Pete Rose was always the closest thing to an obscenity in my life.
I hated the way he ran to first base after a walk. Guys like Joe Garagiola used to praise him to the heavens whenever he did it. But it always appeared, to me, to be the epitome of false hustle.
Rose was smarmy, a fathead, a showboat, a one-man band and, most of all, mean. Barreling into catcher Ray Fosse in the 1970 Major League All-Star game wasn’t necessarily mean. In sports, these things happen. But ol’ Charlie Hustle’s relentless lack of empathy or sympathy for a man whose career he badly damaged was – and still is – appalling.
So was gambling on baseball games when the rules clearly forbade doing so. There’s a sign on the wall of every Major League clubhouse that outlines the penalties. I can’t speak for the ones in Cincinnati, Philadelphia or Montreal, but the one in the Red Sox clubhouse is hardly inconspicuous.
Rose got caught. He did what all miscreants and liars do – denied, denied and denied. He twisted the late Bart Giamatti – who will forever be remembered as the ultimate baseball purist – into little tiny knots. I don’t think it was a coincidence that Giamatti died of a heart attack a week after rendering his decision to ban Rose from baseball.
Bart died. Rose was banned from being elected to the Hall of Fame. Who ultimately suffered more from that incident?
I’d already had a good hate going on for Rose by 1975, so when the Cincinnati Reds beat the Red Sox in the World Series – with Rose ending up as the MVP – the wound ran pretty deep. I still can’t stand the Reds. I can’t stand the whole city of Cincinnati.
(However, Terry Francona’s presence in the Reds’ dugout removes some of the stench of the Rose era.)
Now, Commissioner Manfred Mann, or whatever his name is, has deemed ol’ Charlie worthy of being reinstated into the baseball kingdom, and eligible to be put in the Hall of Fame.
My heart says “No, no, a thousand times, no.” My brain differs. It’s a real dilemma for me.
I may loathe the man, but you can’t argue that the guy who holds the all-time record for hits in the Major Leagues isn’t worthy of being in the Hall or Fame. I always thought there had to be a way to rectify this. Yes, his arrogance led him to believe that there was no way Giamatti would dare keep him out. And even after the decision to ban him came down, I thought that all Rose would have to do was sincerely admit his transgressions and all would be forgiven.
But he never did. What it came down to for me was that he didn’t grovel enough. I guess Giamatti or Fay Vincent (his successor) didn’t think so either. Now that Rose is dead, Manfred saw his opening and plowed through it.
So, to me, this is where it’s at: If the commissioner (his name is really Rob Manfred) deems a player eligible, then he’s eligible. It doesn’t mean I have to vote for him. It just means I get the right to choose. Ditto Barry Bonds, Roger Clemens, Rafael Palmiero, Sammy Sosa, and any of the other truly great players whose reputations have not survived the steroid era. The Baseball Writers Association of America, or whatever group is charged with making the choice, can decide once and for all.
It can really be no other way. On a personal note, now that the levy has broken on this issue, I’d put them all in – even if I have to hold my nose.
All of the aforementioned, especially Rose, are bonafide Hall of Famers. Their absence into this club of such distinguished players leaves a huge hole. These players were the cream of the crop.
However you feel about some of these players, if you’re a member of the BBWAA, or the Veterans’ Committee, the choice to admit them should be yours.
Also, Rose died last year, which means that he and Shoeless Joe Jackson – also deemed eligible – will both be denied the pleasure of accepting the plaque.
In a way, it’s the perfect compromise. Rose’s legacy as a player is preserved where it belongs; and I don’t have to watch him gloat over it.
