Hall for great players, not great men

When I played Little League baseball on the dirt fields where West Burlington’s softball field sits now, I wore No. 14
Every single summer I insisted on it. When you stayed in the same league for a couple years and on the same team, it was easy to hold the same number. But when you moved up either by draft or age, you had to squabble with others for 14, especially in the Midwest.
I had a temper, I usually won.
I played on a team called Civic, because the Burlington Civic Association sponsored it. Our colors were red and white. I was pleased with that.
As far back as I can remember, and I’m not exaggerating here, I would sit on the floor in our house on Broadway Street with doors and windows open in the summer on Saturdays, and watch NBC’s Game of the Week with Joe Garagiola and Tony Kubek.
That was in the mid to late 70s and early 80s. The Cincinnati Reds dominated the National League and just about every team in baseball in the 70s. I had no trouble being a fan because they were always on television.  And they had Peter Edward Rose. He wasn’t senior at the time. He was just Pete Rose. It was more a brand in the Midwest than a name. At least to me anyway. Pete Rose.
The neighborhood kids were always getting together just south of the current elementary school to play pick up games -  home-run derby, or double-or-nothing, all depending on how many baseballs we had, and kids ready to play.
Sometimes bases were pieces of notebook paper with a stick shoved through them into the ground. Occasionally some of the better-off parents would provide rubber mat bases to their kids who would bring them up for the games. Sometimes we didn’t even have helmets, but we didn’t care. A ball, a bat, a fence somewhere, a pitch… a running catch.
Sometimes the young adults who served as coaches would show up on Saturdays, too, and give some ad hoc tips. They really just wanted to play, but didn’t want to be seen as hanging with younger kids.
Sweating never bothered me back then like it tends to today. It was just something that got in the way of seeing the ball. A quick swipe with the forearm, or I’d pull up my shirt tail and wipe my face with it. Anything to get it out of the way and dry the hands. I needed a grip on the “Powerized” wood bat I never choked up on.
I typically hit to right field. Something about my hands not rotating through. My brother caught it in a wiffle ball game about six years ago behind my mom’s house in what used to be Longmeadow Park and is now Bill Klein Park.
“You’re not rotating your hands!” he yelled running back.
“Well, you’re still chasing it,” I yelled back through laughter as I rounded the bases. At 50 it felt good.
There’s no sliding at 50. I don’t need the medical bill. But back in the day it was headfirst or nothing. Pete Rose taught me that.
Baseball was a 100% game and you played for nothing but winning and stats. Everyone knew their season average, homerun, RBIs either in league play or neighborhood play - we knew.
Saturday was 11 a.m. NBC baseball, and if it wasn’t the Reds I got a little grumpy, but it really didn’t matter. I’d get out the baseball cards and study the stats of those playing in the game. Sometimes Nanny (Mary Lee Rheinschmidt preferred that over – grandma) would watch with me. She loved Ryno and Ivan DeJesus, Dave Kingman, and Jodie Davis - Rick Reuschel.
I would cheer the Cubs with her and we would talk baseball. She knew the game, but if the Reds were on, I was all in. I’d watch Joe Morgan’s twitchy elbow and quick glove, Ken Griffey made me practice hitting left-handed, and Rose made me compact my swing and watch the pitch all the way to the glove. George Foster made me swing for the fence.
I used to grab the Hawk-Eye and read each box score every evening. It sparked my interest that eventually became a career. I’d figure the standings and who was left to map out probabilities of playoffs and matchups. Anytime Cincy was at the top of the NL Central all was right in the world. Then it became who had the best record in the League and the best record in all of baseball. Then I’d look for the “League Leaders” and see Rose near the top in average, Foster near or at the top in home runs and RBIs, Tom Seaver near the top in wins. No wonder they were called the Big Red Machine. Davey Concepcion, Tony Perez, Cesar Geronimo, Don Gullett, Manny Sarmiento. I knew their numbers, their stats, I knew the batting lineup and was up to date on pitching rotations. I lived baseball from May to October. As an adult, I used their numbers on lottery tickets. Some jackwad did that with the Orioles, I think, AND WON.
I didn’t care about basketball and football, which I came to love in high school. I wanted to be the next Pete Rose. I could hit, I could pitch, I could field, all until one day when a ball came off the top of a glove on a cut-off from left field and smashed into my nose. Broke it. Blood everywhere. That was the end of that. I couldn’t sit still in the box, stepped in the bucket every time, and turned my head out on the pitch every…single…time. Done.
Now I’m just a fan. I go to Great American Ballpark at least once a year for a weekend homestand and spend way more money than the Reds are worth, but I still go. There’s nothing like the red and white against the Kelly-green field and manicured dirt infields.
Now I can take in a restaurant/bar next to the stadium prior to the game, spend a little more on the newest attire in the gear shop, and then maybe hit the club again to be with my people.
When Pete Rose died on Sept. 30 just a smidge of my childhood went, too. It kind of puts a cap on that part of my life. Was I disappointed in his history of gambling on baseball? A little. But no one has proven he bet against the Reds when he was a player or a manager, but it does smear the sanctity. Then we must go to the sanctity of the game and it isn’t only tarnished by a man who bet his team was better than everyone else. Steroids, sign stealing, doctoring equipment. Nobody or nothing is perfect.
Giving Rose permanent ineligibility was a legitimate penalty from an angry Bart Giamatti. But time heals all wounds. Does Rose deserve a place next to Joe Morgan in the Hall? Yeah.
Does his family deserve a moment at the podium? Yes. Did Rose? No.
What I’m saying is the Hall is not connected to Major League Baseball. The Hall passed a rule a while back saying anyone permanently ineligible could not be voted in. But the Hall can change that rule with one vote, or at least amend it to the living.
Rose deserves to be in the Hall for what he accomplished on the field. And that’s what the Hall is about, the very best PLAYERS in their generation. Not necessarily the best people. Pete Rose’s death caps a chapter of my childhood. That probably actually happened when a ball broke my nose, but that’s Beside the Point.
Chuck Vandenberg is editor and co-owner of Pen City Current and can be reached at Charles.V@PenCityCurrent.com.