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Baseball's All-Time Hits Leader Awaits Hall of Fame Call That May Never Come
By TIM DAHLBERG, AP Sports
LAS VEGAS (Dec. 18) - Pete Rose was working his day job, which on this day meant he was inside a ritzy shopping **** at Caesars Palace, pen in hand.
A few feet away in this adult Disneyland, a Roman-themed laser light and water show erupted on the hour. The real spectacle, though, for the tourists and holiday shoppers wandering by was the beefy man in the red baseball cap.
Two girls wearing No. 14 jerseys were trying to drum up business, holding up signs offering autographs. The curious pull out cameras and cell phones to take pictures, but there are buyers, too.
Baseball's disgraced hit leader is making a living the only way he knows how. Fifteen days a month he's here, from 11:30 in the morning to 6 p.m., signing away.
Fifty bucks will get you an autographed photo, a handshake and maybe some small talk about your hometown. A picture with Pete is $100, and the autographed jersey with his list of records on the front will set you back $400.
"The jersey is the only thing I sign 'Charlie Hustle,"' Rose says. "It's a beautiful jersey. Everyone wants one. A couple of Saturdays ago we sold 52 in just one day."
If he feels belittled, he doesn't show it. Rose may be the main act in a carnival sideshow, but, hey, a guy's gotta eat.
"Some people get mad because they have to pay for an autograph, but there's not a store here that gives away anything for free," he says. "And you can always shake my hand and talk baseball. That doesn't cost anything."
On this day, though, he has even more to say. A writer has stopped by, and Rose sees it as an opportunity to again plead his case to be allowed back in baseball.
I could tell him not to waste his time because I'm already a convert. You see, I've gotten over the fact that he lied for years about betting on baseball, I'm willing to overlook the flawed personality traits, and I believe his on field accomplishments speak for themselves.
His book didn't bother me like it did so many in the game when it came out last year, and I'll give him the benefit of the doubt when he says he understands he did wrong.
His gambling problem so far has cost him 16 years away from baseball. The integrity of the sport surely needs to be protected, but murderers have served less time than this.
Besides I'm not so sure what it means to protect the integrity of a game that made a conscious decision to look the other way while its sluggers bulked up to ridiculous proportions and balls left the park in record numbers.
But I want to hear what Rose has to say, so he takes a lunch break and we talk over a bowl of chicken noodle soup.
Much of it you've heard before. Rose did throw in a tidbit, though, about the extent of his betting on the Cincinnati Reds while managing the team in the 1980s.
"I bet on my own team every night," he said.
Rose's argument - and it's a logical enough one - is that he always bet on his team to win and never tried to throw a game. The bookies in Las Vegas would have noticed if something was amiss, he says, and he's right.
"I don't know why I did it," he said. "I wish it had never happened. I'd probably still be managing the Reds now and we probably would have won a couple of World Series by now."
Because it did happen, Rose remains a pariah to baseball instead of being revered as its most prolific hitter. His eligibility for the Hall of Fame is expiring, and his chances of eventually being voted in by the veterans committee are remote.
Rose, though, wants more than just the Hall of Fame. He wants back in baseball, and he holds on to the unlikely notion that a team might actually hire him to be their manager.
"Hell, yeah," he says. "The ultimate goal for any athlete is the Hall of Fame but I'm more interested in being in the game."
Unfortunately for Rose, baseball isn't nearly as interested in having him back. Commissioner Bud Selig has shown no sign of rescinding his lifetime ban even though Rose finally admitted he did indeed bet on baseball.
Lunch is over and Rose goes back to his signing table, where a small crowd of people now awaits. Among them is Jason Inman of Atlanta, who spent about $400 on a signed jersey and baseball.
"He is what he is. He's an icon," Inman says. "I think it's a travesty he's not in the Hall of Fame."
Rose, meanwhile, sits in his chair, posing for pictures and signing others, as his barkers try to hustle business his way.
He's 64 now, pudgier than before, and beneath the baseball cap his hair is both thinning and graying. Behind him are huge posters from his glory days, showing him in a Reds uniform with a mop of hair on his head, grinning at something.
He's got to know it won't do much good, but he pleads his case one last time.
"I made a big mistake. I was wrong. But I can't change it," Rose says. "I just wish people would understand and give me a second chance. I won't need a third chance."
Rose turns his attention back to business at hand. It's time to leave.
"Merry Christmas," he says.
By TIM DAHLBERG, AP Sports
LAS VEGAS (Dec. 18) - Pete Rose was working his day job, which on this day meant he was inside a ritzy shopping **** at Caesars Palace, pen in hand.
A few feet away in this adult Disneyland, a Roman-themed laser light and water show erupted on the hour. The real spectacle, though, for the tourists and holiday shoppers wandering by was the beefy man in the red baseball cap.
Two girls wearing No. 14 jerseys were trying to drum up business, holding up signs offering autographs. The curious pull out cameras and cell phones to take pictures, but there are buyers, too.
Baseball's disgraced hit leader is making a living the only way he knows how. Fifteen days a month he's here, from 11:30 in the morning to 6 p.m., signing away.
Fifty bucks will get you an autographed photo, a handshake and maybe some small talk about your hometown. A picture with Pete is $100, and the autographed jersey with his list of records on the front will set you back $400.
"The jersey is the only thing I sign 'Charlie Hustle,"' Rose says. "It's a beautiful jersey. Everyone wants one. A couple of Saturdays ago we sold 52 in just one day."
If he feels belittled, he doesn't show it. Rose may be the main act in a carnival sideshow, but, hey, a guy's gotta eat.
"Some people get mad because they have to pay for an autograph, but there's not a store here that gives away anything for free," he says. "And you can always shake my hand and talk baseball. That doesn't cost anything."
On this day, though, he has even more to say. A writer has stopped by, and Rose sees it as an opportunity to again plead his case to be allowed back in baseball.
I could tell him not to waste his time because I'm already a convert. You see, I've gotten over the fact that he lied for years about betting on baseball, I'm willing to overlook the flawed personality traits, and I believe his on field accomplishments speak for themselves.
His book didn't bother me like it did so many in the game when it came out last year, and I'll give him the benefit of the doubt when he says he understands he did wrong.
His gambling problem so far has cost him 16 years away from baseball. The integrity of the sport surely needs to be protected, but murderers have served less time than this.
Besides I'm not so sure what it means to protect the integrity of a game that made a conscious decision to look the other way while its sluggers bulked up to ridiculous proportions and balls left the park in record numbers.
But I want to hear what Rose has to say, so he takes a lunch break and we talk over a bowl of chicken noodle soup.
Much of it you've heard before. Rose did throw in a tidbit, though, about the extent of his betting on the Cincinnati Reds while managing the team in the 1980s.
"I bet on my own team every night," he said.
Rose's argument - and it's a logical enough one - is that he always bet on his team to win and never tried to throw a game. The bookies in Las Vegas would have noticed if something was amiss, he says, and he's right.
"I don't know why I did it," he said. "I wish it had never happened. I'd probably still be managing the Reds now and we probably would have won a couple of World Series by now."
Because it did happen, Rose remains a pariah to baseball instead of being revered as its most prolific hitter. His eligibility for the Hall of Fame is expiring, and his chances of eventually being voted in by the veterans committee are remote.
Rose, though, wants more than just the Hall of Fame. He wants back in baseball, and he holds on to the unlikely notion that a team might actually hire him to be their manager.
"Hell, yeah," he says. "The ultimate goal for any athlete is the Hall of Fame but I'm more interested in being in the game."
Unfortunately for Rose, baseball isn't nearly as interested in having him back. Commissioner Bud Selig has shown no sign of rescinding his lifetime ban even though Rose finally admitted he did indeed bet on baseball.
Lunch is over and Rose goes back to his signing table, where a small crowd of people now awaits. Among them is Jason Inman of Atlanta, who spent about $400 on a signed jersey and baseball.
"He is what he is. He's an icon," Inman says. "I think it's a travesty he's not in the Hall of Fame."
Rose, meanwhile, sits in his chair, posing for pictures and signing others, as his barkers try to hustle business his way.
He's 64 now, pudgier than before, and beneath the baseball cap his hair is both thinning and graying. Behind him are huge posters from his glory days, showing him in a Reds uniform with a mop of hair on his head, grinning at something.
He's got to know it won't do much good, but he pleads his case one last time.
"I made a big mistake. I was wrong. But I can't change it," Rose says. "I just wish people would understand and give me a second chance. I won't need a third chance."
Rose turns his attention back to business at hand. It's time to leave.
"Merry Christmas," he says.