Clemente! by Kal Wagenheim

Author:Kal Wagenheim
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 1973-01-01T00:00:00+00:00

"C'mon Dago—"

Anthony Joseph “Tony” Bartirome sits atop the trainer's table at the Pirate clubhouse in Bradenton, Florida—the same table where for several springs he massaged away the aches and pains of the good friend he called Bobby. Tony, born in Pittsburgh in 1932, is of medium height and has typically Latin olive-colored skin and slick black hair. He played professional baseball for eleven years, including one summer in the majors as the Pirates’ first baseman, and proudly holds a club record for having hit into the fewest double plays, none, in a full season. He has been the team trainer since 1963, and his uniform is a pair of slacks and a tee shirt.

Everybody knows what kind of ball player Bobby was, but I'll miss him most as a man. He was probably the best friend I ever had in this game.

On the buses and planes, in the clubhouse, he was a joy to be around, so happy all the time, always looking for something to laugh about. He had something going with each player. It's kind of unique in baseball when a person—especially a superstar like him—can get along so well with twenty-five different players. I've never heard anybody talk about Clemente being aloof. Any time a guy would be going bad—say, Oliver or Cash—next day you'd see Clemente sitting by his locker, talkin’ to him. Nobody else around, just reeeel quiet talk. Players on other teams used to come to Clemente and ask, “What am I doin’ wrong?” He'd tell ‘em no matter what it cost out club—that guy could beat us a ball game—but none of our players felt bad when he tried to help somebody. That's the way he was.

We had some real times on the road. We played poker on every plane trip. It was Blass, Giusti, Sanguillen, Davalillo ... and Mateo Alou when he was here. They were all makin’ real good money and as a trainer I'm just an average paid person. Lots of times—I love to play poker—I couldn't afford to play with those guys. Clemente would say, “C'mon, dago, c'mon over here and play."

"No, I can't afford it."

"Here! You play!"

He'd give me money to play with. I had nothing to lose. All I could do was win! He never let me sit out a game.

Money just didn't mean that much to him. In fact, he was very forgetful about it. One time, right here in this clubhouse at Pirate City, he was rushing out onto the field. He was always late. He would always put his glove atop his head, pull his pants up, and then quickly tie his belt, back when we used belts. One day he opened an envelope real fast, glanced at it and says, “Here, hold this check for me!” I just grabbed it, folded it up and put it into my pocket, together with my gauze pads and bandages. Heck, I forgot all about it. A week or so later he comes in and says, “Hey, you got my check?” “What check?” “That check I gave you the other day.

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