Among the carnage and epitaphs of old heroes we’ve seen fall in recent weeks, one stood out. Because Pete Rose died with a question mark. Should this itinerate gambler be in the Hall of Fame? By the numbers, without a doubt. By the rules, not a chance.
He was the heartbeat of the Big Red Machine, a Cincinnati Reds team managed by South Dakota-born Sparky Anderson, one of the juggernauts of that golden era.
I latched onto the Baltimore Orioles in grade school, Brooks and Boog and four 20-game winners one year. When the Orioles couldn’t get out of that hallowed bloody shin Eastern division, I developed a soft spot for the Red Sox. Ted Williams and the Big Green Monster. Willie Stargell and the Pittsburgh Pirates had some special teams, too.
Today’s players are physically better. We bear witness to Shohei Ohtani and his 50 home runs and his 50 stolen bases. He’s got a bad wing, otherwise he’d be pitching this year, too. Aaron Judge should be holding up the buttresses in coal mines on his off days.
Charlie Hustle, they called him, and it was well-earned. Search Pete Rose’s images and you’re likely to see his thick-body airborne. Pete Rose played hard at picnics. In the 1970 All Star Game, Rose mowed down Cleveland’s Ray Fosse at the plate to win the game. He played the way you’d want your Little League team to play. They way you’d want Jesus to play.
His story goes back to the 1919 Black Sox Scandal when eight Chicago White Sox, including the great Shoeless Joe Jackson, received a lifetime ban from baseball for throwing the series to a mob gambler. Team owners understood that their considerable investment would be lost if fans couldn’t trust the integrity of the game.
When he was ousted, Rose lied, and lied, and lied for years before finally coming clean in the hopes of forgiveness. Yet, at the door of every major league locker room a warning is posted. The consequences are dear, indeed. It’s hypocritical, though. Major league sports are up to their elbows promoting gambling to fans. All sorts of Rose memorabilia resides in Cooperstown but not that coveted plaque Rose so desired.
Rose and his supporters tried to soft-peddle his actions by noting that as a manager he only bet (daily) on his own team. There’s a lot of wiggle room there. Did he bet the same amount? Or more or less dependent upon inside information, including injuries? It doesn’t wash.
Pete Rose’s greatness on the field cannot be denied. Formal induction into Cooperstown is but a punctuation mark. If he was a pariah, it was in his own head. It didn’t seem like he was disparaged by his old teammates. Several of them were getting together for an autography show the weekend he died. They found him signing alone. He didn’t look good. An acquaintance of mine saw him recently in Las Vegas, too. He looked sad, he said. The Hit King was sad because he hadn’t accomplished what no one thought he needed to – to prove his greatness.
© Tony Bender, 2024