There had been a terrible earthquake, and he wanted to help the victims. The plane would carry food and supplies that Roberto had paid for.

Right before midnight, he boarded. The rain was really coming down. One of the propellers buzzed loudly. As the plane took off, the engines failed and the plane fell into the ocean. Just like that, it was over. Roberto was gone. How could his story end this way, so suddenly, and with such sadness? The story doesn’t end here.

When someone like Roberto dies, his spirit lives on in the hearts of all he touched.

And Roberto’s spirit is still growing. It grows in the bats and gloves and arms and legs of all the Latino baseball players who have flooded into the major leagues.

His spirit grows in the charities he started for poor people in Puerto Rico.

And his spirit is still growing in Pittsburgh, where people who saw him play tell their children and grandchildren of how he used to sparkle—running, diving, firing game-saving throws from deep right field all the way to home plate—SMACK—right into the catcher’s glove.