To his new fans in Pittsburgh, Roberto was like a jolt of electricity. He could score from first base on a single. He could hit line drives, bunts, towering home runs, sacrifice flies—whatever was needed. Once he even scored an inside-the-park GRAND SLAM!

Playing right field, he had no equal. He was always leaping, diving, crashing, rolling. Once, trying to catch a pop fly, running full speed, he SLAMMED into the right-field wall—and fell to the ground. At last, slowly, he lifted his glove. The ball was inside.

But it wasn’t just how he played. He had style. He was cool. He had this move he did with his neck before each at bat, creaking it one way, then the other.

Soon kids who wanted to be just like Roberto were doing it, too, twisting their necks this way and that.

Roberto did it to ease the pain he felt from playing his heart out in every game.

“If you don’t try as hard as you can,” he said, “you are wasting your life.”

Roberto tried so hard, he helped the last-place Pirates make it all the way to the World Series where they beat the mighty NEW YORK YANKEES!

After the series, down in the streets of Pittsburgh, Roberto walked alone among his fans, who were so busy celebrating, they didn’t even notice him. That didn’t bother Roberto.

He was happy to feel lost in the crowd of a party he had helped create. But there was something that would have made Roberto’s joy a little sweeter. As much as fans loved him, the newspaper writers did not.

When Roberto was in such pain he couldn’t play, they called him “lazy.” They mocked his Spanish accent, and when Roberto got angry, the mainly white newsmen called him a Latino “hothead.”

Roberto swore he would be so good, he would have to get the respect he deserved. He would become the greatest all-around baseball player there ever was.