Photo Credit: Tom Tsuchiya, CC0, via Wikimedia Commons
I was born in Cincinnati in 1992. I can remember the day Riverfront Stadium was demolished, and when Great American Ballpark was finished on The Banks, complete with Joe Nuxhaull’s iconic call, “Rounding third and heading for home,” emblazoned on the facade. I remember how exciting it was when the Cincinnati Reds traded for Ken Griffey Jr. in 2000 and when the Cincinnati Bengals hired (get this) Marvin Lewis in 2003. Names like Pokey Reese, Takeo Spikes, Dmitri Young, Jeff Blake, Pete Harnish and Corey Dillon exist in my mind on a permanent basis.
But, seeing as I was born in ‘92, I don’t remember Pete Rose. As a player, that is. Of course, growing up in Cincinnati, I knew who Pete Rose was. I knew Charlie Hustle. I knew the Hit King. I knew the headfirst slides and that he always sprinted to first base, even on walks.
I knew Pete Rose was a hometown legend. I knew that he went to the same high school (Western Hills) as my dad and collected quarters on the Anderson Ferry, the same ferry my family used to take when we visited my grandparents. I knew he was, inarguably, one of the greatest baseball players who ever lived.
But I also knew he gambled on baseball.
So, while I was eminently familiar with Pete Rose the Player, I was actually much more familiar with Pete Rose the Man. I know basically his entire life story.
Unlike many – if not most – Cincinnatians older than me, Pete Rose was never my hero. Sure, I respected The Hustle. Who doesn’t? But Pete Rose gambled on the game. When I was a kid, I didn’t want to grow up to be like Pete Rose. I wanted to be like Nolan Ryan.
And as I got older, I learned more about Pete Rose the Man. Much of his past is well-documented, and much of it I’d much rather not know (I’m not going to go into it here, but feel free to look it up yourself). The older I got, the less and less savory a character Pete Rose appeared to be.
It was bad enough that he bet on baseball, but it was worse in 2004 (right when a twelve-year old was becoming a full-blown baseball fanatic) when Pete Rose admitted that – for fifteen years – he’d been lying.
Lying about betting on baseball. Despite all the evidence, despite all the pain he inflicted on his hometown, baseball’s winning-est player thought he could still win in the court of public opinion. I don’t know what made him change his mind in 2004, but the damage was done. Cincinnati, a city that was prepared to defend their local hero to the death, was fatally embarrassed.
For as much as Pete Rose the Player gave to the game, ultimately, Pete Rose the Man took more. He was too arrogant, too defiant. He made his own bed, and then complained when he was forced to lay in it. He let an entire city down – a city that used to be (and, in many ways, still is) proud to call him their own.
After that fateful day, I didn’t think a lot about Pete Rose. I didn’t think he belonged in the Hall of Fame. Call me hypocritical, but I genuinely believe guys like Barry Bonds and Roger Clemens have a better case. The Steroid Era humiliated baseball just as much – if not more – than Pete Rose’s gambling scandal, but I don’t hold Bonds or Clemens personally responsible. The Steroid Era was the result of a lot of people looking the other way, especially Major League baseball. But Pete? He created his own mess.
A lot has changed, though. Gambling is now a part of baseball. Signs for BetMGM, DraftKings, and Betfred dominate some of the very same ballparks Pete Rose was collecting hits back in his heyday.
Of course, that doesn’t excuse Pete Rose’s behavior. There’s a big difference between a fan betting on a game and a manager doing the same. Things have changed, but some things never do. That Pete Rose compromised the integrity of the game is one of those.
But Pete Rose’s legacy is more complicated than that. For as imperfect of a person he was off the field, on the field he was basically the complete opposite. Pete Rose was the kind of ballplayer who made himself into a switch-hitter. Who never turned down an opportunity to sprint to first base. Who made life hell for every pitcher he ever faced. Who was an All-Star at five different positions. Who would run over a catcher to win an exhibition game. Who perfected the art of the swing. Who never, ever, stopped hustling. Pete Rose may have shamed the game he loved, but he never cheated it.
Pete Rose embodied the spirit of every nine-year-old boy who dreamed of one day making it to the big leagues. Pete Rose was all-grit and all-grind, and that made him an All-Timer.
Should Pete Rose be in the Hall of Fame? Honestly, I can't answer that question. I don't feel as strongly about keeping him out of the Hall, but it's irrelevant anyway. Enshrined or not, Pete Rose will always be a mythic baseball figure.
Pete Rose doesn’t fit neatly into any one particular box, and it’s appropriate that Pete Rose was from a place like Cincinnati that doesn’t quite fit into any particular box either. Cincinnati isn’t “Small Town USA,” but it isn’t quite “Big City” either. It’s not rural, but it’s not exactly urban. It’s not East-Coast, and it’s certainly not West-Coast. Southerners think we’re Northern, and Northerners think we’re Southern. Aside from Chicago, we’re the only place in America that calls generic athletic footwear “gym shoes.” And even though we're let down by our sports teams and heroes all the time, we love them with a fervor anyway.
Cincinnati is full of contradictions, and so was Pete Rose. He was more obsessed with baseball than anyone else, but he wasn’t obsessed enough to not violate its virtue. He gave baseball everything he had, but somehow, he took more. He was flawed, but also flawless. He was perfectly imperfect.
Pete Rose was Cincinnati.
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