My first baseball memory involved hating Pete Rose.
That wasn’t his fault, it was just fate. I was seven, my Red Sox were playing in the World Series, and Rose’s Big Red Machine was the opponent. The teams went back and forth for nearly two weeks, and it came down to Game 7.
Boston took a 3-0 lead into the sixth inning, but that damn Pete Rose led off with a single and scored on a homer by Tony Pérez.
An inning later the Reds got two runners on, and with two outs that damn Pete Rose hit an RBI single that tied the game at 3.
And then two innings later they got another two runners on, including that damn Pete Rose. And again with two outs Joe Morgan blooped an RBI single into center field to give them the lead for good, and that damn Pete Rose bellyflopped into third base and came up clapping his hands.
My team lost the World Series, and the biggest culprit was the guy who led the Reds in hits in that series, and had the best batting average, on base percentage, and OPS among Cincinnati’s regulars. That damn Pete Rose. And every time he did something in Boston to anger the fans, he reveled in the boos that would cascade from the stands.
Fast forward five years. My family has moved to Kansas City, where the Royals were having another great season and George Brett was trying to hit .400. We didn’t abandon the Red Sox, and when they came to town we were sure to go see them and root against the home team, but the Royals were the only team to watch in those pre-cable, pre-MLB.TV days. Plus they were really good, with an exciting, high-tempo style of play, so of course we adopted them as our next-favorite team.
It helped that Royals fans hated the Yankees as much as we did after losing to them in the playoffs three straight years. When they finally beat New York in the ALCS that year and moved on to the franchise’s first World Series, excitement in our house was high.
And who was there to oppose them? The Phillies, the new team of that damn Pete Rose.
He didn’t lead Philadelphia in anything in that series, but he was still the same pest. The Phillies led, 3 games to 2, and were up 4-1 late in Game 6. Rose had three hits in the game, including a bunt single in the third inning that set up Mike Schmidt with the bases loaded. He singled, two runs scored, and the Royals never led.
But they had hope in the ninth inning when they loaded the bases with only one out. Up stepped Frank White with a chance to do some damage, but he hit a pop up into foul territory on the first pitch. Catcher Bob Boone ran over in front of the Phillies dugout, but the ball popped out of his mitt. It looked like White would have a second chance.
But he didn’t, because before the ball hit the ground, in swooped the glove of that damn Pete Rose. He caught it for the second out and ran the ball back to pitcher Tug McGraw, but not before bouncing it off the turf like a little kid.
Then he ran back to first base, put his hat back on that silly Prince Valiant bowl cut hairdo, and blew a damn bubble with his gum. He couldn’t hear it from Philly, but he’d have been thrilled to know he was lustily booed by everyone watching in my parents’ family room outside of Kansas City.
So yeah, I didn’t like the guy. He was the quintessential player you loved if he was on your team but hated if he wasn’t, and he wasn’t on my team. Twice.
But, man, could he play baseball. He loved it. That was obvious every time you saw him play. He came by that Charlie Hustle nickname honestly, which was irritating to those who rooted against him and yet impressive at the same time.
And he seemed happy to irritate the opposition and their fans. In the excellent HBO documentary about him earlier this year he acknowledged he was baseball’s biggest villain, and smiled as he compared himself to Jesse James. In his mind, if the opposing fans were booing him when he was playing in their stadium, he had to be doing something right. After infuriating the New York fans during the 1973 NLCS by starting a fist fight with Bud Harrelson in Game 3, he basked in the glow of their boos when he homered to win Game 4 in extra innings.
That same documentary lays out exactly how contradictory and controversial he was. He was the guy his teammates and friends swore was loyal to a fault even though they all knew he couldn’t tell the truth. He was great with kids in the clubhouse while being an absentee husband and father at home. He was a loving son who revered his father and was appalled to have once embarrassed him by not hustling, but he was also a serial philanderer who openly admitted to having sex with girls who were underage. And he loved everything about baseball even as he broke its cardinal rule over and over again.
Because I didn’t like him, I admit to being satisfied at his eventual downfall. When he finally acknowledged decades later that all the accusations about his gambling on baseball were true, I took satisfaction again. All of his other unsavory transgressions made me dislike him even more. Even now I’m glad he was denied entry into the Hall of Fame, despite knowing as well as anyone that any number of certifiable bastards and cheats are already enshrined there. Such is the imprint the first villain in your life leaves on you.
Still, years of studying the game’s history has softened my view. He was an undeniably great player. For 19 years he averaged 195 hits per year, and 102 runs, and a 124 OPS+, and a batting line of .310/.380/.426. He won an MVP and three World Series in those years, totaled 82.1 WAR, was the Rookie of the Year, won two Gold Gloves, the Roberto Clemente Award, and a World Series MVP. He had 3,697 hits, and would have sailed into the Hall of Fame if he’d just walked away after the 1981 season. I wish he had.
But he didn’t. He hung around for that record-breaking hit because he was obsessed with getting it, and saw his career average fall, and his gambling exposed, his reputation tarnished, his freedom gone, and his hopes of a Cooperstown induction destroyed. And then he spent about 35 years alternating between lying, begging for forgiveness, defiantly saying he’d been wronged, or pleading for a second chance. It all became sort of pitiful.
Right up until the end, in that documentary that simultaneously made him look so awesome and so horrible, he simply could not stop being PETE ROSE, The Hit King, right down to having it monogrammed onto his shirts. He had to go to every memorabilia show, and sign everything put in front of him, even the Dowd Report that documented his gambling and saw his life ruined. All for a buck and the thrill of being recognized and adored.
Despite reveling in the boos throughout his career, he couldn’t stop hunting for that one last cheer. And now he’ll never get it.
Boo.
Very nice piece on a complicated guy who could exemplify the best and worst of baseball, often at the same time. But you're right, I've got to give him a little credit for leaning into the villain role and embracing it.
outstanding post on Pete Rose Paul. As an a 15 year old Mets fan in 1973 I can still see Rose and Bud Harrelson rolling around the Shea Stadium infield during the NLCS which the underdog Mets beat the Big Red Machine (I can vividly remember Willie Mays Tom Seaver and Rusty Staub coming out to the left and right field corners to plead with the fans to stop throwing bottles and cans at the Reds)
Pete Rose the player was undoubtedly a first ballot HOF player and all he had to do was confess to Commissioner Giamati , who Rose was to ignorant to see was a very compassionate man. Instead he stood defiant and then made an enemy of John Dowd who even the most notorious ganisters will tell you never go to war against a veteran Federal prosecutor.
I'd recommend Keith O'Brien's book Charlie Hustle to anyone who wants to find out what Pete Rose was all about .