Remembering Pete Rose, a terrific player and deeply flawed man who died without making the Hall of Fame
Pete Rose wasn’t inducted into the Baseball Hall of Fame again this summer.
It appears a plaque bearing his name and describing his magnificent achievements on the diamond likely will never be placed in the hallowed halls of Cooperstown, N.Y.
Which makes a liar out of me.
Rose, who amassed more hits than any player in Major League Baseball history, died on Monday at 83. He was a polarizing figure. Some admire him for his brilliant career. Wherever he was needed — second base, right field, left field, third base or first base — he would play, and play hard, earning all-star status at all five positions.
Rose (seen above in a public domain image of a 1972 baseball card posted on wikimedia commons) was born in Cincinnati and rose to fame there. He also played for the Philadelphia Phillies and, briefly, the Montreal Expos, but Rose was a Red.
His stats and accomplishments deserved a plaque in Cooperstown. He compiled 4,256 hits, was the 1963 National League Rookie of the Year and the 1973 MVP. He played in 17 All-Stars, was on eight playoff teams and was a part of World Series champions, earning MVP honors in 1975.
But it was his competitive fire, his sheer exuberance and love of the game that delighted fans. Rose also was a showman, diving head-first into bases and running to first on walks, garnering the nickname “Charlie Hustle.” Yankees legends Whitey Ford and Mickey Mantle gave him that sobriquet in a derogatory manner after seeing him in action in a 1963 exhibition game, but Rose embraced it.
However, that hustle that so delighted fans and made admirers of teammates and opponents, was also evident off the field. It was a large part of the downside of Rose’s life.
But let’s go back a few decades. At the end of his career, he managed his hometown Cincinnati Reds. That’s when I twice met him, and when I told a lie.
I was covering a game between the Reds and the Houston Astros in the Astrodome in 1986. I would write columns and features about pro sports for a pair of Texas newspapers, but it was also a wonderful chance to see games for free and get to meet some fascinating people.
During the three years I did that, I interviewed and chatted with Yogi Berra (very drab, nothing like his colorful reputation), Johnny Bench, Dave Winfield, Hakeem Olajuwon, Rick Barry, Earl Campbell and many other star athletes. Yeah, I know — tough gig, but somebody had to do it.
My friend Ted Bennett often accompanied me, serving as my photographer. Ted was an Ohio native, and a Reds fanatic. Rose was his favorite player.
Before watching that game in the musty, dank Astrodome, Ted and I were standing by the batting cage watching the Reds hit. It was more than an hour before the first pitch, and I was taking notes while Ted snapped photos of the hitters and fielders getting ready to play.
A ball rolled loose. It stopped near us, and Ted reached down to pick it up. I hissed for him to leave it alone, but it was a big league ball, right at his feet. Ted snagged it and thrust it into a pocket.
Pete Rose had a well-deserved reputation for not missing anything on the field. Even though he was the Reds’ manager and still an active player who was taking batting practice at the time, he somehow spotted what Ted did.
“Must be nice,” Pete said. “Get into the game free, and then you steal stuff.”
I froze. Ted turned white. We envisioned being hauled off the field, our media credentials ripped in half. Luckily, for once I thought quickly.
“Well, it’s not every day you meet a Hall of Famer,” I said to Rose. “He wants something to remember it by.”
Pete’s tone immediately changed. His wide, creased face beamed, the gap in his two middle teeth clearly on display.
“Gimme that ball,” he ordered Ted.
Rose autographed it, and summoned the massive Dave Parker, the Reds’ star outfielder, to ink his name on it as well. For some reason, journalist and author Pete Axthelm, a famous writer and TV commentator at the time and was at the game, got hold of the ball and signed it too. Axthelm died young, plagued by alcohol and gambling.
As Ted gripped the ball, we were Pete Rose’s buddies.
We talked baseball and Ohio. When Rose learned that Ted was, like him, a native son of the Buckeye State, they chatted and laughed like schoolmates.
I interviewed Rose about the pennant race, the Reds, his career, whether he would retire — he played his final game on Aug. 16, 1986, going hitless in four at-bats a few days after we talked with him — and anything else I could think of as we stood around the batting cage.
We were thrilled by the encounter, and astounded that when we covered a Reds-Astros game the next summer that Pete remembered us. We had another friendly chat, and I finally headed to the press box, my notepad stuffed with quotes.
When I got there I looked down, and Pete had his arm around Ted and they were talking like old friends. Ted floated up to the pressbox later.
He and I discussed those twin events time and time again. Ted passed away in 2017 and I miss him. Maybe he and Pete are talking baseball again.
As the world knows, Rose was addicted to gambling, and even resorted to betting on the Reds while he managed the team. He also was hanging out with some very shady characters.
The story broke in 1989, and Rose was suspended from baseball. In addition to a lifetime banishment from the sport he loved so dearly, Rose was shut out of the Hall of Fame.
While other, lesser players and baseball figures are enshrined every summer, Pete Rose was left outside. Sure, photos, a bat and other memorabilia are on display there, but no plaque with the name Peter Edward Rose hangs on the walls with the other 303 players, managers, umpires and other men who earned the highest honor in baseball.
As Rose often pointed out, drug-enhanced ballplayers are given another chance. They are sidelined for several games, but are then allowed to slip back into uniform and resume their careers. The same goes with ballplayers with criminal records and abuse allegations.
Rose never was given that chance. He went to prison for tax fraud, and was not allowed to manage again, even after he finally admitted what was so obvious — he had bet on baseball.
When he did confess in 2004, he did so in large part to plug a new book. Always on the hustle, you know.
A book released this year. “Charlie Hustle: The Rise and Fall of Pete Rose, and the Last Glory Days of Baseball,” draws a harsh portrait of Rose as a liar, cheater and general louse.
An HBO documentary four-part series, “Charlie Hustle & The Matter of Pete Rose,” casts him in a very unflattering — and accurate — light. Rose preyed on young girls, cheated on his two wives, hung out with gamblers, drug users and other lowlifes.
At the end of his life, Rose lived in Las Vegas — how completely appropriate — where he signed his name to anything for a price. He and his new, decades-younger girlfriend were featured on a “reality” show, and he granted interviews about the Hall of Fame, baseball and gambling on a regular basis.
Rose, who called himself “The Hit King,” does have his fans and supporters, as well as his memories and a tremendous list of statistics and accomplishments. But he’s not a Hall of Famer, and there’s only one person to blame for that —
Pete Rose.
Fourth-generation South Dakotan Tom Lawrence has written for several newspapers and websites in South Dakota and other states and contributed to The New York Times, NPR, The London Telegraph, The Daily Beast and other media outlets. Republish with permission.
