CAROLINA, Puerto Rico -- Roberto Clemente's dream looks more like a neglected graveyard than a living legacy.

	Herminio Rodriguez, Associated Press Vera Clemente, widow of Roberto Clemente and Luis Roberto Clemente, his son, at Sports City in San Juan. Click photo for larger image.

The rutted, crumbling access road is so hard to find a cab driver had to stop twice to ask for directions to the entrance. Weeds grow knee high around eight ballfields, the mowing equipment either broken or in disrepair, the maintenance staff diminished by cutbacks. The idle batting cages are layered in rust. Bottles, litter and discarded shopping carts rim the fences that define its boundaries.

No, this isn't what Roberto Clemente had flaming in his heart when he fancied a Ciudad Deportiva, a sports city. It was to be a place where the youth of Puerto Rico, regardless of income or gender or social standing, could come to frolic and train and find a respite from poverty, crime, dependency or other societal ills while they hatched their own dreams under the guiding hand of an indefatigable trailblazer.

Clemente had the concept but never drafted a workable plan or committed his considerable energies and clout to make it happen. He wanted to do that when his baseball playing days were over, but he perished on a mission of mercy before any of it could be realized.

It's not that the 304-acre complex has been a failure. The Roberto Clemente Foundation estimates that 300,000 kids have taken part in its varied programs in the past 31 years. Major league players such as Juan Gonzalez, Bernie Williams, Sandy Alomar Jr., Ivan Rodriguez, Benito Santiago, Carlos Baerga and Orlando Merced honed their skills on its ballfields.

"He wanted an ideal. He never mentioned how he was going to pay for it," said his widow, Vera.

This wife of a baseball legend made two promises to herself when the grief lifted from that New Year's Eve day in 1972 when Clemente was lost ferrying food, medicine and essentials to earthquake victims in Nicaragua. She would raise her three sons the way her husband wanted them raised, and she would do everything in her power to make his dream a reality.

"If I died today, I would die happy, not with the facilities, which are not the best, but with the success of the programs," she said from her modest office in the heart of the complex. "What Roberto wanted to do has been done. Thousands and thousands of kids came through here. At least I tried."

There is hope that the dream can be resurrected. The Puerto Rican legislature recently approved legislation that helps in two ways: it transfers 70 additional acres to the complex to allow for expansion and reconfiguration, and it allows for contracts to be let to third parties so new facilities can be built.

A master plan calls for construction of a hotel/dormitory, a 4,000-seat baseball stadium with lights, a golf course and driving range, relocation of the baseball fields, a new gym, an Olympic-size swimming pool, a souvenir and retail shop, a museum, a park for solitude and all kinds of flourishes.

"We had our hands tied for 30 years," Vera Clemente said. "Now his dream can be accomplished. This [legislation] will give us the tools we need to move forward."

Some years back, the family stopped marking the anniversary of death. Instead, they celebrate birth. If fate had been kinder, if that humanitarian mission had succeeded, Roberto Walker Clemente would be turning 70 on Wednesday. He would be doting on his nine grandchildren, perhaps even drawing a pension as the retired governor of his island home.

His place in Pittsburgh sports lore is secure, as a World Series MVP and as a knight atop Everest, doffing his cap at second base after his 3,000th hit. He is immortalized in baseball's Hall of Fame, the first Latin player to be enshrined. Those who followed in his footsteps, like Sammy Sosa, insisted on wearing No. 21 to honor him. Some 70 books, even some in Japanese, have been written about his life. Throughout the United States, countless schools, ballfields, parks and streets carry his name. A coin in Liberia bears his likeness.

"If there was never a Sports City, there would be a Clemente legacy," said Steve Blass, who delivered the eulogy at his memorial service and who was a teammate for nine years. "I never once think about the Pittsburgh Pirates without thinking of Roberto Clemente."

He was unorthodox and unique, from that angular batting stance to the basket catches he perfected tossing a ball off the roof of his family home in the San Juan suburb of Carolina. His arm, the locals say, was a gift from God. He didn't run like a gazelle, he galloped like a thoroughbred digging in at the top of the stretch. He walked naked to the world in terms of his emotions. And he always, always, exuded dignity.

"He was 38 when he died, and he had the body of a 25-year-old," Blass said. "He was a guy who made you want to watch him. People tend to remember him from the two World Series. But he didn't do anything different then. He played that way all the time. It was just a bigger stage. He was head and shoulders above the rest of us."

Tributes were paid to Clemente when the Pirates played the Expos in San Juan in July, and one of the most heartfelt came from Hall of Famer Frank Robinson. Now the manager of the Expos, Robinson was the right fielder with the Orioles in the 1971 Series, and he called Clemente the best to ever carry a glove into right field.

"In the field, he was like Barry Bonds with the bat," Robinson said.

He wasn't bad with the bat either.

"He didn't see any pitch that he didn't like or couldn't hit," Robinson said.

When the Pirates were in Puerto Rico, the board of directors of the Roberto Clemente Foundation met at Sports City. It was clear that some grass was cut and some housekeeping was done because of the company arriving -- Pirates CEO Kevin McClatchy, former National League president Len Coleman, Sharon Robinson of the Jackie Robinson Foundation and Dale Petrosky, president of the Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, among others.

Their task is to make Sports City a fitting monument. That means conducting a nationwide search for a general manager to run the complex, getting the foundation on a solid financial footing, putting the arm on Major League Baseball to help with funding and working through the local politics and red tape.

"Does it look the way it should? No. Does it help a lot of kids? Yes," McClatchy said. "I'm not happy with the way it looks either. But we're not going to quit. It's Roberto's dream. We want to make sure it's properly funded. We're going to get it done. We're getting there. It just takes time. He was the Jackie Robinson of Latin America. That legacy deserves to be honored."

In the beginning, Vera Clemente was given 233 acres of wetlands covered with vegetation and a $25,000 grant from the government. Starting from scratch, she built on a dream. That grant is $784,000 a year now, but it will take millions of dollars more and at least six years of hard work to implement the master plan.

Ten years ago, when the bronze statue of Clemente was dedicated outside Three Rivers Stadium at the 1994 All-Star game, another family member got deeply involved.

Luis Clemente, the oldest son, took over operations at Sports City because he felt it was his place to fulfill his father's dream. Once a critic of the place, Luis is now touting the new legislation as a second chance to move the dream forward.

"For progress to take place, that was the first step," Clemente said. "It needs to be updated to the level he would have done himself. It's too incredible of an asset to forget about. I truly believe in six years it will be a world class complex."