mean “lifting” or “arising.” They must have been Pirates fans who came all the way fromPittsburgh to see the game. Either that or they were taunting Clemente. He didn’t seem to mind.
    Everybody knows what to do on an 0-2 count. The batter has to protect the plate, swinging at just about anything close so he won’t be called out on strikes. The pitcher will throw a ball out of the strike zone, hoping the batter will swing and miss at a bad pitch for strike three. I didn’t bother explaining any of this to Sunrise. She wouldn’t understand.
    As predicted, the next pitch was outside, at least a few inches. I didn’t think Clemente was going to swing at it; but at the last possible instant, he reached across the plate. It almost looked like his bat ripped the ball right out of the catcher’s mitt.
    When Clemente hit the ball, it made a different sound than when anybody else hit it. It sounded like a rifle shot. I didn’t even see it leave the bat. But I did see the second baseman leap up with his glove fully extended. The ball went over his head, took a hop off the rightfield grass, and skipped all the way to the wall.
    Stargell was sure to score from second, so I kept my eyes on Clemente. He didn’t run like other people. As he broke from the batter’s box, his legs were churning, his knees were pumping high, and his elbows were flailing out in every direction. But even so, he was fast and graceful. He ran like a wild colt.
    As Clemente took the big turn around first, his batting helmet flew off his head. He didn’t slow down. He hit the dirt feetfirst and