Pete Rose, 1941-2024
Pete Rose, 1941-2024
The Hit King is dead. Long live the Hit King.
Pete at home in Sedamsville, 2015. (Enquirer)
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Of all the things you’d imagine happening to Pete Rose, dying wasn’t among them.
Pete the player, not running out everything, not running to 1st base after walking, not offering up a filthy jersey nightly to Bernie Stowe, the Reds clubhouse manager. We couldn’t imagine that.
Pete the gambler, not betting on baseball, football, the ponies et cetera, et cetera. Pete not proclaiming his innocence for an entire generation. Pete the seemingly exuberant spirit, not showing a strong face to an increasingly skeptical public. We could never grasp that.
Pete selling his signature in any number of creative ways. Hit King. 4,256. I Shouldn’t Have Done It. Mocking the folks he long ago stopped trying to appease.
Pete Rose, not being anyone other than Pete Rose. We definitely couldn’t picture that. All it cost him was all he ever wanted.
Baseball didn’t define him, at least no more than he defined the game. Even his fatal flaw is part of the game’s legacy. Shoeless Joe would get the analogy.
But Pete. . . dead?
That’s a hard sell.
Pete Pan played a kid’s game the way a kid would play it. He had that barrel chest, those Popeye forearms and that little kid’s optimism that everything would be all right as long as he could play ball until the streetlights came on.
He battled Bart Giamatti with that belief. He would outlast the commissioner, same as he did Cobb. Rose’s protests of innocence would overwhelm Giamatti’s conscience.
. . . until it became obvious they wouldn’t. Faced with that realization, Rose started selling his guilt. That, too, is part of his legacy. He wrote (yet another) book, called My Prison Without Bars, that suggested that, yeah, he mighta bet on baseball and that, possibly, he shouldna did it.
I covered Pete from 1988 until today. He was a practiced liar. He was like OJ Simpson, in that he told The Big Lie so much, he started believing it. Pete never killed anyone, unless you believe his lies did himself in.
I recall that Summer of ‘89, the year MLB had its teeth in him. I remember on many occasions sitting alone in Rose’s office at Riverfront Stadium, waiting him out as The Hit King showered, shaved and dressed. I’d ask him about John Dowd’s investigation and Bart Giamatti’s mission.
Pete would listen to it all, then answer in such a practiced, convincing way, I’d leave his office believing Baseball was railroading him. Pete could sell the moon to a gourmand seeking camembert.
Then I’d literally smack myself upside the head before I attempted my latest interpretation of Baseball’s saddest saga ever. Of course Pete bet on the game.
Then something fortunate happened for Rose. Baseball became a bigger villain than Pete was. Rose gained sympathy when Baseball joined the devil it already knew very well. Just sayin’:
How could a business that kept Pete Rose on the outside embrace sports gambling so hypocritically completely?
Betting in ballparks, betting in casinos, betting as easy as turning on your phone. Ads for betting lining the outfield walls and filling the TV acreage. Shohei Ohtani’s personal bobo, stealing millions of his boss’s dollars, to bet on sports.
Rose might have been a chronic gambler. Baseball became a casual hypocrite. Which ls less honest?
Still, Pete remained on the game’s doorstep, nose pressed against its window, until he died at age 83. You make peace with yourself on this one. Either Rose belonged in the Hall of Fame, or he didn’t.
Either you pardon a guy who has been in the joint since August 24, 1989, or you maintain he violated the game’s “cardinal rule’’ against betting. A rule that at the very least is being mocked and flouted now, every second of every day.
Either you acknowledge Rose has “earned’’ his place on Olympus, or he’s still a scoundrel. From Day 1, I’ve said this about that:
Honor the player. Punish the gambler. Life is not a succession of black and white circumstances. It is lived in multi-shades of gray. None is grayer than the life of Peter Edward Rose.
No player defined a city, in any sport, more than Rose defined what we like to think is great about our town. Roll out the cliches, they were all made to describe Pete and Cincinnati. Hard-working, overachieving, a tad short of perfection. Pete always had a little Bad Boy in him. Cincinnati, a haven for the whiskey business during Prohibition, knew all about that. Neither town nor native son was entirely saintly.
Only now, Pete’s gone. That’s an impossible notion, yet here it is, sliding headfirst into. . . somewhere.
. . . . into our memories, at least. And if that’s it, if that’s the essence of our recollections of The Hit King, then OK. Pete the Player will always have a place here.
I'm late and know it but I need to submit my ethos on this.
I was an 8 year old cherub shaped, freckled faced kid growing up in a Cincinnati suburb. I had no natural athletic skills, parents didn't play sports and didn't see the need for me to play either. But in 1970 the Reds "found" me and because of 2 guys named Rose and Bench my world changed. Pete spoke at a school assembly that year and I actually got close enough to shake his hand and get an autograph that I still have. He looked like a Marvel Comic book Super Hero. He was a giant man in a burgundy leisure suit, mop top hair cut and a gap between his front teeth. I'm 100% certain his speech that day was directed at me. He talked about not being the biggest, the fastest or the best natural player and that success was in being a hard worker, good teammate, striding to improve and winning. Bingo....that's what I was going to be. A big league ballplayer like Pete Rose.
"So what" you say...you and a billion other kids. Well this is what happened: I worked so hard over the next 10 years on being a better baseball player that my parents were concerned. My Dad did an intervention my freshman year of HS to let me know I wasn't going to play in the Majors and not likely HS and that I should redirect my efforts to something that would pay off like homework. But, I kept going. I grew, got stronger, and better. I made the HS team my Junior year (after getting cut twice). I walked on in college and made the team. I bribed the equipment manager to be issued jersey #14 (insert Pete joke here). I sat the bench for 2 years, kept working, got better and played key roles as a utility player. I played First base, Third Base and Catcher and made myself valuable to the team. I was invited to try-outs for the US Pan-Am games team and had "chat's" with the Chicago Cubs and Kansas City Royals (but no offers), although the family joke is that I approached them when they were scouting my teammates.
Nice you say. But wait there's more. When my baseball career ended post college I went to work. I found a job with an engineering firm in their HR department. I am sure that I only got the job because on my resume it mentioned playing in college and the company had a softball team. The hiring manager quizzed me more about that than any actual work related skill I may or may not have had. I got the job and through the same principals (hard work, team work, and winning) I was promoted and became the manager. That job took me many more places, each one bigger and better.
I've already shared too much but my log-in and passwords for every job I've had for the last 30 years are all related to Pete Rose. My first password on an old voicemail system was Hustle14 and even now when I log on each day there's a reminder of Pete and Hustle is the first word I type. Weird? yes, but important.
In trying to conclude my manifesto let me say that when the news, evidence, and punishment happened I was crushed. Then he admitted he was lying and then other terrible news came out on his actions outside of his marriages and I was deeply hurt . However, with his passing I've relived my relationship with Pete Rose and want to thank him, especially that 8 year old little boy. Hustle Forever!
Since his passing, I've been casually searching for an article like this: one that captured the complexity of Pete Rose's legacy with compassion and without damning or exalting judgment.
As a child, I remember the myth of Rose: the opportunity to see him on Saturday afternoon televised games, collecting his image on cardboard, and tracking his stats in the annual Smith & Street yearbooks. Later, I interpreted Rose as a cautionary tale where nobody could be bigger than the consequences of their actions - even his Wrestlemania appearances seemed to poke fun at this fact. Now, he seems to be a story that ended without resolution. But above all, it was enjoyable to read this remembrance of him as a person.