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Like everyone 28 and older from Cincinnati, I have clear memories of Pete Rose’s record-breaking hit. If you’re from here and are a baseball fan, I’d wager that you probably remember where you were when the ball fell in left-center off Eric Show. You probably remember Joe Nuxhall overpowering Brennaman’s call, and Pete’s weird-ass batting helmet. You probably remember the whole team coming out, along with Pete Jr., to congratulate Pete.
You probably also remember the Aqua Velva advertisements, the head-first slides, and clubhouse leadership. This is all the good shit. It wasn’t but a few more years before ol’ Pete started doling out the shitty memories–all the stuff that turned out to be true, and all the wild shit he said over the years.
Then the book came out, and we all got the clearly insincere apology, which dripped with ulterior motive and pomp. What this represented was more than a man’s attempt to get what he thought he deserved–this was a completion of the story arc of every Greek tragedy: Man starts from nothing, conquers the world, and is ultimately responsible for his own undoing. It’s not unlike Mike Tyson, truth be told, and I don’t think anyone would really disagree. Except maybe Wildman Walker.
After all this, after all the memories, good and bad, one thing still persists: Pete Rose keeps on talking. When he talks, it’s going to end up in print somewhere. If there’s someone around who’ll listen, Pete’s going to say something. That’s the value of 4256, right? Clearly he knows something about something. And that’s the problem.
Pete’s probably got some great insights about baseball, how the game should be played, how players should carry themselves on the field, and so on. But you’d never know it: everything I’ve read about Pete from 1989 on is written through the scope of what happened with the gambling thing. Whether that’s the doing of the media, I can’t be certain, but it definitely tells me that it’s likely that Pete sees just about everything through that lens. This isn’t surprising.
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You have to think, though, that Pete’s gotta know that every time he talks to a reporter, a writer, or someone with some kind of public voice that he’s making it worse for himself, right? Seriously. I can’t think of one single time Pete’s said something to truly redeem himself, and that just kills me.
So, come on, Pete. Just be quiet. No more passing judgement on the steroids thing, okay? The debate about whether or not you should be in the HOF is overdone. It doesn’t matter what we think. The only way we’re going to remember you fondly is if you stop complaining about how unfair the whole thing turned out to be. At least you got to be a hero for a while. That’s a lot more than most of us can hope for.
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