I spent a good many days of my childhood idolizing Pete Rose. You could say come summer, when baseball ruled all sports, my life revolved around the man they called Charlie Hustle and the Big Red Machine. From the time
I spent a good many days of my childhood idolizing Pete Rose. You could say come summer, when baseball ruled all sports, my life revolved around the man they called Charlie Hustle and the Big Red Machine. From the time I was 9 years old, and well into my teenage years, I rooted for him as I never rooted for anybody before or since.
Every morning, I ran to get the Seattle Times or the Seattle Post-Intelligencer so I could check the box score. If Rose collected a couple hits, or even three or four, I was elated. If he had an oh for four day, I cringed. Oh for five, ouch. How he did mattered more to me than whether the Reds won or lost. How could you not love this guy who dove headfirst into bases, ran as hard as he could to first base even on a walk, and he played the game with such passion?
I created an entire scrapbook in honor of Pete Rose. I still have it. Clippings and articles and pictures and cards are carefully taped to the pages. One summer, let’s see, I believe it was 1974, I clipped out every Cincinnati box score. Bad year to do it, though, as that year Rose hit only .284 and snapped his string of nine consecutive seasons of hitting over .300.
I became a switch-hitter because Pete Rose was a switch-hitter. My only problem was, I couldn’t hit from the left or right side of the plate. I may have been one of the worst hitters ever to grace a Little League field. In four seasons, I believe, well, I’m sure, I actually got two real hits. One was a double. I still clearly remember suddenly swinging and blooping it down the right field line and the ball landing fair by inches in the bottom of the last inning in a game we had to win to advance to the playoffs. I came around to score the winning run. Everyone in the dugout patted me on the back and slapped my hands and I was as close to a hero as I’ve ever been. (My glory was short-lived. Sadly, in that next game, I struck out a few times, made so many errors at second base I was benched and we got bombed).
But I digress.
Some of my life’s joys, and heartbreaks, centered around Pete Rose. When the Reds beat the Red Sox in the 1975 World Series, one of the greatest ever, and Rose hit .370 and was named Most Valuable Player, I celebrated like I lived in Cincinnati. God, it was glorious. And when they repeated as champs by steamrolling the Yankees in the ‘76 series, it felt wonderful. If there’s a baseball heaven, I was in it.
When Rose left the Reds in ‘78 and signed a four-year, $3.2 million deal with the Philadelphia Phillies, I was disappointed. Oh, I still followed Pete and the Phils, but it wasn’t the same. The love for Rose and the Reds didn’t burn quite so hot anymore. Girls, cars and running got more of my attention. Still, one of my biggest regrets in this life is not seeing Pete Rose play. I often thought about driving to San Francisco to catch a Reds-Giants four-game series but never did it. That was dumb.
But I remained loyal to Pete. Even when he played for the Montreal Expos, I rooted for him. When he became player-coach for the Reds, it was almost a return to the good old days. And when he just coached Cincy, I had reason to love the Reds again and I believed he would guide them to the World Series.
It never happened.
Along came the whole betting on the Reds thing when he was their coach (never bet against them) and before long, he agreed to a lifetime ban from baseball in 1989.
I always thought, at some point, they might let him return to baseball. Seems to me they could give him a second chance. He’s paid the price, banned from the game he gave his life to for the past 26 years. I think most people would say, let Pete back into baseball. I had high hopes Commissioner Rob Manfred would approve his application for reinstatement to baseball.
But Monday, Manfred said no and said something about it being a risk to the integrity of the sport. That’s a laugh. Like Pete Rose could hurt the integrity of baseball today. This the same game that did nothing as players loaded up on illegal steroids and set records and allows them back to the game. This is the same game that says daily fantasy is OK because somehow it’s not gambling. Mediocre ballplayers are paid so many millions of dollars it seems insane.
I won’t even preach about why Pete Rose, with his 4,256 lifetime hits (a record that will never, ever be broken), his three World Series titles, his 1975 MVP season, his 1963 Rookie of the Year, his three batting titles, belongs in the Hall of Fame.
I guess, in the end, all I really know is this:
Some day, I plan to travel to Las Vegas, where Pete Rose signs autographs for a living, and show him the scrapbook I made about him. And I’m going to tell him that when he played baseball, he sparked a fierce passion for the game in a little kid growing up in Seattle. That kid couldn’t hit. He couldn’t field. But by God, he loved baseball. He loved those summers with friends playing baseball late into the night, chasing grounders and running down fly balls and pitching fastballs until his arm hurt. And when it was his turn at the plate, he got into that couch, glared at the pitcher, cocked that bat and imagined he was Pete Rose.
•••
Bill Buley is the editor of The Garden Island newspaper. He can be reached at bbuley@thegardenisland.com.
