“Baseball is poetry in motion.” This phrase, one I use a lot, though it might elicit an arched eyebrow from those unfamiliar with the nuances of either pursuit, perfectly encapsulates the grace with which Clemente played the game. His elegant movements in right field, his powerful swing glorified in stanzas, and his laser-like throws from the outfield demonstrated an athletic artistry that few players have matched.
By Sarah Fleming Steinberg
A mural of Roberto Clemente adorns the ivy-covered brick walls outside the Clemente Museum in Pittsburgh. The front door, painted red, pays homage to its former occupants, a fire department in the once-working class Lawrenceville neighborhood. As I step inside, the first image to greet me is a towering photograph of the great Pittsburgh Pirate Clemente, presumably reaching out to catch a ball, glove open, head tilted toward the heavens. Two clouds behind him form the shape of angel wings.
In this former firehouse known as Engine House 25, Duane Rieder preserves the legacy of one of baseball’s most beloved figures. Rieder moves through the museum with a curator’s curiosity, though he never sought such a role. He is, first and foremost, a photographer, with a studio on the third floor, as well as a vintner of wine, barrels of which are stacked like sacred artifacts in what was once the firehouse basement. Here, the parallel narratives of Rieder’s life—image-making and fermentation—have merged with a third: the stewardship of memory.
“People don’t realize that Lou Gehrig used to stay here,” Rieder tells me on a previous tour, gesturing toward what once would have been sleeping quarters. “When the Yankees came to town, he’d bunk with a firefighter friend.” Baseball’s history of tragic heroes finds an unlikely convergence point in this repurposed municipal building.
Pittsburgh itself seems to embrace this fusion of past and present. The city, once defined by steel mills and smoke-filled skies, has reinvented itself while preserving the essence of its industrial past. Neighborhoods like Lawrenceville and the Strip District, of which the museum straddles, blends old brick buildings with new businesses, much like Rieder’s museum blends baseball history with photography and winemaking. The three rivers—the Allegheny, Monongahela, and Ohio— converge at Pittsburgh’s Point Park, each brining their own identity and history of resilience and transformation, much like Clemente’s own story.
Rieder has become the unofficial curator of not just Clemente’s memorabilia but of stories, emotions, and artistic expressions inspired by a man many call “The Great One.” However, Rieder himself does not subscribe to that nickname. “That wasn’t actually his nickname,” he says, with the gentle correction of someone who has had to make this point repeatedly. “The real ones know his actual nickname was ‘Momen.’ Whenever Puerto Ricans come to our museum, they call him Momen.”
Poet Tom Clark captured the grief that followed Clemente’s death in a poem titled “The Great One”:
So long Roberto Clemente
you have joined the immortals
who’ve been bodysnatched
by the Bermuda Triangle
When your plane went down
it forced tears out of grown men
all over the hemisphere
Al Oliver and
even Willie Stargell cried
According to Rieder, people have sent him thousands of poems about Roberto Clemente over the years, since the museum’s opening in 2007. They arrive in letters, in emails, in troves. This outpouring testifies to how deeply the Puerto Rican right fielder touched the hearts of fans across generations.
A professor at Carnegie Mellon University brought my attention to a poem titled “Who Am I?”—attributed to Clemente himself—reads:
Despite never having seen an original poem confirmed to be written by Clemente himself, Rieder believes that the baseball icon’s words naturally lend themselves to poetry. “God put me on this earth to play baseball,” Clemente once said—a simple declaration carrying the profound weight of purpose and destiny.
When shown this poem potentially written by Clemente that appeared in the Pittsburgh Tribune on March 14, 2002, Rieder acknowledges that, while difficult to verify, it certainly embodies Clemente’s voice. We stand surrounded by images of Roberto, the number 21 on every other wine bottle. In the museum above there is a wall of photographs—Clemente sliding into base, Clemente with his wife Vera, Clemente in a dark suit with his World Series ring prominently displayed. In each, he appears both imposing and gentle, like a lion napping in the shade.
Perhaps most revealing was a 1975 interview— which Duane thinks is the only one where Clemente truly opened up about his post-baseball aspirations. Despite societal suggestions that he become governor of Puerto Rico or manager of the Pirates, Clemente modestly expressed his desire to take on simpler work, perhaps even as a janitor. The humility in these words speaks volumes about a man whose athletic prowess could have easily fed an outsized ego.
Rieder believes there are more paintings and poems about Roberto Clemente in America than any other sports figure—even more than Jackie Robinson. This artistic outpouring stems from an intersection of timing and destiny: The way fans fell in love with him after the 1971 World Series and Clemente’s tragic death on a humanitarian mission to Nicaragua a year later in 1972. Rieder notes, “People really fell in love with him after the stellar performance in the 1971 World Series.” Ed Simon writes of the victory in 1971 in An Alternative History of Pittsburgh, “Mazeroski worked a miracle, but Pittsburgh’s Christ was the rightfielder Clemente.” Christ, of course, is similarly a muse for many but without a jersey number.
The number 21 has become something of a talisman for Rieder. Museum tickets cost $21, and the stone walls measure exactly 21 feet. “It is my life,” Rieder says, noting that he sees the number everywhere—a magical reminder of Clemente’s enduring presence. I interviewed Rieder on the 21st day of the month and that in itself felt poetic.
“Baseball is poetry in motion.” This phrase, one I use a lot, though it might elicit an arched eyebrow from those unfamiliar with the nuances of either pursuit, perfectly encapsulates the grace with which Clemente played the game. His elegant movements in right field, his powerful swing glorified in stanzas, and his laser-like throws from the outfield demonstrated an athletic artistry that few players have matched.
While Williams chose not to tip his cap to the Fenway crowd in his final at-bat, Clemente was quite the opposite—his life was a letter, an ongoing conversation with his fans, his people, and his mission beyond the game.
Billy Beane once famously asked, “How can you not be romantic about baseball?” Clemente embodied that romance, bringing a fluid grace and passion to the game that inspired both fans and artists alike.
Among the many poetic tributes to Clemente, Juan A. Pérez’s “The Game’s True Leaders” stands out:
He played the game
of childhood dreams
with humble grace
of mountain streams.
He learned so early
through his time
the selfless purpose
of his life.
Even now, decades after his death on New Year’s Eve at the age of thirty-eight, Roberto Clemente’s influence remains strong. While fans embraced “The Great One” as his nickname, the man they call “Momen” in his native Puerto Rico continues to spark inspiration through both his athletic prowess and his selfless spirit across generations, across the globe, but especially in Western Pennsylvania.
Pittsburgh has long been a city of poets, writers, and artists. From August Wilson’s plays to the works of poet Terrance Hayes, the city has fostered a vibrant literary scene. Clemente’s legacy has found a natural home in this community of storytellers. Figures like Gerald Stern and Jack Gilbert, find in Clemente a perfect subject, a muse —a man whose physical prowess was matched only by his moral courage. In the Oakland neighborhood, where the University of Pittsburgh’s Cathedral of Learning towers over the city like poetry workshops often cite Clemente as an example of how to infuse everyday actions with grace and significance.
Each year, the city hosts poetry readings, workshops, and spoken word events that often incorporate themes of social justice, cultural identity, and history—topics deeply intertwined with Clemente’s story. Writers see Clemente as more than a baseball player; he is a symbol of resilience, an emblem of Puerto Rican pride, and an eternal humanitarian.
The City of Bridges, as Pittsburgh is sometimes called, provides an apt metaphor for Clemente’s role: he was a bridge between cultures, between baseball and philanthropic efforts, between athletic excellence and moral courage. The 446 bridges, one of which is named after him, that span Pittsburgh’s valleys and rivers echo Clemente’s ability to connect disparate worlds.
As I prepare to leave, I look out at the many celebrity barrels that surround us. Rieder’s favorite might be Eddie Vedder’s. The Pearl Jam frontman, inspired by Clemente’s altruistic legacy, has forged his own connection to the museum. It’s another unexpected thread in the tapestry of influence that continues to grow, even as the man himself recedes further into history.
The city that once produced steel now produces culture, a transformation that would not surprise Clemente, who understood that true strength comes from versatility, from the ability to adapt without losing one’s core values. Major League Baseball hopes Roberto’s continues to grow as each year they honor Clemente’s legacy every September with Roberto Clemente Day, a celebration of his charitable work and contributions to the game. On this day, players who best embody his spirit are nominated for the prestigious Roberto Clemente Award, which recognizes their charitable efforts off the field.
Outside, the Pittsburgh sky is the same blue as the Puerto Rican waters. The ivy on the museum wall is dormant, perpetually waiting for spring, for the season when baseball returns and brings with it all its poetry and possibility—a cycle of renewal that mirrors both the city’s industrial-to-cultural transformation and the way Clemente’s legacy continues to inspire new generations. A visitor walks up to the red door, pauses to look at the mural, then steps inside. The conversation continues, the poem without end, flowing like the three rivers that define this city of bridges, this city of steel, this city of words.
Sarah Fleming Steinberg is a Pittsburgh-based writer, project manager, and sports specialist currently pursuing an MA in Professional Writing at Carnegie Mellon University. A former baseball operations professional with the Houston Astros and Pittsburgh Pirates, she now interns at the Clemente Museum and contributes as a writer and editor for Kitchen Sink Sports. Originally from Albuquerque, she lives with her partner, Conor, and their rescue dog, Penny. When she’s not analyzing baseball stats, she’s likely solving crosswords and sipping tea.
