It was starting to seem as if Roberto might never be respected in the big world outside of Pittsburgh and Puerto Rico. And then something happened.

The year was 1971. The Pirates were in the World Series again, playing against the Baltimore Orioles, who were favored to win.

All around America and Puerto Rico, people sat watching on TV as Roberto put on a one-man show. Stealing bases, hitting home runs, playing right field with a fire most fans had never seen before.

Finally, finally, it could not be denied: Roberto was the greatest all-around baseball player of his time, maybe of all time.

The very next year, he did something that few have ever done: During the last game of the season, Roberto walked to the plate, creaked his neck, dug in his stance, stuck his chin toward the pitcher, and walloped a line drive off the center-field wall—his three thousandth hit!

The crowd cheered, and they wouldn’t stop cheering. For many minutes the players stopped playing and Roberto stood on second base, amazed. How far he had come.

And yet, when the season was over, the hero returned to the place where his story began, to the land of muddy fields and soup cans and bottle caps, to his homeland of Puerto Rico, where he was worshipped.

But did he sit around and polish his trophies? No. That rainy New Year’s Eve, Roberto sat in the San Juan airport and waited for mechanics to fix the tired old airplane that would take him to Central America.