Clemente: The Passion and Grace of Baseball's Last Hero

by David Maraniss

  That characterization was an understatement. To Rivera, the federal regulators were enemy combatants whose sole purpose was to put him out of business. A typical run-in occurred on the Thursday afternoon of April 2, 1970, when he arrived at San Juan International from St. Thomas and parked his DC-3 at its normal spot on the east cargo ramp. Representatives from the Customs Bureau and the FAA were there waiting for him. When Rivera stepped down from the cockpit, inspector Juan L. Villafañe asked to see the papers and manuals of the airplane.

  “You people are always picking on me, and on account of that I’m losing a lot of money,” Rivera snapped, according to later testimony of the customs officer, Abraham Irizarry. Then Rivera padlocked the door to his plane. When Villafañe noted that a copilot was required for this flight and asked where that person was, Rivera said that he was locked inside the plane. After much haggling, the inspectors made their way in and found 224 pieces of luggage, a load that Rivera had carried for Caribair Airlines, but no copilot. Asked to explain the disappearance, Rivera claimed the copilot “escaped through the hatch.” Then, in what the inspectors interpreted as a threat of violence, Rivera said that Villafañe had better watch out if he walked the streets of downtown San Juan.

  The chief of the FAA’s flight standards office in San Juan then was William B. Couric, a University of Miami engineering graduate and veteran fighter pilot who flew combat missions in World War II. Couric was such a stickler that his office nickname was Deputy Dog, in honor of the little cartoon character who insisted on doing everything by the book. The Couric v. Rivera relationship took on a bit of a cartoon nature, with the inspector in constant but often frustrating battle to keep the freewheeling pilot on an acceptable course. Couric had counseled Rivera many times before moving to yank his pilot’s license, urging him to follow the rules, to no avail. During each discussion, Couric later reported, Rivera would “exhibit a temper and raise his voice.” After the emergency order was issued, Rivera simply ignored it, further frustrating Couric. One afternoon Couric confronted Rivera after watching him land his DC-3 at the airport, arriving from what was likely another illegal run. “Why do you continue to fly?” Couric asked. Rivera claimed that he knew nothing about the emergency order. When Couric handed him a copy, Rivera said that he’d worked hard to get his license and would not give it up.

  Rather than reform his desperado ways, Rivera went on the offensive. He shadowed Couric around the airfield, occasionally stopping his car to take pictures, as though he were the one doing the enforcement work. There appeared to be no “rhyme or reason” to Rivera’s behavior, Couric wrote in a memo to his superiors. “His actions appear irrational and maybe require psychological examination.” But Rivera was writing his own memos and letters higher up the chain. He penned what was later described as “a lengthy diatribe” to Alexander P. Butterfield, then FAA administrator in Washington, accusing federal aviation officials of waging a personal campaign to put him out of business. He was just a small businessman trying to follow the American dream, he claimed, while the San Juan investigators were corrupt and taking bribes from his competitors. Aiming even higher, he sent a two-page telegram to President Nixon in which he made the same arguments. There is no evidence that Butterfield or Nixon read Rivera’s rants or acted on them in any way, but something did happen in the aftermath that stunned and disappointed Couric and his crew. An appeals court judge, while ruling that Rivera had violated Federal Aviation Regulation 121.3(f) in not having proper certification for commercial flights, nonetheless reduced his penalty from revocation to a 180-day suspension of his pilot’s license. The court bought Rivera’s argument that the government should not deprive him of his livelihood.

  Couric was soon promoted and transferred to another posting in Miami, but Rivera stayed around to live out his dream, eventually expanding his fleet with the DC-7 he found at Cockroach Corner.

  • • •

  The battle of wills between Arthur Rivera and the San Juan regulators was played out in the context of a tragic accident that had jolted the world of aviation safety at the beginning of the decade. On October 2, 1970, at a time when Rivera was ignoring Couric’s emergency order, two twin-engine Martin 404s left Kansas carrying members of the Wichita State football team to a game against Utah State in Logan, Utah. The first leg of the flight from Wichita to Denver was uneventful. It was a bright fall day, and on the final leg, the pilot of one of the planes decided to give his passengers a better view of the brilliant autumn colors as they crossed the Continental Divide. He flew into a box canyon, not realizing until too late that he was trapped. The next mountain ridge was approaching too soon for the plane to gain enough altitude to pass over it. The pilot banked sharply to try to turn around but the aircraft stalled and crashed into a forested area near the base of Mount Trelease. All but eight of forty people aboard died, and interest in the disaster was inevitably heightened by the fact that so many college athletes were among the thirty-two dead.

  During the investigation, several problems emerged as factors in the crash. The crew had a minimal amount of training on the aircraft, the plane was overloaded, and the pilot made a fatal error by intentionally and unnecessarily flying into a troublesome area. But beyond all that, federal aviation officials came to realize that this case was symptomatic of a larger problem. Air transport companies, especially tramp operators, were using a scheme to get around commercial aviation regulations. In the specific case of Wichita State, the athletic department did not hire a standard airliner for the flight to Utah, but turned to an outfit called Golden Eagle Aviation. In what was known as a “dry lease,” Golden Eagle leased the plane to Wichita State, making the university the operator of the plane. In effect it was a deal where Golden Eagle said my right hand will lease you the airplane, so that you are in charge, and my left hand will provide you pilot services. This was cheaper than chartering a commercial airliner, but it also was irresponsible. Companies using dry leases could claim their flights were not commercial operations, since customers who signed the lease were in effect flying themselves—and this allowed everyone involved to avoid the stricter Federal Aviation Regulations for commercial flights. It was only after the Wichita State tragedy that the FAA became fully aware of how endemic this scheme was, particularly in the South and Caribbean, and felt compelled to try to stop it.

  Usto E. Schulz, the No. 2 official in FAA flight safety in Washington, said the Wichita State crash “was a matter included for discussion with field division chiefs at a national meeting in 1970 and action was directed from headquarters to effect a coordinated and cooperative effort.” Over the next two years, the FAA issued a series of regulatory actions. The final and most comprehensive one was SO 8430.20C, an order drafted by Schulz on September 25, 1972, that came to be known as the Southern Order. The purpose of the order was obvious in the first heading—Subj: Continuous Surveillance of Large and Turbine-Powered Aircraft. It was meant for the Southern region of the FAA, which included Cockroach Corner in Miami and Puerto Rico, and read as though it could have been written with Arthur Rivera in mind.

  A special sixty-day surveillance program, the order noted, had established beyond doubt that “a considerable number of noncertificated operators of large aircraft and turbine-powered aircraft” were hauling passengers and cargo in violation of federal regulations. To stop this practice, the Southern Order called for continuous surveillance of all aircraft that “cannot be readily identified as bona fide air carriers, commercial carriers, travel clubs, air taxis, or executive operators.” In other words, any plane that looked the least bit suspicious. Air traffic controllers were called on to inform Flight Standard District Office inspectors whenever a suspicious plane arrived or departed. Field inspectors were then to see that the pilot was in compliance with commercial regulations, that the plane was airworthy, and that the load was balanced. The most effective investigations would come if the district offices conducted surveillance at odd hours, at nights and weekends. The surveillance was a to
p priority, the order said, second only to accident investigations.

  As it turned out, different districts responded to the order in different ways. San Juan’s Flight Standards District Office interpreted the order loosely, asking local air traffic controllers to advise the inspection staff only of “new or strange” incoming flights, not departures.

  • • •

  After Rivera’s DC-7 was towed back from the drainage ditch, inspectors under Leonard Davis, who had replaced Couric, examined the aircraft. They determined that it had sustained considerable damage: two blown tires, bent blades on the No. 2 and No. 3 propellers, sudden stoppage of the No. 2 and No. 3 engines, broken hydraulic lines on the right landing gear, and damage to the No. 3 engine oil scoop. Rivera enlisted two mechanics, Rafael Delgado-Cintron and Francisco Matias, who were employed by other airlines at San Juan International, to do some repairs. Delgado-Cintron determined that they only had to replace the two tires and one propeller and file the other propeller back into shape. From his examination, there was no sudden stoppage of engines, which could do severe damage, so Rivera would not have to undertake costly engine replacements. Two weeks after the taxiing incident, on December 17, as Delgado-Cintron and Matias were working on the plane under Rivera’s supervision, they encountered FAA inspector Vernon Haynes, who was conducting routine surveillance that day. Haynes suggested to Rivera that it was “high time” for him to replace the engines, noting that they had lived past the lifespan recommended by the manufacturer. But. he did not issue a condition notice requiring that engine repairs be made before the next flight, instead marking “satisfactory” and “no further action required” on the FAA inspection forms. The following week, George Mattern, the flight standards office’s principal maintenance inspector, also met with Rivera and “discussed with him the possibility of changing engines.” This was not mandatory, Mattern said, but made sense.

  Two FAA inspectors also talked to Rivera, in the days leading up to Christmas, about doing a test run before taking the DC-7 on any missions. “The airplane ought to be ready for a test hop,” one inspector said, after seeing the repair work. But Rivera couldn’t do the test hop himself. He still didn’t know how to taxi his own plane, let alone fly it.

  • • •

  As New Year’s Eve approached, the Clementes were consumed by the earthquake relief effort, working from eight in the morning until past midnight. The activity seemed to take on a momentum of its own, propelling them forward, one task after another, all in a blur. When Roberto wasn’t at committee headquarters at Plaza Las Americas, he was traveling around the island, combining baseball clinics for kids with local relief drives. He was on the road when the Super Snoopy left on its second run to Managua, and was even more enraged when he heard that Major Pelligrina and the supplies had been held up again by soldiers at the airport. On the Puerto Rico end, the relief effort was a heartwarming success. They had raised more than $100,000 in cash and checks. Food, clothing, and medical supplies were coming in as quickly as they were going out.

  At nine-thirty on the Saturday morning of December 30, Roberto and Vera were both at the south ramp of San Juan International’s cargo area as the Super Snoopy was being readied for its third flight to Nicaragua. Mountains of boxes were stacked on the tarmac, far more than could be loaded for this trip. And more supplies were on the way. At the east ramp around the corner, Rafael Delgado-Cintron, the mechanic, was working on Arthur Rivera’s DC-7. At about ten o’clock, Delgado-Cintron looked up to see a van approaching with cargo intended for Nicaragua. Apparently, the driver had been directed to the wrong spot to make his delivery, mistaking the DC-7 for the Super Snoopy. Rivera, standing nearby, noticed the van, quickly figured out what was going on, and saw an opportunity. He went to the east ramp, found a group of people standing around, including Roberto Clemente, and told them about the delivery van that had taken a wrong turn. “He came over and introduced himself to us,” Vera Clemente recalled. “He told Roberto that he had a plane, a DC-7, for cargo. He was offering his services to us. He gave us two cards and I kept one and Roberto kept one. His business card was white with red lettering and the name was American Air Express Leasing. Arthur Rivera, president. And then two telephone numbers. He said, ‘I am available any time today, tomorrow, whenever you need me. I am ready.’ Roberto said, ‘What time do you think we can leave?’ Mr. Rivera said, ‘Anytime, whenever you decide.’”

  Rivera then invited the Clementes to come see his plane. They drove over to the south ramp—and there stood the DC-7, freshly painted in silvery white with the orange lightning bolt and orange- and black-tipped propellers. A mechanic dressed in a white uniform stood near the steps. Vera stayed below while Roberto climbed inside. It looked okay to him, for the little that he knew about airplanes. Rivera said it was ready for leasing and that he was in no hurry. He would provide the crew, and they would wait in Nicaragua for as long as it took Clemente to do his business, a day or two or three—all for $4,000. Clemente shook hands on the deal, without signing an official lease. Rivera said he would gather a crew and call Clemente later that day when final flight details were arranged.

  Roberto and Vera went back to the east ramp, saw off the Super Snoopy, then drove across town to the port at Old San Juan, where volunteer longshoremen were loading more earthquake relief aboard the freighter San Expedito, a Panamanian flagship owned by a San Juan packing company. The Clementes were met at the dock by a flock of journalists, including Rosa Sabalones, who took pictures of the scene for the San Juan Star, and Efrain Parrilla, who wrote the story. “Clemente told newsmen before sailing that the ship was carrying 210 tons of clothing and 36 tons of food,” Parrilla wrote, adding:

  The ship is expected to reach the Nicaraguan port of Blue Field by Wednesday, Clemente said, and the country’s National Guard has been advised to provide transportation for the cargo from dockside to Masaya, a town close to Managua.

  Masaya is the closest town to Managua that has a hospital and much of the foreign aid pouring into Nicaragua is being taken there, Clemente said.

  The Nicaraguan government is pressing the survivors of last Saturday’s earthquake to abandon the city in order to avoid the health hazards there and make the work of crews flattening the ruined buildings easier.

  Clemente said the ship carried the fourth load of aid sent from the island since the quake. Three other shipments have been made by chartered plane, he said, and another planeload is planned by the committee.

  The phrase “another planeload” was a reference to the agreement with Arthur Rivera.

  After the news conference at the port, the Clementes drove back to their house in Río Piedras, where Roberto placed a call to the Rauch home in Kutztown. He wanted to make sure that Nevin and Carolyn and her daughters Carol and Sharon were all coming down from Pennsylvania to celebrate New Year’s in Puerto Rico. Carol, who had just finished college at Kutztown State as a Spanish major, answered the phone in the kitchen. Roberto often called her and her mother by the same name, Carolina, the name of his hometown. The conversation drifted between English and Spanish, and though some of what Clemente said seemed confusing, at least concerning who would be where, when, his enthusiasm was typical. They would have a big celebration, he said, in honor of Carolina’s graduation and his three-thousandth hit and the new year of 1973. He would buy a big juicy pig to be roasted. But that would have to wait until he got back from Nicaragua. He was leaving the next day and would return on New Year’s Day. He had to make sure the humanitarian aid was getting to the people. Then, changing his story slightly, he said maybe Carolina should travel to Nicaragua with Vera. They could go shopping. The handicraft clothes in Managua were so beautiful. Wouldn’t that be a great graduation gift? A quick trip, maybe an overnight, and then back the next day. Anyway, it was great they were coming and someone would be at the airport in San Juan to get them. Everything would work out.

  Life always did with the Clementes, even if it seemed so fluid and spontaneous.

>   Back at the airport, Arthur Rivera was scrounging. He had a deal, but no crew. He knew that he couldn’t fly the DC-7 himself, and there were no pilots in San Juan, at least none that he knew of, who could fly it. He had the name of a qualified pilot in Miami, and placed a call to him but couldn’t reach him. A few hours later, a DC-3 happened to arrive from St. Thomas and taxied to a stop near Rivera’s plane. The pilot, Jerry C. Hill, noticed the DC-7 as he was walking from the plane to the cargo lounge and said aloud, “I used to fly one of these.”

  Again, Rivera seized the opportunity. A pilot dropping out of the sky; what a pure stroke of luck. This could be the man to fly Roberto Clemente.

  “Hey,” Rivera said to Hill. “Want a job?”

  15

  December 31

  VERA CLEMENTE STOOD IN THE KITCHEN FIXING LUNCH. It was late Sunday morning, the last day of the year, and the house on the hill was silent. The boys were staying with her mother in Carolina. Roberto was in the bedroom, shades drawn tight, trying to rest before his trip to Nicaragua. Angel Lozano, a member of the relief effort who would accompany Clemente on the mission, had called several times that morning with the same news. He was near the DC-7 at the cargo area and nothing was ready; it would be hours before the plane left. Out the big windows of her kitchen, Vera could look north across the treetops toward the airport on Isla Verde and the Atlantic Ocean beyond. The winter sky hung low and gray; the sea looked green. In the stillness, as she prepared the meal, a song looped around in her mind. It was the “Tragedia de Viernes Santo,” a popular ballad about a DC-4 that crashed into the ocean on Good Friday 1952 after taking off from San Juan on the way to New York.