Every time New Year's Day appears on the horizon, most people think about college bowl games, the Mummers Parade, New Year's resolutions, and getting home from office parties in one piece by dexterously avoiding drunk drivers.

But my first thoughts automatically shift to another New Year's Day in 1973. 

On that day, the most exciting baseball player I have ever seen, Roberto Clemente, was killed in a plane crash in inclement weather as he was delivering food and medical supplies to the victims of a catastrophic earthquake in Nicaragua. 

Clemente had invariably been involved in charitable projects during the off-season, and the crash was front-page banner news all over North America. 

A native of Puerto Rico, Clemente – who has a middle school named for him at 122 W. Erie Ave. in Philly's Tioga neighborhood – hit with the fury of a hungry lion about to pounce on a lamb. He won Most Valuable Player awards, is in the Baseball Hall of Fame and is generally regarded as the best right fielder in baseball history. 

Among other things he was known for, Clemente was probably the best “bad ball hitter” in major league history. He would probably swing at a pitch that was thrown in a different state. It was about as easy to walk Clemente as it is to waltz with an alligator. 

In 1970, when I was a reporter with The Philadelphia Tribune, I had a chance to interview Clemente, who played his entire 18-year career with the Pittsburgh Pirates.

I never saw a healthier human specimen. His muscles could have been carved out of a mountain. You could probably strike a match on his stomach, or use his forearms to drive nails into a wall. He looked like he wasn't born, but mined. 

What was almost laughable, however, and was often mentioned by sportswriters, was that despite his apparent physical perfection, Clemente constantly complained about a litany of ailments that no one, including the Pirates' team trainer, could confirm.

At first, I thought he was kidding when he began describing all of his alleged ailments, so he took off his shirt and commanded me to put my ear to his back. Then he flexed his vertebrae like an accordion and exclaimed, “See, I am a man playing right field with a broken back!”

That evening, Clemente went four-for-five against the Phillies, with two stolen bases, a great diving catch of a line drive and a cannon throw to second base that cut down Phils' catcher Clay Dalrymple, who was trying to stretch a single into a double.

If you believed Clemente, you'd believe he could get yellow fever at the North Pole. The only problem was that the sicker he said he got, the worse National League pitchers felt. If he could have bottled those ailments, baseball players all over the country would have lined up to buy some.

Clemente reminded me of all those kids in school we loved to hate, the ones who insisted they were going to flunk all their exams but instead wound up getting all As. 

And yet, for all of his hypochondria, Roberto was a kind and generous man. I remember him telling me that as far as he was concerned, "Any time you have an opportunity to make a difference in this world and you don't, then you are wasting your time on earth."  

And those were the days before free agency when the average major league baseball player made about as much as the average high school teacher. 

Clemente's average salary during his career was about $40,000. Bryce Harper makes five times more than that for each game.

Yet, Clemente was always giving money to charities and visiting children in hospital cancer wards, even when no cameras were around.

Another thing I always respected about Clemente was that there was never a hint of boys-will-be-boys behavior about him. The only thing Clemente ever slipped into his hotel room at night was a good book. He was an avid reader of history books, and the only thing he ever drank straight from a bottle was cough medicine. 

The youngest of seven children, he was the father of three sons.

Every time New Year's Day comes closer, I think I may drive down to Citizens Bank Park and see a handsome matinee idol with a Michelangelo statue physique holding his back and “kvetching” about his omnipresent aches and pains.

If I see someone answering that description, I am going to throw him a pitch one foot outside home plate and one inch off the ground. If he smashes a bullet off the right field wall with that unaesthetic roundhouse swing (which every batting coach would demand that you not do), I will know it can only be Roberto Clemente and that, to paraphrase Mark Twain, reports of his physical condition have been greatly exaggerated once again.

Len Lear can be reached at lenlear@chestnuthilllocal.com