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Charlie Hustler, Part I As part of today’s standard media frenzy, every man, woman, and bookie in the street has now been asked if they think Pete Rose is telling the whole truth. But how is it that we all believe Pete Rose wrote a book? I have trouble believing Pete Rose has read one. Between the war of the Rose, Andrew Fastow’s plea, and Colin Powell’s admission that the Saddam—Osama connection was about as real as Milli Vanilli, the first half-inning of 2004 has been one big mea culpa. All we need is Robert Durst and OJ to fess up and we’re looking at a high-water mark for American justice. Pete Rose was a very, very good ballplayer, but not as good as, say, Barry Bonds. Around the same time the Ventures recorded Walk Don’t Run, Rose began running out walks. The answer is zero. The question is how many games did he win that way? Pete pumped his legs hard, but it still took about four seconds to get down to first. He stole more bases at memorabilia shows than he did on the field. He got more hits than Ty Cobb, but it took as many extra at bats as Bo Jackson used up in his entire eight-year career. Most of Rose’s home runs were hit with wayward teenage groupies. But I’ve got a ten spot that says Rose winds up in the Hall. He deserves at least that. If he were an international money launderer and illegal weapons salesman or one of Hugh Rodham’s cronies, he’d be there now. Yes, to some degree, sentimentality is at work here. Few fans want to see Rose spend his waning days as a greeter at Harrah’s. One cannot in good conscience wish Pete Rose any more ill. He is already serving a life sentence to be Pete Rose. Give him a few hours of answering phones at Gambler’s Anonymous and a crocodile feeding with Steve Irwin. Save the crocodile tears, though. The only time Pete Rose ever cried for real was 1990, when he was hit with a $152K federal tax lien. Today, Rose is only sorry book sales are sluggish. Moreover, Pete Rose is sorry that by gambling on baseball, he effectively bet against the following decade-and-a-half being a windfall for anyone who could break the Mendoza Line or explain how to hit a change-up. Today, if you can hit .240 against lefties in night games at Western Division parks, you get signed for a small country and a province to be named later. Make the all-star team and they throw in Liechtenstein. Pete Rose is selfish, for Pete’s sake. Technological revolutions, Russian revolutions, and massive market booms came and went while all Pete Rose did was appear at card shows and wrestle with when to drop this bombshell on us. Like Al Gore lecturing on global warming during a national deep freeze, he chose the day of Paul Molitor’s and Dennis Eckersley’s election to Cooperstown. But let’s let Pete off the hook anyway. Fourteen years is a long time. It’s enough time for the kids he sired with Catholic high school girls to grow up and also not believe a word Pete Rose says. And given the official reasons we’re in Iraq, perhaps Pete Rose is the archetypal washed-up athlete for our era. In fact, history may be telling us this bush-league hustler can exit or re-enter baseball only during a Bush presidency. Finally, a reason to root for Jeb in 2008. Click here to rant back. |