How an icon’s death quieted New Year’s Eve
It stands as the most excruciating New Year’s Eve/Day of my life.
Not because of anything I did that Sunday/Monday, but because of my proximity to a tragic accident with massive repercussions.
On Dec. 31, 1972, I was a 27-year-old bachelor on vacation in a tropical paradise, San Juan, Puerto Rico.
On Sunday evening, New Year’s Eve, I sat in a nightspot in the Condado district with a couple of buddies, welcoming in the New Year. There were many locals in the club, and boisterous good cheer was evident all around. The evening was young, and people were having fun.
Then, suddenly, everything became quiet. Only whispers and murmurs could be heard.
The bartender turned up the volume on the television behind him, and all eyes were drawn to it. It was a “breaking news” situation, and the journalist was reporting in Spanish.
We soon heard screams and shouts. It was chaos. Some began to weep uncontrollably.
The broadcaster announced that Puerto Rican-born Major League Baseball star Roberto Clemente was presumed killed only moments earlier in a plane crash. The crash took place a few miles from where I was seated.
Being a baseball fan, I understood the significance. Clemente was an icon.
The four-engine, DC-7 he was aboard went into the ocean at 9:23 p.m., shortly after taking off from San Juan. Moments after takeoff, the tower received a message that the plane was turning back.
It didn’t make it.
The wreckage was found in 100 feet of water a day or two later.
I’d flown into that airport several days earlier.
Clemente, who died at 38, was Major League Baseball’s first great Latin superstar. Many consider him the greatest sports hero in Puerto Rican history.
Clemente played 18 seasons with the Pittsburgh Pirates. The slugging right fielder was a perennial All-Star and Gold Glove recipient. He earned a .317 lifetime batting average, won four National League batting titles and was named MVP in 1966.
He was the most valuable player of the 1971 World Series. Clemente played in 15 All-Star Games and was the 11th player in history to reach 3,000 hits.
He was the first Latino inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame.
Considered the Latin Jackie Robinson, Clemente was also an acknowledged humanitarian. Clemente died while flying relief supplies to earthquake-devastated Managua, Nicaragua. He was the leader of a Puerto Rican aid effort.
His dangerously overloaded plane went down in heavy seas a mile and a half from shore.
A pall settled over the New Year’s Eve revelers in the club where I sat with my buddies. People wept, collapsed into chairs and hugged. Clemente was presumed dead but the wreckage hadn’t yet been located. He was greatly loved on the island.
In shock, many headed for the exits.
My friends and I remained for an hour or so as the screen showed pictures of Clemente in uniform, interviews with players and fans and updated reports on rescue efforts.
Puerto Rican Gov. Louis A. Ferre decreed three days of mourning.
Sometime before midnight, my two friends and I went back to our hotel. We were no longer in a celebratory mood.
On New Year’s Day, the city was quiet. I took a morning walk through eerily silent neighborhoods. I had lunch and returned to my room for the rest of the day. I called my girlfriend and future wife, Hedy, in California. I was ready to chuck it and come home, but changing airline tickets proved problematic.
I watched the Rose Bowl, which came on at sunset San Juan time, in my hotel room. USC pummeled Ohio State in the 59th renewal of the classic, 42-17. But my world was somber.
The following year, Hedy and I went to the Rose Bowl together, in person.
New Year’s Eve 1972 still haunts me. Baseball — and the world — lost a remarkable human being.
---
JIM CARNETT, who lives in Costa Mesa, worked for Orange Coast College for 37 years.