I strike out when it comes to sports.

I cannot tell a baseball from a football (one is brown, no?).

I have no idea why grown men and women try to knock swollen white marbles into holes in the ground, then get teed off when they fail.

The closest thing I've ever come to a field of dreams was at a private screening of "Angels in the Outfield."

And so it was great trepidation that I paid a visit to the Roberto Clemente Museum in Lawrenceville. I knew just a few facts I gleaned from obituaries: He died after the small plane he had chartered went down off the coast of Puerto Rico on New Year's Eve 1972. He had a wife and three sons and, at 38, died way too young. When I moved to Pittsburgh, I found out he played for the Pittsburgh Pirates and the Sixth Street Bridge was named in his honor.

Then I walked into Lawrenceville's former Engine House No. 25.

Some may call him a fan, others a fanatic, but one thing is as clear as a scoreboard flashing on a cloudless night: Duane Rieder worships Clemente.

Rieder bought the firehouse 14 years ago, spending immeasurable amounts of sweat equity and a six good figures gutting and glorifying the 1896 building at 3339 Penn Ave. at Doughboy Square. The two-story, 4,400- square-foot shrine to Clemente opened by appointment in 2006, and it's been slow but steady going.

Why the obsession? He's always loved baseball, always loved Clemente. While creating a calendar for the 1994 All-Star Game at Three Rivers Stadium, Rieder got to know the Clemente family. Rieder proved his good intentions to Clemente's widow, Vera, when he obtained negatives of her husband from The White House to reprint original damaged photos. She and her son Roberto Jr. sanctioned the museum; Roberto Jr. refers to Rieder as "my brother from another mother."

This may be a museum honoring one dead man, but make no mistake: This is not a mausoleum. It's spacious and bright and has a warm, friendly feeling with the accent on baseball. The only thing missing is the smell of freshly popped popcorn and blistering all-beef wieners. (Rieder, a commercial photographer, has his studio in the museum.)

Clemente's life and career are on display. There are bats and balls and mitts and uniforms and jerseys and photos and contracts and telegrams and Clemente family snapshots, mostly exhibited on walls, some in glass cases, some thrown on chairs or hanging in doorways. Extra special gems include Clemente's Social Security and union cards, two of his 12 Golden Glove trophies, the 1961 Silver Bat that he received as batting champ (the dents are from Clemente's kids, who whacked a few baseballs with it), and Clemente's contract with Rawlings -- he got 5 cents for every glove that sold at less than $9, 10 cents for every glove more than $9 and a dime for every dozen baseballs sold.

The museum's carefully measured disorder is, actually, a perfect, casual way to present such finds. Most are the real thing, and don't even think of touching or taking off with anything . . . the alarm system may be invisible, but it's as present as the spirit of Clemente or Lou Gehrig, who slept in the firehouse while the rest of the New York Yankees were cavorting through town celebrating their 1927 World Series win.

Some of the collection is lost on me, but Rieder, who calls himself the Clemente family's "official archivist" is being a sport and my tour guide and fills me in on the who, what and whys of baseball: There's a stunning photo of Horacio Martinez, mid-air as he catches a ball, snapped by Teenie Harris. I spot Howie Haak's garment bag and learn Haak was a key figure in the Pittsburgh Pirates' nabbing of Clemente from the Brooklyn Dodgers.

I am most touched by seeing Clemente's cleats. There are four pairs, but the ones sitting, worn and weathered, on the 1971 World Series home plate, where Clemente was the Most Valuable Player, are stark, simple reminders of a life that once was . . . And Rieder's favorite object among the museum's thousands.

Such die-hard devotion comes with a price. The admission is $20 for adults, $10 ages 16 and under, but all the restoring and renovation and running the museum has caused Rieder, he says, to "almost bankrupt." Framing all the exhibits cost nearly $150,000 and annual taxes on the building are $12,000. The museum recently earned nonprofit status, yet it costs about $270,000 a year running it as a full-time destination. (Right now, you can visit only by appointment.)

I eye a photo -- four framed images forming one full one -- of Clemente, in 1960, leaping to catch a fly ball. The cumulus clouds billow behind him, giving him what are unmistakable angel's wings.

I tell Rieder not to worry. Things have a way of working out, of falling into place. He's safe at home, especially because he has 21 angels looking out for him.

To arrange a visit to the Roberto Clemente Museum, call 412-621-1268.